It’s Good Friday morning.
Across Nigeria, the streets are quieter than usual. Markets that usually hum with the chatter of traders and the rhythm of wheelbarrows roll at half pace. The mosques echo the Friday prayer call; the churches prepare for Stations of the Cross. A reflective hush settles over the country.
But beneath that calm, a subtle urgency pulses.
Somewhere in Ilorin, Mr. Olatunji is threading his way through Taiwo Road, scanning for anything that says “Easter.” His wife mentioned her sister is coming in from Abeokuta, and
