Debate club, Poetry Club or Uncertainty.

It’s Sunday afternoon. The time when a sheet of calm covers most of Nigeria because half of its population just got back from church and is asleep. But the two girls seated side by side in front of the mirror at Ifa’s Salon are very much awake.

There’s Biebi who has her hand—which holds some pink attachment—stretched and awkwardly positioned in front of the standing fan inches from her, so strands of this attachment fly away and towards Enyo. 

Then Enyo, who sits with her jaw clenched for a few minutes, removing the hair from her body with serenity until she suddenly springs up from her seat with a scowl deeply etched on her face and screams, “Ugh! Biebi, what is wrong with you?” There’s so much venom laced in her words that it’s almost painful to hear. She holds herself back from swearing because it doesn’t agree with her brand.

Another thing that doesn’t agree with her brand is Biebi, who bursts out laughing at the look on her face. Biebi looks manic with her barely finished pink braids. “Just go and sit somewhere else, Enyo,” she replies, waving her away.

Enyo stomps to the sofa in the corner, irritated at Biebi’s reply. And at her. And at her voice. Biebi's voice sounds devoid of emotion no matter what she says. Enyo had never heard a shard of excitement in Biebi’s voice except when she performed on stage. She can't remember a point in time she didn't dislike Biebi. As she sits down at the far end of the salon, she looks at Biebi’s hair, irritated at her choice of colour. Who uses pink attachment? She thinks.

Enyo breathes out an exasperated sigh and looks down at her phone. She reads the line ‘Congratulations, you have been accepted…’ and stops. She hasn’t been able to read past those five words since she opened the email with the subject line: “National Spoken Words Competition Entry’ in her room fifteen minutes ago. When she saw it, everything stopped. She was too scared to open it at home just in case her parents sensed it in the air, so she walked out of the house. When she was at a safe distance she opened it and read those five words and stopped. She wanted to scream and cry at the same time. Her head swam with so many thoughts, she had to hold it and remind herself to breathe. 

When she saw the competition online two months ago, against every wise thought, she applied. She sent in a video where she performed the only poem she had written since her parents ‘banned’ her from poetry. She never imagined she’d get accepted so she didn’t prepare for it. She had absolutely no idea what to do. The uncertainty had her in a chokehold so strong, she had to blink back tears. Her legs took on their own minds and moved till she found herself at her Aunty Ifama’s salon. She was the only person she could talk to.

Aunty Ifama had been Enyo’s hairdresser since she was 8, when her family moved to Abuja. It has been 9 years of pulling, tugging, relaxer and then transitioning. Aunty Ifama was more of a family to her than her parents were. Regardless of the age gap between them, she could tell Aunty Ifama anything without experiencing the backlash she did at home. She knew Aunty Ifama would tell her what to do. She would solve this for her. 

But she wasn’t here. Biebi was. Aunty Ifama always opened up on Sundays even though barely anyone came. But Biebi did today. And when Enyo asked her where the owner was, it took almost ten minutes before Biebi finally told Enyo that ‘the owner’, she emphasised, had left to see someone. 

Enyo drags her eyes away from her phone and they land on Biebi who has her eyes closed. Enyo wishes she could experience what it was to be like Biebi for a minute. They had gone to school together all their lives till exactly five weeks ago when they graduated from secondary school. And as expected, Enyo hadn’t heard of Biebi’s plans to attend university. While Enyo had spent most of her final year planning to get into the university with the best law programme in Nigeria, Biebi was amassing small acting jobs. She called herself an ‘actor’ which Enyo found pathetic, but secretly admired. But she also found dedicating this time of your life to chasing a career as unreliable as acting irresponsible.

Once upon a dumb childhood dream, Enyo planned on becoming a poet. But when she joined poetry club in junior secondary, her parents told her to leave it for debate club. 

“But I can do both,” she had protested all those years ago, looking pitiful in her grey pinafore school uniform. “Poetry club doesn’t take much of my time.” 

