Page 69 of Cursed Daughters
It was a Saturday, so the salon was filled to the brim. As soon as she walked in, Ebun was hit by the smell of hair cream. Behind her, Eniiyi dragged her feet. She hated having her hair done—she couldn’t stand having it pulled and combed and twisted. Left to her own devices, she would be sporting the most heinous dreadlocks, unkempt and unwashed.
Ebun walked over to the reception desk.
“Is Fara free?”
“No, ma.” The receptionist gestured to the hairdresser and her client by the window, but it looked to Ebun as though she was almost done braiding her client’s hair. They had to have Fara—the young woman had gentle hands and was quiet; no stories of a failing marriage or complaints about the economy. All Fara ever spoke about in Ebun’s presence was their hair, and it was bliss.
“No problem, I’ll wait.”
“Okay, ma.”
Ebun and Eniiyi sat on the last two remaining chairs in the corner of the room. Eniiyi whipped out her paper and pencils from her rucksack—at least the child knew how to entertain herself. Ebun watched a Nollywood movie playing on the salon TV for a couple of minutes before turning from the absurd drama on the screen and focusing on the deft fingers braiding extensions, parting hair with the cutting comb, oiling scalps. The air conditioner was on full blast and two standing fans were blowing, but the room still felt claustrophobic.
When Eniiyi’s turn came, Ebun described a simple style—feathers. Fara nodded solemnly and began to do her work.
Ebun headed back towards her seat, just in time to see a woman walk in dressed in a silk iro and buba. Her hair was swept up in a bun and secured with two chopsticks. She was carrying a Hermès bag and talking on the phone. Ebun could smell her perfume from where she stood—it was heady, floral and wistful. If the woman’s general bearing was not enough to indicate her wealth, the manner in which all the hairdressers began to chorus “good morning” told the rest of the story. She was generous with her smile; asked after this one’s child, and that one’s relocation plans. She didn’t notice Ebun, who was looking for ways to blend into the wall.
It should not have been such a shock to see Amara here. Lagos was a near-incestuous community. Everyone knew everyone. They all frequented the same restaurants, bars, salons, spas and churches. The real surprise ought to have been that it had taken nine years for Ebun to bump into her.
She was rooted to the spot, unable to decide whether to run or hide. She wanted desperately to avoid Amara, but their eyes met. Amara’s face betrayed a range of emotions, none of them pleasant, but she managed to finally land on a smile.
“Ebun. Long time no see. Kedu?”
“I’m well. You?” A silly question; it was clear that Amara’s life had worked out. Her skin was glowing; she looked as if she bathed in milk each day. “How’s the family?”
“We are well. And you have a…a daughter, right?”
“Yes. That’s right.” She made sure not to look in Eniiyi’s direction. She did not want Amara to see her. Had it been possible to smuggle Eniiyi out of the salon now without Amara noticing, she would have attempted it. Her best bet was to wait for Amara to start having her hair done and slip out.
“Good, good,” Amara said distractedly.
“I didn’t know you came to this salon.”
“I just started a few months back. My usual place, my hairdresser there relocated.” If Amara was settling on this place as her new salon, Ebun and Eniiyi would have to find somewhere else to go. She would miss Fara.
“Ma, we are ready for you,” said one of the hairdressers.
Amara nodded and then gave Ebun an apologetic smile. “It was good catching up.” Ebun didn’t respond—she couldn’t repeat the sentiment—but thankfully Amara didn’t wait for her reply.
VI
She heard humming. It was coming from Monife’s old room up in the west wing. It was probably just a rattling in the pipework. She planned to ignore it, but the humming was taking the form of a discernible tune—Lagbaja’s “Coolu Temper”—and she was forced to go and investigate.
Every few weeks, Bunmi would shut herself in here and dust and mop; but Ebun hadn’t entered Mo’s room in over a year. The door was ajar. A figure danced past the gap and Ebun stumbled backwards. She could hear her breathing through her ears. She took a few moments to calm herself—she couldn’t have seen Mo. Perhaps a bird had gotten in and was flying around. She dug her fingers into her palms and entered her cousin’s room.
The room was so…unchanged. And there, there was Mo twirling in front of the mirror, admiring herself in a sundress. For a ghost, she was especially solid; solid enough to touch. And she had taken a younger form. Was Ebun losing her mind? She pinched herself…no joy.
“Mo?”
The ghost spun around and the illusion dissipated. It wasn’t Mo—it was Ebun’s daughter. The daughter she had told time and time again to stay away from this room was dancing in said room, in her dead cousin’s clothing.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Eniiyi blanched. “I…I was…”
“I thought I told you to stay out of this room?”
“I…You did…”
