Mansur Abubakar

Hair bleached by ghostly weight, it speaks of erasure, of battles waged in quiet, of a world that demands its narratives neat, its faces smooth and whole. Yet here she stands, a masterpiece of defiance. Each pin an act of rebellion, each scar a proclamation: I will not be unmade. Behind the chaos, a gaze pierces through— both tender and unyielding, an artist in her own ruin, crafting herself into a being that cannot be ignored. Even in pieces, she is whole, and the pins are not her cage, but her crown