But her mother shook her head and looked away, disappointment flooding her eyes. “Poetry club?” her father guffawed like it was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. “So you’ll be spending time playing with words, talking about issues but doing nothing to solve them?” he asked and Enyo stopped arguing. 

The sound of the sliding door extracts Enyo from her past and Aunty Ifama slides in with her head bent, trying to get something out of her purse.

Aunty Ifama was a tall woman. According to her family, this was the reason their only daughter hadn’t gotten married yet. ‘Her height intimidates the men,’ they said but Aunty Ifama had spelled it out to them that she wasn’t interested in marriage. Besides, she couldn’t intimidate anyone with her height when she had that smile on her face that made you feel cosier than being bundled in soft blankets on a cold harmattan morning. 

“Sorry Obiebi, the man didn’t want to stop talking,” Aunty Ifama says, still rummaging through her purse.

Enyo looks back and forth between them and furrows her brow. “You know Biebi?” Biebi didn’t live around this neighbourhood. And she never allowed anyone call her by her full name. Everyone had to drop the “O” or she’d threaten to punch their front teeth in.

“Why won’t the owner, sorry, Aunty Ifama know me?” Biebi asks looking at Enyo with a face devoid of emotion, just like her voice. 

“Enny!” Aunty Ifama says, calling Enyo by her nickname. “What are you doing here? This is my niece,” she points to Biebi. “You know each other?”

Enyo pauses and looks over at Biebi who is faking a bright smile, because she believes nothing bright can come from her, and she sees the resemblance. They both have that gap tooth Enyo always told Aunty Ifama she loved and Biebi, it made her look stupid. For a second she feels sad that Biebi was blessed to have Aunty Ifama as an actual aunt while she was stuck pretending she was one. There was no blood that bonded them. 

She disregards the jealousy, reminding herself of her reason for coming here and walks over to grab Aunty Ifama’s wrist to direct her outside. “We need to talk,” Enyo says. 

But Biebi grabs Aunty Ifama’s other wrist before Enyo can drag her away. “First come, first serve, Enyo. It’s basic etiquette,” Biebi drags her Aunt back to her chair. 

“It’s an emergency,” Enyo replies and tries to grab Aunty Ifama’s wrist again when Biebi reaches out and slaps her hand.

“If it was, you could have called her instead of sitting down and staring at me,” Biebi says with a smirk.

Enyo feels irritation rise up in her. “I wasn’t—”

“Wait,” Aunty Ifama interrupts them, releasing her hand from Biebi’s grasp. “What this?” she gestures between Biebi and Enyo. 

Biebi says nothing while Enyo places both hands on Aunty Ifama’s shoulders. “Aunty, we need to talk. It’s very important.”

Aunty Ifama breaks Enyo’s grasp and positions herself behind Biebi. She starts to draw a line on Biebi’s scalp with a parting comb, separating her hair, “No one’s stopping you sweetheart,” she nudges Enyo on.

“Yes. No one’s stopping you,” Biebi echoes Aunty Ifama’s words. A picture suddenly crosses Enyo’s mind where Biebi’s bent over laughing when she hears about the competition. 

“Please,” Enyo pleads and holds Aunty Ifama’s arm as she starts braiding in the pink attachment into Biebi’s hair. 

“Enyo,” Aunty Ifama sighs, calling her by her full name. Without stopping the braid she says, “Obeibi is right, she came here first. If it’s that important, just tell me now.”

Enyo scowls and sinks into the chair next to Biebi that she vacated some minutes ago. “I’ll tell you when you’re done.”

“Then it’s obviously not important, Enny,” Biebi says, looking at Enyo in the mirror.

Enyo ignores Biebi and thinks of a way to sway the conversation away from her. “What kind of colour is this, Biebi?” She flicks the attachment and Aunty Ifama chuckles.

