Chapter 1: The Braid Stand Trap

My boyfriend followed me to the braid stand to do my hair.

He trailed behind, one hand deep in his faded jeans pocket, the other glued to his phone, eyes flicking between Instagram memes and me. I could feel his gaze scanning the crowd, sizing up the bustle—the way Lagos salons move, with each braider hustling her own saga. The air was thick with hair cream, sweat, and the sweet scent of roadside akara drifting in.

I picked the ₦8,000 simple cornrow style, but the hairdresser carried on, weaving in imported Brazilian attachments on every single braid—each strand costing ₦15,000.

When it was time to pay, the hairdresser wiped her hands on her tired apron and flashed the POS machine like a seasoned Lagos hustler. "Madam, abeg, add extra ₦588,000 for difference," she said, her voice sharp, eyes fixed, not blinking once.

As I opened my mouth to speak, bullet comments—those fast WhatsApp-style reactions—flashed across my mind: “Ahhh, our sharp-witted main character! The supporting babe no fit argue in front of main guy, she just gree pay.”

“The main guy go fall for the protagonist’s stubbornness.”

“That dull supporting girl no know say later, the protagonist go chop her money, snatch her man, and even her pikin go dey call the protagonist ‘mummy.’”