Written by Mercy Williams
The Passport was pressed and printed into existence alongside its brothers in a small, clustered photography studio in the Kainji Military Barracks. Niger State was a cold place. So cold that the photographer who put it together struggled to keep his trembling fingers steady while taking a picture of a young Edmond, the man whose appearance it mirrored.
Edmond Kunle Oladokun had come from a long line of Ojedokuns. Once, the Passport overheard the man explain to a colleague that he was the first in his family to bear this new name. He boasted that he had switched the prefix from “Oje”, a name that belonged to a sacred lineage of masquerade worshippers and custodians of the Egungun tradition, to “Ola”, which means ‘wealth’ in Yoruba, his mother tongue, but was specifically chosen in alignment with his new faith. It was apparent that although he had been christened “Edmond” first, before “Kunle”, the man still held on to the culture of intentionality and prophecy that he picked from his people when dealing with names. Although he wasn’t the first child, nor the first son of his mother, he became the first in his family to decide that his name would say to the universe, “Our wealth has come home. Not just physical wealth, but spiritual wealth, legacy, and purpose.” It was an act of defiance and bravery that was often applauded, especially when shared with people of the same faith.
Back in Kainji, most of the passport’s brothers had to go on special assignments. They would be stapled to documents and files that Edmond needed to process for one official business or the other. The selection and separation between the passport and its brothers was always a brief, inconsequential thing. For many years, the passport struggled to understand why. For every time one of them was taken out of the wallet, never to return again, the rest of them moved on as though it never happened, as if the newly selected photograph never existed. The passport often wondered how its recently chosen brother fared in the world outside of the quiet, humid wallet. It often wondered if they ever found purpose beyond being stapled to documents and official files.
Edmond would tell this story time and time again of how his God revealed to him in his last days as a bachelor that his first fruits will be Prophetess Williams Grace and Evangelist Adesola Caleb. There was specificity to the instruction that was non-negotiable. And as for the passport, although it took a while, it began to find something like purpose in the time that it spent with Prophetess Williams, or Grace of God, as her father liked to call her.
Grace bears a striking resemblance to Edmond, both in physical appearance and in certain mannerisms.
For instance, like her father, Grace liked to hold on to documents and files and journals. It was like she attached special sentiments to everything that was made of paper. This behaviour especially made sense to the Passport when she left it in the inner pocket of one of her journals for many months. The A3-sized purple journal was where she expressed her thoughts, emotions and experiences over time. She filled it with doodles, confessions, prayers and aspirations.
On some days, she would take the passport out and stare longingly for minutes. It would feel the pulse beneath her fingers as she stared quietly and peered deeply into its eyes — her father’s eyes. It was like she wanted to say something, and it often wished it could understand and respond to whatever message she carried in a way and manner that would make her most satisfied. But it couldn’t. It was just a picture. And although it had escaped the strange but understandable fate of many of its brothers, it still served the singular purpose of mimicking this military man in appearance. It could neither speak nor walk like him. Nor could it give her the kind of hug she would’ve wanted from him in moments like this. So it did what it knew how to do best—stare quietly, strike the exact pose Edmond assumed on that chilly morning in Kainji, and stay still until she returned it to the pocket.
Grace is the first of four children, pulled out from her mother’s womb in this order: herself, Caleb, Noble and Fisayo. She never explains how or why there’s no consistency in how she and her siblings were named. Or why she is the only one of them who doesn’t seem to have more than two names and why none of hers are traditional names. But the Passport presumes that, like herself, all their names were bestowed via the revelations given to Edmond in his moments of fellowship with his God.
It remembers a breezy evening when Grace and her roommate were gisting and walking towards their school chapel in preparation for a vigil that evening. The Passport could tell because it was the only place she would take her purple journal to. She only brought it out on very special occasions when she intended to scribble her deepest desires while the sermon went on.
“Were your parents expecting a boy?”, the girl was curious.
“Huh?”
“I’ve never seen a girl bear the name Williams.”
“Oh, that!” Grace chuckled, “Well, I’ve met a woman named Harry before.”
She checked the girl’s face to see if she was smiling back at her, but the girl found nothing amusing about the statement. She looked rather curious and concerned.
“No, my parents weren’t expecting a boy,” she disclosed. “My dad got the name in a vision. It’s a symbolic name. It has something to do with being a warrior or leader or something…”
The girl’s face relaxed as she internalised the information. “Oh, I get it.”
They entered the chapel and the prayer sessions started soon after the first sermon.
“…now that we’ve prayed for our mothers, we shall be lifting our fathers, the heads of the home, in prayers. Say after me, ‘Lord!…”
At that moment, Grace pulled the Passport out to a roaring crowd. It saw the people in their large numbers gathered in an expansive room, repeating the chants of the pastor on the podium.
“Oya, open your mouths and begin to pray for your father—”, he said, and the congregation burst into what sounded like a chaotic orchestra of human voices.
Grace took the Passport to her chest and it listened intently as she repeatedly made positive affirmations and declarations towards this man. And it, sharing moments like these with her, felt a sense of duty to this girl.
For the first time, it dawned on the Passport that it connected Grace to her father in ways that felt… divine.
Perhaps this was the purpose that made it different from its brothers.
About the Author:
Mercy Williams is a multi-passionate creative whose non-linear career blends storytelling, product design, and advocacy, with a gift for writing everything from scripts and poetry to essays and fiction. As the founder of Denlaa Creative, she nurtures a vibrant community of African storytellers, using her layered voice to immerse, disrupt, and leave a lasting impression. She is on the writing track for the 2025 Adventures Creators Programme.