“It’s pink. Do you not know colours?” Biebi asks. “Oh yes, you aren’t allowed to use colours...or change hairstyles.”

Enyo looks in the mirror and stares at her shoulder length black braids. It was her go to style. What’s wrong with them? She thought. 

She thinks of a comeback and rushes to say the first thing that comes to her mind. “It’s not my fault society has a dichotomy of serious and reckless people,” 

“Ah,” Aunty Ifama says with a worried look on her face. “Is this how you people always are?”

They both ignore her.

“God. Who even speaks like that?” Biebi turns to look at Enyo. Aunty Ifama turns her head back to face the mirror. “Yes, you’re the perfect example of these ‘people’,” she air quotes people as she looks at Enyo through the mirror, “who are serious—too serious—about life. In fact you’re their leader. Is it only school you think about? Do you have dreams beyond it? Do you ever calm down and just fucking breath?” Biebi asks, her eyes stuck on Enyo as she hands Aunty Ifama some more attachment to start a new braid.

Aunty Ifama snaps her fingers and Enyo thinks she’s intervening but she’s just telling Biebi to add some more attachment to the one she just gave her. Aunty Ifama ignores them both.

School is all Enyo has ever been taught to think of. She never had any choice. And she liked it. “School means a successful life. It means a good job which means money so, yes, school and money are my dream. I can breathe when I get them,” Enyo replies holding her head high like a stubborn toddler.

Biebi bursts into laughter and Enyo’s high head, comes down. “Going to a university where you aren’t allowed to wear what you want to or own a phone is your dream?” she shakes with laughter. “And what world are you living in, Enyo? Since when does school equal money? Are you even in Nigeria?” Biebi stares at Enyo as if she came from another universe. “Well,” she shrugged, “with parents like yours maybe it’s different.”

Before Enyo’s parents had her, they knew their child would follow their path and become a lawyer regardless of their gender. No room for change was allowed. “Imagine how shameful it’d be if our Enyo doesn’t end up a lawyer like Mr. Obasi’s son that went off to become a producer,” they usually asked themselves and shook their head as if it was a tragic thought to even voice out. 

Enyo never asked herself if she actually wants to be a lawyer. Without her parent’s pressure or expectations, would she choose it? 

Suddenly, Biebi’s phone rings, cutting through the silence and she jumps up excitedly, making Aunty Ifama’s hands fall off mid plait, and rushes outside. Aunty Ifama chuckles as she dusts some hair off her clothes. 

“What was that about?” Enyo asks, shocked at the urgency Biebi used to answer the call.

“She got a part in that Queen Moremi play. She’s been getting calls since then.” Aunty Ifama has a proud smile on her face. “I’ve never seen her this excited. And it’ll give her an edge when she goes to University of Ibadan for theatre arts.”

Enyo didn’t know Biebi’s plans were this serious. She looks outside at her gesturing excitedly with her hands as she speaks into the phone and stares for a while before she realises it’s her chance. She shoves her phone in Aunty Ifama’s face, making her pause from using her feet as a broom to gather the fallen hair.

Aunty Ifama's eyes grow wider as she reads the email. “Oh my God, Enny baby! Congratulations!” She hugs Enyo tightly and for some time, Enyo allows herself to imagine this was good news. That her parents would be this excited when they heard the news and nudge her on to accept the offer and go through all the stages in the different states for the next two months. But that wasn’t reality.

Reality was her parents expecting her to go to school in August, only a month away, and study law and wear only black and white. Reality was she didn’t have a choice. She untangled herself from Aunty Ifama’s hug. 

“You’ve accepted?” Aunty Ifama asks, her eyes and smile huge.

Enyo holds back the urge to ask if she was crazy. “How can I do that?” she asks instead. “My parents would kill me.” 

“Enny, the deadline–” Biebi walks in cutting Aunty Ifama off. 

