They all look alike now—
women carved from the same cartoon,
hips like overstretched commas,
backsides inflated like National Assembly’s budgets.

BBL, they chant.
Brazilian Body Lottery.
A ritual, not for the faint-hearted—
or the flat-bottomed.

In this temple of silicone saints,
the entry fee is your natural self.
You trade it for a gourd-shaped gospel,
where “natural” is a slur,
and “authentic” is a sin.

They line up in filtered battalions,
Instagram warriors with identical silhouettes,
posing beside Range Rovers they don’t drive,
wearing lashes that flap like festival canopies.

One by one, they journey to the sacred altar
Dominican clinics with cracked mirrors
and doctors who sculpt dreams in two hours
and nightmares in three.

And when they return,
their walk is no longer a walk
it’s a careful negotiation with gravity.
A side-to-side ceremony.
An exaggerated waddle of false gods.

They speak in tongues now:
“Snatched.”
“Body goals.”
“Soft life.”
They have PhDs in aesthetics,
but can’t spell “hemorrhage.”

Toke Makinwa used to sell Ankara at Oshodi,
now she’s “influenza”
3,000 followers and a prayer
that one sugar daddy will notice her new behind
and cancel her return ticket to real life.

And the men?
They worship like loyal altar boys,
dropping likes like offerings.
But don’t be fooled
even they can’t tell who’s who anymore.
It’s a masquerade with no unmasking.

What madness!
A fellowship of fiberglass apostles,
chasing belonging in the house of bounce.
They say they feel empowered.
But power that leaks from stitches and swelling
is pressure.

One day, the shape will deflate,
like truth in a politician’s mouth.
And all that will remain
is the echo of fake applause
and a scar that no filter can smooth.

BBL—
Body Borrowed for Likes.