It started with one puff; just one puff of the cigarette, one year ago. Sharon had stretched the lit cigarette stick to her, urging her to take a puff.

“It would help with the pain”, she had said. “It would make you feel better. It won’t hurt so badly anymore.”

They had been in Sharon’s bedroom, the only source of light coming from the torch seated on the bedside table, the smell of cigarette floating in the air.

And so, she had hesitantly taken the cigarette stick from her, holding it tightly between her middle and index fingers. She had never tried this before.

“Relax, Fikayo,” Sharon had said. “Put it your lips.”

She had been too afraid of the consequences, afraid of becoming a drug abuser, a crack head, a crazy fellow. They said drugs destroyed lives. Her life had been damaged enough.

“It’s just cigarette, Fikayo. Common! No be igbo I give you o!” Sharon had voiced out, as though she had heard her thoughts. “I’ve been smoking this thing for long o. I never die! Abi wetin you dey fear? Omo mummy!”

Fikayo had been vexed by the humour dripping from her friend’s voice.

“Is it by force? Abeg I no want. I don’t want to be a smoker!”

She had thrown the cigarette on the floor and stomped on it with her right foot angrily. Rising from the edge of the bed she had been seated on, she had marched out of the bedroom, her heart beating wildly, her hands trembling.
The week after, on a chilly evening, she had found herself in front of a Mallam’s kiosk, requesting for a pack of cigarettes. If it could help her feel better, she was ready to give it a try, she had thought to herself as she trekked back home with the pack of cigarettes. She didn’t have to smoke it often. Besides, Sharon had had the same experience as her and if smoking helped her deal with it, then she would.

Now, Fikayo was sitting on the edge of the bed in her torch lit bedroom just like that day with Sharon, with a cigarette stick between her index and middle fingers. It was late in the night and there was no power supply. There had been no power supply for three days in a row. She parted her lips slightly and placed it in between, taking a long drag; she held the smoke in her mouth for some seconds, removed the cigarette from her mouth and then released the smoke into the hot air. This was her life now and she didn’t believe she could quit this addiction.

One morning two months earlier, she had woken up with a burst of positive energy, determined to put an end to smoking. But a day passed without her dose of nicotine goodness and she began feeling nauseated. Her feet and hands had tingled and sleep had eluded her. It had been too much discomfort. Her body had needed it.

Her body still needed it, she said internally. There was no going back. Purchasing cigarettes too often ate deeply into her savings but it was good that she made a substantial amount from hair styling. She shifted and tapped the ashes on the ash tray in front of her, before stubbing it out. She pushed the ash tray under her bed and rose. Her room door was locked so nobody could walk in on her smoking session. She picked up the air spray from her dressing table and sprayed her room so the smell of smoke will not linger.

The next morning, she exfoliated her face and applied her lip scrub. Sharon had been generous enough to give her the recipe to her DIY lip scrub that ensured her lips did not get black from smoking.

“Happy one year smoking anniversary!” she said to herself in the shower, laughing out loud as the water from the shower head touched her skin. She continued laughing and did a little dance.

She had a booking for braids today so she put a stop to her silliness and quickly had a shower.  After hopping out of the shower, she wore a pair of skinny blue jeans and a white T-shirt with “Black girl Magic” printed in a cursive font on it. She let down her black box braids which she had braided herself and applied lip gloss to her dry chapped lips before stuffing her phone and some money into her jean pocket.

Her client resided in FESTAC. It wasn’t too far away but in Lagos, a place could be a stone throw away and still take hours to get to. She had kicked off her hair braiding business one month after her WASSCE (West African Senior Secondary Certificate Examination) so she could make some change for herself instead of relying on the crumbs her father threw at them. She had started slowly, only taken a few jobs until UNILAG’s admission lists were released and her name had not appeared. With one year of staying at home certain, she determined to make good use of the time.

She walked to the junction where she flagged down an okada, the name given to motorcycles in Nigeria. She didn’t want to risk taking a tricycle for fear of getting stuck in traffic. Her appointment was scheduled for 9am and it was fifteen minutes to nine.

“21 road, how much?” she asked the okada man who wore dark sunglasses and a face cap.

“One thousand.”

“Ehn!” Fikayo exclaimed.

The price was not too outrageous as motorcycles typically charged more than tricycles. It was understandable since they were faster and one won’t get stuck in traffic. However, the price could be lower.

Wrinkles appeared on her forehead as she squeezed it. “Oga you wan cheat me? Abeg na five hundred I get. From century here, you dey tell me one thousand.”

“Aunty oya bring eight hundred,” he reasoned. She shifted on her foot as she shook her head vehemently.

“No, na six hundred I fit give you.”

She was only letting her precious one hundred naira go because she was desperate. She hated being late to appointments. Why had she wasted time dancing in the shower? She hissed under her breath as the man agreed to the price and she climbed the okada, adjusting herself till she was well seated. The motorcycle sped off as cool breeze blew on her and in no time she reached her destination. She paid the man and speed walked into the close, checking house numbers until she got to the right house. She pressed the bell and brought out her phone to check the time. It was five minutes past nine. She let out a harsh breath, pressing the door bell. After two minutes of standing outside waiting, shifting from one foot to the other countless times, the gate swung open and revealed a young girl who looked to be about thirteen.