“Practice starts tomorrow!” she screams and jumps while Enyo stares, trying to reconcile the Biebi she had known her whole life with this excited person in front of her. “Oh sorry, rehearsals,” Biebi corrects and hugs Aunty Ifama.

When both Biebi and Aunty Ifama simmer down from the excitement and go back to braiding, Enyo finally speaks. “Congratulations, Biebi.” 

“Thank you, Enny,” she says in a sing-song voice Enyo never imagined could come from her. 

Enyo starts thinking of how inevitable rejections would smother this high. “But what if you don’t make it?” She blurts out. It’s is risky. “Wouldn’t it be better to go for something more secure?”

“But what if I do make it?” Biebi asks. “Not everyone is going to follow the same path, Enyo. Just because society says it’s uni, corporate work, blah, blah, doesn’t mean it has to be like that. This world is too big and filled with too many options to end up doing what you don’t want to.”

“But what do I want to do?” Enyo asks looking at Aunty Ifama. Thinking of the email. Wanting a decision to be made for her.

Aunty Ifama frowns. “I can’t tell you that, Enny. No one can.” 

Biebi looks at them both. “What are you guys talking about?” 

“Enny got into this big spoken words contest.”

“Omg, I remember you were in poetry club for a while. Your poems were so good,” Biebi says. 

Enyo frowns. It’s the first time Biebi has complimented her. 

“So?” Biebi asks looking at her. “What’s the problem?”

Enyo scoffs and allows the “Are you crazy?” out. “My parents have it all planned: my school, internship, career, everything.”

“Oh, yes I forgot,” Biebi sighs and shakes her head. “We’re living for our parents so we can’t make decisions for ourselves.”

Enyo slaps her hand and smiles a small smile.

“No, seriously,” Biebi says ignoring the slap, “they’re not the ones who will live your life when you’re miserable.”

“I don’t have the kind of parents you have, Biebi.”

“Wait, you think it was easy for my parents to allow me go into acting?” she laughs. “Do you know how long it took? How many arguments? How many times I slept over at her house?” She points to Aunty Ifama. “It’s not easy. But do you even want to study law?”

Enyo doesn’t know if she wants to study law. She thought she wanted to. She’s always liked the idea. But she’s unsure. And she hates being unsure more than anything. She can’t separate her parent’s expectations from her desire. Besides, it’s like debate and poetry club. She can’t do both. 

“You’re allowed to want more than one thing you know?” Biebi says answering Enyo’s thoughts. 

“It’s true,” Aunty Ifama adds to the conversation for the first time. She looks Enyo in the eyes. “Don’t ever limit yourself.”

The competition took two months. If she decides to study law, she’d have to be in and out of school. That wouldn’t work. It’d be too distracting, she thinks. She tries to imagine different options to figure it out but she can’t calculate it and it’s frustrating. She can’t believe she’s even thinking this.

“Stop trying to figure it all out now,” Aunty Ifama says. “The deadline for a reply is today, remember.”

“What?” Enyo says and scrolls to the bottom of the email she never read. The deadline was in an hour. Questions fly around her mind like bees: what will her parents say? What will they do? What if she goes through with it and regrets it later? What if, what if, what if.

It didn’t have to be this hard. She types out ‘I decline’ but doesn’t send it. 

“Did you accept?” Aunty Ifama asks with hope in her eyes. She didn’t know it wasn’t as easy as sending typed words. Enyo smiles. She can’t tell her that. 

Aunty Ifama accepts her smile as a confirmation and envelops her in a hug. “Don’t worry we’ll work it out, I’ll talk to your parents. It’ll be fine.” 

Biebi stares at Enyo through the mirror but doesn’t say a thing, as if she knows. 

Enyo walks towards the door. “I’m coming,” she says. But she probably wasn’t.

She hates uncertainty. But in this moment, Enyo embraces it and doesn't let go. She embraces not fully knowing and the possibility of multiple outcomes. There was 58 minutes left. She’d make her decision later. She'd make a decision by herself for herself.