Mrs Evaco always brought her own towel, to catch the blood. She came to Cypress Salon every two weeks on Saturday in the rusted turquoise truck she used to carry eggs from her poultry farm and drinks to her shop. If you ever drank Guinness at a wedding that smelled faintly of bird shit, it probably came from Evaco. She would barge into the salon wearing her many-pocketed cargo shorts and a t-shirt with C.W.O or Unique Mothers printed across the back. Mrs Evaco was in many groups. She was a busy woman. She was too busy to sit down in a salon for a whole Saturday like some other Cypress regulars. With all the things she had to do before attending the inevitable wedding or party she had been invited to? God forbid.

But she still had to look her best. So, she stopped by Cypress every other Saturday with her maroon towel. She would ask Ama to hold out her arms and lay the towel like a hammock across them, then she’d grab her head, just above the ears, and twist it left to loosen it, then take it off and drop it in the towel. The blood would seep into the towel and seem to disappear. It made a few of the customers uncomfortable. The faint of heart would pick up their bags and their problems and run at the sight of the truck. Most of the customers, however, were too stubborn to give up their spots and their weekend gossip, so, traded their rumours, pretending not to see the droplets of gore that slipped from the towel to the floor.

Ama did Mrs Evaco’s hair most Saturdays because she was always free. Customers would rather sit squeezed like sardines on Cypress’s cracked red leather couch waiting hours for Chima or Lara or anyone else to finish with a customer than sit in Ama’s chair. It wasn’t that she couldn’t do hair, she was definitely better than Lara (everyone was better than Lara), she was just a bad person. Bad, as in, wicked, the way she’d always leave the relaxer in too long and watch you squirm as your scalp burned before finally rinsing it out, and then she’d pick the yellow scabs and press the sores as she braided your hair with a small satisfied smile, the way she’d glance over at brides in Ini’s makeup chair and laugh out loud at them.

Anyone with sense avoided her if they could, and they would have warned Mrs Evaco, but she wasn’t the type of person who listened. She was always in motion, always working, calculating, making lists and calls and orders and making sure nobody ran her business down. She was preoccupied with eggs and bottles and birds, things she could see and grab and break. You can’t see and grab and break an evil spirit. Or at least most people can’t. So, everyone watched Saturday after Saturday, as Mrs Evaco dropped her head in evil hands.

Ama considered Mrs Evaco extremely irresponsible. You couldn’t just abandon parts of yourself in the care of random people. Of strangers. What if they broke them? What would you say to someone if you broke a part of them? “Sorry”? “Ìnín” or “Pele” or “Ndo”? How do you apologize for that kind of carelessness? Who would hear that kind of sorry?

Ama knew she wouldn’t, but then she’d never be so reckless in the first place. She could have done a million things to Mrs Evaco’s head, but what was the point? The woman handed the thing over every two Saturdays, completely assured, not even a flicker of fear in her eyes as she twisted it off, no hesitation as she handed it over. She wasn’t even scared. Fear was the best part for Ama, it was what fuelled her tiny cruelties.

Ama had just finished braiding the thirteenth section she’d plotted as a base for Mrs. Evaco’s short shiny wigs and silky church scarves and stiff aso ebi headties when Confidence popped up beside her with a gap-toothed smile, an arm on her shoulder and an “Ami-baby how far na?”

See, when you work at a place like Cypress, you see a lot of different people come and go. Some of them seem strange until you get to know them. Some of them seem normal, until you get to know them. One thing was for sure, over time, over conditioner, over rollers and clippers and dryers and dye, you will get to know them. That’s what made Confidence so odd. No one who worked at Cypress knew much about her.

Ama knew one thing about her sha, she didn’t have sense, because she wasn’t scared of Ama. She didn’t even have the excuse of not knowing she should be scared like Mrs Evaco, because she was at Cypress every single Saturday for hours, watching Africa Magic Urban and MTV Base and begging Chima to let her connect to his Bluetooth speaker when MTV Base played the same Naira Marley video for the twentieth time. He never let anyone else, but he always let her when she asked in Igbo. She always played slow whispering wailing songs that made Ama’s ears itch. No one else really liked them but they knew Ama hated them so they didn’t complain. Ama would politely ask Confidence to “turn off that rubbish she called music” and Confidence would laugh and say, “Listen to the lyrics, I’m playing it for you.”

