In Children of the Ramen God, Alkēbulan stages a near-biblical moment in the neon ruins of the post-colonial sprawl. A hooded figure—part priest, part war machine, part data ghost—sits stoic, fork raised like a relic, as he devours a bowl of greens under the gaze of three barefoot boys. Their eyes speak volumes: hunger, confusion, envy, defiance. His mask is algorithmic, his robe stitched in rust and reverence. He is faceless because the system that birthed him has no face—only rules, only rationing. The children don’t just want what’s in the bowl. They want what’s behind the mask: access, control, power. And all they’re offered are vegetables. This piece is a satirical meditation on power, nutrition, scarcity, and coded care. It’s a parable about who eats first—and what they eat when no one’s watching.