Growing up in Nigeria, you quickly learn that there are two forces greater than the government: NEPA and village people. One takes the light, the other takes your destiny, and on some days, both of them seem to work shifts.

This story begins on a Sunday afternoon, that delicate period between rice and sleep. My compound was as quiet as a cemetery of full stomachs. Even the neighborhood kids, usually Olympic champions in screaming, had been humbled by their mother’s generous Sunday servings.

I was sprawled on the couch, basking in the glory of an unexpected 24-hour electricity supply, thanks to the new transformer NEPA had brought. My laptop was charging, my phone was at 97% (because a Nigerian doesn’t trust 100%), and my fan was humming a sweet lullaby. Then it happened.

PAW! Light went off.

Now, as a Nigerian, my brain is wired to do quick calculations:

1. Is it just my house? (Checked outside—darkness everywhere.)

2. Is it an issue with the transformer? (Listened—no one was wailing yet.)

3. Should I start conserving my battery? (Absolutely.)

Just as I reached for my phone to check Twitter (because no Nigerian believes NEPA unless it's verified by social media), I heard my neighbor, Baba Chinedu, mumbling something about “village people.” Normally, I’d dismiss it, but in Nigeria, if your problems last longer than three hours, you must consider spiritual involvement.

I went outside to join the growing crowd of disappointed Nigerians. Mama Aisha, our landlady, was already pacing, wrapper tied tight like a warrior preparing for battle. “Haaa! After I just bought N7,000 worth of foodstuff that needs freezer! Ah! They want to finish me.”

Baba Chinedu, an elder in the committee of conspiracy theorists, sighed. “I have been telling you people! This is not ordinary. This new transformer was brought two days ago, abi? Who first touched it?”

We all turned to one person—Mr. Ade. The man was an engineer at NEPA. The same NEPA that just took our light. Coincidence? We thought not.

Mr. Ade, sensing the suspicion, raised his hands. “Ehn, ehn! What’s all this? I only checked the transformer because I am concerned about my community.”

“Ehen? So, did you also check your village people?” Baba Chinedu clapped back.

At this point, a full-blown investigation had begun. Someone’s cousin’s uncle’s friend from the next street came to inform us that THEIR light was still on. Ah! Village people had indeed entered our matter.

Just as we were about to form a prayer circle, something miraculous happened. The light came back on. No announcement, no apology, just back like an ex that forgot their charger.

Cheers erupted in the compound. Mama Aisha screamed, “Heyyy! Jesus is Lord! My frozen chicken is safe!”

Baba Chinedu simply nodded. “I told you people. Once we start discussing village people, they panic and release our destiny.”

I sighed in relief and rushed back inside to plug my devices. In Nigeria, when light returns, you don’t ask why. You just accept your blessings and charge everything in sight.

And that, my friends, is how my village people lost their battle with NEPA. For now.