Ama thought Confidence was a year or two younger than her, maybe in her early twenties, but no one could really tell. Confidence was flat-chested and pretty-faced and always showed up at Cypress in too-tight jeans, too-big shirts and neon green slides. She answered to anything with a smile.

Chima called her “My guy” and they would shake hands and snap fingers whenever she came to retwist her locs. Ini called her “Baby girl” and pinched her cheeks when she dyed Confidence’s retwisted locs orange. Efe who did nails would speak Urhobo, Efik, Igbo and Pidgin but rarely spoke English, so Ama wasn’t certain what he saw when he looked at Confidence.

What Ama saw was a pest. She had a voice like a mosquito, not high, but buzzing, as if she held laughter in her throat like a generator, powering her entire body, from her obnoxious orange locs to her glaring green slides. She was impossible to ignore.

Confidence took her arm off Ama’s shoulder to look at the head properly. She cocked her head in interest and then brought a fist, middle knuckle protruding slightly, to knock twice on Mrs Evasco’s forehead.

“Stop that,” Ama snapped, glaring at the nuisance.

“Abi you don’t want to answer me? I said let me greet your customer!”

Ama hissed and walked to Oga K, the manager. Oga K was a small wooden figurine that hung from the light fixture by the door on a strip of red cloth. Madam Lily had brought it into the shop and tied it up after the last manager had tried to steal from her. Apart from managing the salon, it was supposed to act as a ward against evil and a security system because Madam Lily said CCTV cameras were too expensive. When it spoke, its wooden lips didn’t move, and its voice was high-pitched, with a lesson teacher lilt. The carving was competing with Ama for the title of the most wicked thing in Cypress. Even Ama didn’t dare question it, not after Kenneth who used to do nails casually slapped Oga K one day as he was passing the door and turned into a hairdryer. Ama had used him on customers for a whole month before his family came with a juju priest to intercede.

“Oga K please call Mrs Evaco’s daughter and tell her to come and take her mother’s head. I’ve finished.”

Oga K swung from left to right as it said, “Eheh I forgot to tell you. She said everyone is too busy to come and get it. You have to go and drop it in their house.”

Ama blinked twice.

“What?”

“What is what? Take fifty naira for transport money.”

Anyone passing Ama where she stood outside Cypress Salon would see a perfectly normal sight. A young woman with low-cut white-blonde hair in a long, tight purple dress, holding a yellow waterproof bag. If they looked closer, they would see that the woman had four silver studs in each ear and a heartfelt frown on her face. If they listened closely, they would hear equally heartfelt curses aimed at one very unfortunate Oga K. If they were the type that didn’t particularly enjoy minding their business, they might have looked down at the yellow waterproof bag and seen something like blood pooling at the bottom of it. Then they would have hurried past her.

Ama stood there for maybe fifteen minutes wondering how fifty naira was going to get her from Cypress to Evaco’s Shop. In the middle of imagining Mrs Evaco’s head dropping and rolling out of a keke napep, Confidence appeared next to her.

“Ami-baby, what happened? Why are you squeezing your face?”

“Please leave me alone. I have somewhere to go.”

“Evaco abi? It’s all the way across town. Should I drop you off?”

“What?”

“I said I could give you a ride,” She smiled and tossed her car keys from one hand to another, “If you want?”

The car smelled like scent-leaf. It reminded Ama of making pepper soup with her sister. She didn’t want such a comforting memory attached to such an annoying person.

“Why does your car smell like pepper soup?” she asked sharply.

“Oh I came here from the market. You’re smelling the pepper soup I’m going to cook later today.”

“So you can cook?”

“I look like somebody who can’t cook?”

