Part One: Ibadan, 2005

Olaedo was nine when she first dreamt of colour. It wasn’t just the crayons in her schoolbag or the wrapper tied around her waist during cultural dance. It was something deeper. Patterns in the clouds. Colour combinations in road signs. Lines drawn by light through the trees. Her eyes saw fabric in everything. Her mind stitched shapes into meaning.

Her mother, Nneka, noticed. But she said nothing.

They lived in a small flat in Bodija, Ibadan. The apartment was modest with cracked walls, faded curtains, and the constant rattle of ceiling fans but Nneka’s sewing machine made it feel alive. It sat near the window, where light could bless every seam. Business was steady enough to keep food on the table and zippers humming.

Nneka didn’t talk much. She measured. She cut. She stitched. She sold. And Olaedo sat beside her, often barefoot, sketching lines on brown paper with the stub of a pencil. Sometimes, she copied what she saw in catalogues. But most times, she just... imagined.

"Mama," she whispered one day, "what was it like... before? Before Ibadan?"

Nneka looked up for a moment, measuring tape still hanging around her neck. She gave a half-smile, one that never quite reached her eyes.

"Dusty," she replied. "And full of noise that wasn’t Lagos noise."

Olaedo waited. But that was all her mother said.

Umunze. The word lived on Olaedo’s tongue like a secret spice. Her mother never said it aloud, but she had once whispered it in her sleep. That was how Olaedo knew the name.

One Saturday afternoon, Olaedo walked to the back of the flat and peeked into her mother’s room. She had seen it before: an old wooden box hidden beneath the bed. That day, curiosity overcame caution. She crawled under, dragged the box out, and opened it slowly, her heart pounding.

Lagos was full of noise and bright lights, but Olaedo Njidiofor felt like a blank canvas left out in the rain.

The Designers of the Continent competition was just six months away. A million-dollar grant. A fashion house sponsorship. International spotlight. The kind of opportunity that could stitch a name into history.

Ankara Lagos Home called it the golden thread. The crown. The synthetic perfume of success. Everyone in the house believed a Nigerian designer had to win. The country was long overdue.

Inside the shiny and expensive Ankara Lagos Home, everything looked perfect. The entrance smelled like new clothes and ambition. Rolls of colourful fabric glittered under the bright lights. Interns moved quickly, holding design boards and samples like they were carrying treasure. Everyone had something to show. Except Olaedo. She just wanted to breathe.

Her table was in the far corner of the design studio. She was not sure if they put her there on purpose or by accident. She liked it there. It was quiet and far from the noise. But also, far from belonging. She stared at her sketchpad again. Page six. Still no pattern. She had sharpened her pencil many times. Her eraser was almost finished. Her Zobo was warm and forgotten. Other designers around her were full of ideas: Flames, bold sleeves, shiny fabric with tribal designs. But Olaedo's page was still empty. It felt like the page was laughing at her. She dropped her head on her desk and took a deep breath. The smell of fabric glue and tiredness filled her nose. She needed something different. Something that felt true. Every idea felt stolen, tired and useless.

"Still nothing, Njidiofor?" Arinola's voice sliced the air like a blade. Sweet but sharp.

Olaedo looked up. Arinola Adedoyin, the queen of Lagos fashion, the star of Ankara Lagos Home. Her own sketchbook was already filled with beautiful, bold drawings. Everyone loved her.

Olaedo smiled a little. The type that she forced every now and then "Still trying."

Arinola walked over, heels clicking. She glanced at the empty page. "Hmm. This is deep Sis. Is this some kind of... invisible fashion?"

Some people laughed. Olaedo said nothing. She was used to it. When Arinola walked away, full of pride and perfume, Olaedo looked back at her blank page. She thought of her mother. Her mother’s strong hands that used to sew clothes without talking much. Maybe the problem wasn’t her ideas. Maybe she was just looking in the wrong place.

Later that day, she climbed up to the rooftop garden which was her small place of escape. From up there, Lagos looked like a loud painting: cars, buildings, smoke. But beneath all of that, she remembered something soft. Umunze. Her mother’s village. A quiet place of red soil and rusted roofs. Her mother never talked about it nor did return back.

However, Olaedo felt something pulling her. It felt like something important was waiting there for her. She took out her iPhone 11 and wrote one line in her inotes:

"Real designs live where memories are kept."

That night, she packed her bag and waited for dawn, when a layered and mysterious story would begin to unfold.