Chapter 2: Showdown and Shaming

1.

After her speech, the hairdresser held out the POS like one church usher collecting offering, tapping it for emphasis. In the tiny screen, I caught my reflection: tired eyes, lips tight, braids pulling my thoughts away.

The bullet comments still dey: “Protagonist get sense—she don secure next semester school fees!”

“Na wa for protagonist, her family no get shishi and her papa dey play pool. She dey hustle instead of going class. If only she meet the main guy earlier.”

“Una no feel say what the protagonist do dey somehow? If na me, I no go pay just like that.”

“True o, e no different from 419.”

As I just dey look, the hairdresser raised her voice. “So, you wan run bill abi?”

She arched her brow, shifting her weight so even the aunties at the next stand and okada men hanging nearby could hear. Her eyes sparkled with Lagos suspicion—like she’d caught another JJC trying to play smart.

Rush hour, so people begin look my side, thinking I dey dodge payment.

Their stares weighed heavy—the market women with never-tired hands, and the young girls doing the maths out loud. “See am, all these big girls, always forming levels. E reach time to pay, wahala go start,” someone muttered behind me.

I no answer. I just said, “Since you use the wrong attachment, abeg, remove them one by one and put the normal one wey I order.”

I sat down gently, stretching my head out.

I adjusted my wrapper, chin in my palm, back straight like my mama always taught: “No let anybody see you crumble, Amaka.” I closed my eyes and waited. Rain clouds gathered outside, but inside, heat pressed from every side.

Earlier, as she braided, she scratched my scalp by mistake—blood come out sef. She no apologise; na me she blame say I move and waste her time.

She hissed, muttering about customers always getting up for phone calls, like the pain na enjoyment. I’d clenched my teeth, holding back small tears, but my pride no gree let them fall. Her careless hands reminded me of home, my mother warning: “Na so you go dey waka anyhow, see your head now.”

I saw she was my mate, maybe hustling for money, so I just endured—but my patience gave her license to try use me.

She said, “The cornrow style you choose don finish, so I use these ones instead.”

Her voice carried a sly edge, like she’d done me a favour. She added with a sly grin, "You dey lucky, na only big madam dem dey use this type." Her eyes dared me to challenge her, bold and sharp.

“I fit see from your dressing say you get money, your bag self worth almost two hundred thousand. Five hundred thousand no be anything for you, but for some people, e fit mean life or death.”

She eyed my Zara bag like shrine, forgetting say na hand-me-down from my cousin in London, not any real flex. Her voice turned soft, almost pleading, but envy still dey hide inside.

Bullet comments fly: “Yes, yes, wicked supporting character, quick pay! No dey waste time make our protagonist collect her money.”

“Chai, protagonist too suffer, make I donate small for her.”

“Main guy, abeg show face—once you show, supporting character go pay sharp sharp.”

“Na only me feel say protagonist dey use emotional blackmail…”

People join mouth: “Since she don fix am, just pay the difference.”

“Yes o, the girl try, she use two hours dey fix all those tiny braids.”

Halima, feeling herself, said with extra pepper, “I think say you just wan chop free. These braids dey shine, anybody go know say no be ordinary attachment. If you no stop me, e mean say you gree.” She twisted her lips and swayed her hips. The girls beside her giggled, and Halima’s hand settled on her hip, daring anyone to challenge her.

I checked the time—prep class go soon start. I no fit argue again, so I said calmly, “Okay, just remove them, no need to replace.”

I tried to keep my voice steady, even as my palms itched with frustration. I was raised to believe in fairness, not this corner-corner way. “No wahala, make we dey go,” I added, showing I meant business.

“Fine, removal plus compensation na three hundred thousand. Transfer me first.” She shoved the POS again.

Her face was hard, but her eyes dey test my patience, like two stubborn goats locking horns. Around us, people sucked teeth and shuffled in their chairs, already hungry for drama.