“I don’t know what you look like,” Ama murmured under her breath.

“Good.” Confidence responded, a laugh revving in her chest.

Mrs Evaco’s gate was a dusty red, framed by overgrown sugarcane stalks. Ama had to brush aside the long slender leaves to knock on the gate. She waited a few seconds and then knocked again. When no one answered, she looked back at Confidence who was leaning on the car, waiting.

“Are you going to take me back to the salon?”

Confidence shrugged.  “If you want.”

“You don’t have anything to do today or what?” Ama asked, irritated.

“I just have to make my pepper soup later.”

They both heard the gate creak open, and turned around to see a large goat striding out.

“Chicken or egg?” the goat asked, sounding bored.

“Eh…” Ama stumbled.

“I say you wan buy chicken abi you wan buy egg?”

“Sorry please we’re looking for Mrs Evaco’s daughter,” Confidence said, smiling politely at the goat.

Of course Confidence would flirt with a goat, Ama thought, scowling.

“Madam no dey,” the goat responded, turning to walk back into the compound.

“No I’m looking for her daugh—“ Ama started to clarify, but the goat had already gone inside.

“The gate is open sha,” Confidence said, pushing it and walking in “Are you coming?”

Confidence held the gate open as Ama walked in clutching the yellow bag too tight.

The actual poultry was to the left of the house, on the far side of the compound, but the smell reached the gate. The compound was large, the type of land that had to be wrestled from a late husband’s relatives, like Mrs Evaco had done.

They didn’t see the goat anywhere.

“Excuse me m—“‘ Ama started to say, then turned to Confidence and asked, “Do you think it’s a Ma or a Sir?”

“It’s a goat.”

Ama rubbed her temple and called out, “Hello! Excuse me? Is anybody here?”

The goat waddled out from behind the poultry and said “Eheh? Wetin?”

“Please we’re looking for Mrs. Evaco’s daughter.”

“Mmayen?”

“Yes.”

“Mmayen no dey,” it responded quickly, already trotting briskly away.

“Do you know where she is?” Ama almost shouted.

“No.”

“Please can I drop Madam’s head with you?”

“Ah no o. You go give Mmayen direct. Wait…”  the goat turned toward the poultry and bleated, “Emeka!” elongating the second syllable.

A lanky, dust-covered boy ran out wearing a stained singlet.

“Yes, Ebot?”

“Where Mmayen dey?”

“She go drop drinks for Aunty Sandra house. Them dey do thanksgiving. E be like say Madam dey wait am there. She been say make she carry her head come.”

“Sandra wey dey sell cream?” Ebot asked.

“Yes.”

“Wait,” Confidence interjected smoothly, “Sandra wey get that shop for Highway? Skinco? She’s very f—“

“Fair,” Emeka and Ebot supplied at the same time.

“I know her. I know her house,” Confidence said, “I can take you.”

“How do you know her?”

“I don’t want to tell you so you won’t get jealous.”

The land in Sandra’s compound sloped up like a pot belly, so that from the bottom it looked like the three light yellow bungalows belonging to her and neigbours sat on top of one another. Sandra’s house was at the top; tall bright pink hibiscus plants framed the building, so it looked like the house was capped by the sky, with flowers in its hair.

As Confidence and Ama walked up to Sandra’s house, they saw that guests were sitting on white plastic chairs in the garden with plates of rice in their laps.

Mrs Evaco’s body and her daughter were standing by the hibiscus plants. As they walked closer, they heard the hibiscus plants humming an old Styl Plus song and Mmayen speaking quietly. Mrs. Evaco’s body was wearing a bedazzled ankara dress with impressively puffy sleeves and a blood-stained headtie on her neck. She waved her arms around loudly.

Ama handed the yellow bag to Mmayen and quickly hurried off, leaving Mmayen to screw her mother’s head on straight.

“Do you want small chops?” Confidence asked when Ama walked back to her.

“What? No. I have to get back to work.”

“Why? Doesn’t Cypress close at six? It’s ten past six.”