“Hi. I’m here to see Kaima Nnadi. I’m the hair stylist she booked.”

She played with her loop earring as she spoke.

“Oh! Hair by Fiks right?” Fikayo nodded and the girl stepped back and opened the door wider before signalling Fikayo to come in with her hand.

The living space was wide. The huge chandelier hanging from the ceiling caught her eyes immediately she stepped in. The room was decorated in white and brown; the set of sofas, brown, the walls white, the wood flooring, brown and the centre rug a blend of white, black and brown.

“Take a seat,” the girl who brought her in smiled, revealing a dimple on her left cheek. She sat down gently as she fixed her eyes on the girl’s black puffy hair seating like a crown on her head. She wished her hair was long and full like hers but she didn’t even care for the hair like she should. It became a tangled mess if left out for long and frustrated the hell out of her. That was why she always fixed her hair into cornrows and threw wigs on.

“I’ll go and let Kay know you’re here.”

“Thank you,” Fikayo replied, forcing a small smile. She assumed Kay was Kaima.

Her client, Kaima walked in sporting a pair of jean shorts that stopped few inches above her knee and a pink tank top. Her dark brown skin was smooth and her pink coloured finger nails made it pop. The girl was beautiful and she envied her, feeling inadequate with her old clothes and acne infested skin. She stood up with a small forced smile, pulling her jeans up her waist.

“Hiiii!” The smile displaying on Kaima’s lips was too bright to be directed at a total stranger. The girl, who she assumed was Kaima’s sister plopped on the single sofa adjacent her and began fondling with her iPhone.

“Hi,” Fikayo spat out, willing herself to be more cheerful. The girl’s smile was blinding.

“Nice to meet you, Fiks. You sounded pleasant over our chats and call. It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”
Fikayo smiled genuinely for the first time since she got here.

“Nice to meet you, too.”

The girl was too nice and was making it hard not to like her.

“Can we get started now?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“You have to do it outside. Mummy will have our heads if you turn the living room into a salon,” Kaima’s sister butted in without removing her eyes from her phone screen.

“Yeah, we’ll do it outside. Kosi, please help me take the dining chairs outside.”

“I think the chairs in Daddy’s study will be best,” Kaima’s sister who she now knew to be Kosi suggested, finally drawing her attention away from her phone.

Kaima agreed with a nod and told Fikayo to wait for her while she grabbed the things she needed for her hair. Kaima soon returned and Fikayo trailed her till they got in front of the car canopy. Kosi had set two chairs there.

After picking the brown hair extensions needed for the box braids, she got to work. The two sisters chatted as she made Kaima’s hair. Kosi was even kind enough to help give her the attachment when she started each braid. She had been a little worried that they would try to make conversation with her but the thought flew away after many minutes of the sisters engrossed in their chat. She was happy to be ignored until they began chatting about Kaima’s convocation that took place last year and Kosi asked her if she was in school.

“Umm,” she hesitated, slowing down her braiding pace. “No, I finished secondary school last year but I didn’t get admission so I had to re-write Jamb this year.”

“Aww sorry about that,” Kaima said sweetly. “You know I also had to retake Jamb, actually Jamb and Waec. I failed math and government. My first Jamb, the kind fail wey I fail ehn... woeful!”

She said the later word with emphasis, swallowing before continuing, “My dad had to get me home lesson teachers and by the time I retook them, I passed and off I went to Uni. The road is not always smooth and that’s okay.”

The road is not always smooth and that’s okay.

Fikayo was beginning to really like this girl; Beautiful, warm and even wise. But she envied her still...maybe even more than she did when she first set eyes on her. Kaima’s father had been kind enough to help her pick herself back up but all her own father did was tear her down, in ways unspeakable. Her throat became choked with tears begging to be let out so she swallowed hard and stretched her hand out to Kosi to collect some strands of the hair extension to start another braid.

“I have never been the brightest of students. But my father has always encouraged me, with gifts, words, prayers, what else?” She paused in thought. “With everything sha!”
Fikayo could perceive the love and pride she had for her father in the manner in which she spoke.

She decided to speak. “You speak so proudly of your father.”

Kaima laughed, her head shaking and Fikayo had to pause her braiding. She muttered sorry to her and fixed her head in the position it had been in. Laughter was still evident in her voice as she sweetly declared that she was her daddy’s girl. She loved her mum but she would always be daddy’s girl.

God, when you were sharing good fathers, where was I?

She was battling with tears strongly and the urge to smoke set in. She would have to be strong, strong until she was behind the closed doors of her room, smoking and crying her pain away.

...
Thank you for reading this chapter. What do you think of Fikayo's character? You'll get to meet other characters in the next chapter.

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