“Okay, then I’m going home.”

“Okay. Me, I want free food. I’m going to sit down,” Confidence said as she walked away.

Ama stood for a second, and then followed her. “Okay wait. I want.”

Confidence ate the chicken first. It was such an impatient thing to do, Ama thought. Eating the chicken in the small chops first. That was supposed to be the best thing. The thing you saved for last. It was also presumptuous because they were sharing a single pack of small chops. The woman sharing food had only been willing to spare one pack and Confidence opening it and immediately spearing the single piece of chicken made Ama’s chest hot.

“Do you know you’re very rude?” Ama snapped.

“I don’t,” Confidence said, chewing.

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

“I hate how you act,” Ama said, heat moving up her neck to her face.

“How do I act?”

“You act anyhow,” Ama said, stabbing a samosa with a toothpick.

“Anyhow?” Confidence asked calmly, handing Ama a bottle of warm Coke that smelled faintly of chicken shit and blood. And scent leaves. Or maybe Ama was smelling herself. And Confidence.

“Anyhow you want. Anyhow you like. You act like nothing matters. It’s annoying and I don’t like it.” She acted like she had chosen her name, like it was something she had taken instead of something she’d been given.

Confidence took a sip of Coke and made a face, then looked at Ama, waiting for her to continue.

“You couldn’t even ask before you took the chicken.” Ama spat, then immediately felt ridiculous.

“You don’t like chicken.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t like chicken. When you buy food at the salon, you always buy your spaghetti with fish.”

“I…how come you know that?”

“I just noticed…” Confidence shrugged. “I watch you a lot.”

“What? Why?”

“You’re funny.”

No one had ever accused Ama of being funny. She only laughed when she genuinely found something funny, and the things she found funny horrified most people.

Ama watched as the sun set over the house. Sandra had changed into a bright pink dress, a louder pink than her flowers. She was pouring a bottle of Fanta on them, as a refresher or a reward, Ama did not know. The hibiscuses were humming a slower song now, something new and sweet.

“Do you like pepper soup?”

“What?” Ama asked. She hated how often Confidence made her ask questions.

“Pepper soup. With fish, not chicken.”

“I like making it.”

“But not eating it?”

“No. I don’t like pepper. But I like the smell of scent leaf.”

“Do you want to make it with me?”

“Today?”

“Yes.”

Ama took a sip of her Coke. Under all the smells, it was still sweet.

“Okay. Now?”

“We can go after I finish this puff-puff.” Confidence smiled. “I was saving it for last.”

*

Confidence was nodding along to noise as she drove. The song she was playing had a shimmering, mechanical, unfinished quality to it. She couldn’t make out the lyrics.

“You’re always playing rubbish,” Ama said.

“You don’t like my music?” Confidence asked.

“It’s terrible.”

“Sorry o. Oya what’s good music?”

“I don’t know…music you can dance to.”

“Eheh? So you can dance? Dance for men—”

“No.”

Confidence laughed, harmonising with the song.

“So you pay attention to the music I play?”

Ama rolled her eyes, refusing to answer.

“So you should know this one,” she said, picking up her phone to change the music.

The song was slow and insistent, convincing and lamenting. Ama felt the drums in her chest and behind her eyeballs. There was something in the song that made her want to sleep.

“I always tell you to listen to the lyrics, but you never do.”

“I can’t make them out.”

“Just keep listening.”

“It’s making me sleepy.”

They were parked outside Confidence’s house now.

“It’s taking you somewhere. That’s what good music does.”

“Where?” Ama asked, feeling herself drop to Confidence’s lap.

“I don’t know, drop your body here in the car and follow it. I’m here.”

“You can’t just leave parts of yourself…lying around,” Ama said, drifting off, her head in Confidence’s hands.

About the Author:

Gabrielle Emem Harry is a Nigerian speculative fiction writer. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Efiko Magazine, Omenana Magazine, Kenga Magazine and PRIDE: An Anthology of Diverse Speculative Fiction. Find her on X: @asarirl

*feature image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay