Welcome to Mama Naza’s Salon
Welcome to Mama Naza’s Salon
You might say my location, Ogbommanu junction, is restless and sweltering and that you can smell the longings for survival hanging in its atmosphere. You find it in the avalanche of urban fragrances: the aroma of roasting plantain and fried Abacha, the fumes hasty tricycles and cars leave behind, and the floral scent of shampoos. And you will be right. Because one of these longings is mine, to not be demolished because this new government has decided to turn Onitsha into low budget Dubai. See how I have gone from being a shelter of commerce to a hindrance to their development. What a shame! A government of misplaced priorities. Have they addressed the pressing security issues in Anambra State?
Regardless, there have been many meetings and announcements, and I will be gone in one month. But before then, give me the honour to tell you many tales lips have uttered in my confines, secrets and insults buried in these walls of mine. It would be a shame to be erased with them. I can tell you the beginning and end of many marriages. I can teach you how to distinguish between originals and fakes— just as not every hair attachment is original, you can know by how the strands scatter too easily, by their thinness, and by their lack of shine. In the same way, the children born of women can be distinguished: some are a product of love; others, of spiritual transactions that happen in many places, especially Main Market Onitsha. I can even teach you how to woo a man and fight for your marriage. And just maybe for a moment, we can wish away my fate.
But I am keen on categorising things: woven brushes in the white bowl at the end of the shelves, combs in the pink bowl beside it. Attachments line on me, adjacent to the large mirror I carry, according to brands and in a soft fade, beginning from platinum blonde, then through richer hues, ending in deep black. Hair creams, texturizers and relaxers each occupy a column on my other side. So to tell you these tales, I would like to categorise them beginning from the lives of Amaka, Samty and Nelo.
The Lives of Mama Naza’s Girls
Forget that 2Face’s Amaka disappointment song, this Amaka is not worth confusing any man, if not she would have known her place in the life of that her Ebuka by now. Amaka, the smallish black one, usually comes first. Her unkempt dreadlocks are always the first eyesore. Let’s not even start on her fashion sense. The girl needs help! Truly a sight to behold at 5 am. And she will hiss—a stretchy, high-pitched hiss that she ends with a vibrating “rubbish”—at least five times before she even touches a thing in this place.
Her well-delivered hisses are always about Nelo and Samty, the other girls who work for Mama Naza (their gist is coming). This Amaka is twenty-eight and cannot get a straight centre parting in her hair without help. Plus, she doubles as the cleaner. So the first hiss is usually because she finds Samty and Nelo’s booked exclusive clientele list for each day written on a whiteboard with Mama Naza’s swirling handwriting, like every letter is suffering from k-leg.
The next hisses will be because of tangles of attachments and synthetic hairs scattered around, the disarray of combs, spilt gels and shampoos, and dirty towels. Another hiss will be specifically because of the petrolatum and ammonia-like scent filling her nose, which she has told and retold to Nelo and Samty, reminds her of many times of shedding tears under the hands of a particular wicked Yoruba hairdresser, who used a hair cream that smelt like that and made styles that made her scalp burn. There is nothing somebody will not hear in this place.
In that one hour and forty-five minutes she spends cleaning, Amaka will speak of Ebuka—whether he is her full boyfriend or half boyfriend, who can tell? Some days, they are inseparable lovers. Other days, she swears she has no one. One moment she is praising him before Nelo and Samty, saying he can be intentional and generous; the next, her words leave him better off soaked in mud. But certain things remain the same: she complains he hardly returns her calls, calls herself stupid for throwing herself on him anytime he calls, and rants that he is always claiming to be busy. All of it, of course, seasoned with hisses and whines.
While somebody is still trying to digest the overbearing spill on Ebuka, she goes hot-hot on Samty. What she has on Samty, no one knows. She starts with how she doesn’t know the kind of jazz Samty is using on that fresh bobo with large pockets, Ugo. Then she dives into Samty’s Aba-bleached skin—this one is part glaring truth; I can’t really vouch for the Aba part sha—and abortion-ridden womb. The thing is, she mentioned this abortion part on a Friday stricken by harmattan. Crooked tricycles and hasty-business-focused feet to Main Market Onitsha were the only source of sounds. Maybe it was spite or cock-and-bull gist, but she said it anyway, loud enough that it splattered on me.
Anyway, back to Ugo. Well, the guy is every shade of tall fine trouble with his soft baritone that is more mellifluous than all the genres of music I have heard since my existence. And he is now a Canadian citizen. Samty may not have said, but I am sure she started building castles of japa-ing. He was a serious distraction, not to me of course, the day he came in to have his hair woven. He drove his shiny black Venza and even left with Samty. True true, if you see and hear Ugo, you will validate Amaka’s spite bubbles. He even sends Samty Chinese food for lunch. Imagine! Something Amaka has begged that Onitsha-Main-Market-stingy-brained Ebuka for. His reply? What does she need Chinese food for when she has an Abacha seller opposite? Please, does abacha taste like the beef chow mein or Singaporean noodles Ugo sends? Or did the Bible say Amaka shall live by Abacha alone?
See, it is not that I am ignoring Nelo, but the girl is usually just…bland. Only it is a kind of blandness that makes you suspicious. Plus, she’s now fine and tall. Which makes it even more impossible to ignore such silence, such storylessness. It is not an exaggeration: with people like her, when their tea spills, it floods, and hers did.
But you see this Amaka and Samty's drama, it started after Ugo came into the picture. Before then, they were almost like two peas in a pod. Almost because Amaka never really measured up to Samty’s skill and speed. There was always this gap between them—Samty got more attention, said the best things and had more of everything. But they did many things together, like walking home, going to Main Market Onitsha to buy stuff, eating one plate of Abacha or their spicy noodles and eggs and even sharing a bottle of Limca.
Even on that very day Ugo asked for directions to Shop Rite before my eyes. They were together, Amaka completing braids Samty installed. Amaka rapidly provided him the directions; if not for one thing, she would have followed him with the way she was repeating herself, shining her thirty-two, and swinging her arms. That one, she loses control once she sees a fine man. Little wonder she never attracts them. But he stared at Samty more; what he saw, I don't know, but both of them were exchanging silly glances, and then, he said, “I'm Ugochukwu. Please call me,” as he handed Samty his card. That was it. Very easy love. Amaka’s sneer would have burnt that card if Samty didn't put it in her bra immediately.
Maybe their drifting started with Amaka’s long hiss after he left. Or with the Chinese food, she refuses to join Samty in eating but is begging Ebuka to buy. Either way, they stopped going home together maybe because most evenings, if Ugo is not picking Samty up, she is going to spend the night at his place.
It was in the middle of this drifting that Nelo started work here, all calm and skilful. The little clientele Amaka was seeing moved to her because Nelo wasn't just faster, her braids are popular for being painless. Customers are always drowsy like her fingers are massaging sweet dreams into their scalp. Coupled with the fact that she rarely says a word. But her silence finally made sense when her first-ever tea spilled.
It was Madam Stainless, our wahala customer and information supplier, that brought Nelo’s first-ever tea. It turned out she was good friends with Nelo’s mother and greeted Nelo a little too friendly, asking after her mother, if she still hears from her father and if her brother was out of prison. Listen, it doesn’t matter how hushed voices are; ears always hear these things. And if there is one thing you can trust Madam Stainless for, it is delivering stainless gist, no loopholes.
It was from her that we heard that Nelo’s elder sister was stabbed to death after entering one chance in Lagos, during her NYSC, when Nelo was still a teenager. And this her late sister is the first and only graduate in their family and they have been a mess since. Her only brother got into hard drugs to meet bills and was arrested, her mother partially derailed, had to go back to the village, and her father was living with his new family in Cameroon. Madam Stainless swore that she is sure that juju is at work in that family. True true, I have strong suspicions too. But pity was what I felt for Nelo, and it excused her blandness, her high walls. This pity slowly became empathy and has matured into a shared pain.
Just like Nelo, I didn’t get to choose when or where to be born. Yet my existence is shaped by those circumstances. I am subject to a fate that never gave me a chance to choose differently. Oh well, I didn't mean to get all sulky over a long done deal, not like you humans rate buildings, to you we are just another thing that you make and destroy when you see fit.
Back to stories I have to share. About that Samty’s abortion wahala, it was still just tea splattered on me by Amaka but not confirmed until Mama Naza also said it. Slipped in between murmurs and snickers about how “girls of nowadays should learn to close their legs”, her eyes darting at Samty, before she leaned in to whisper, “Like one bleach-bleach girl wey dey my shop,” to the woman whose scalp had reddened from the tightness of her Ghana-weaving. Ah! More lips have confessed to the pain Mama Naza’s fingers inflict than she has ever confessed of the Lord’s goodness. Forget that her habit of ending every statement, “even pass me scissors”, with “by the grace of God”. But they will always return, the perfection of her braids is unparalleled.
Apparently, it seems Samty had been pregnant or had shown pregnancy signs. All I am aware of was the morning Mama Naza glared at her and asked, “You no well abi Ugo don score goal?” after she threw up a third time and was complaining about a disturbing smell. But she only laughed, you know, that shaky laugh that doesn't say no or yes. The next thing, she called in sick for a whole three weeks, the first in history! Because Samty never misses work. She is the type that will work from January and still be available on Christmas Day up to New Year's Eve. After those three weeks, the question was never asked again.
Anyway, the day Amaka’s Ebuka came on her birthday, my walls almost shook with laughter. He did bring very sweet-looking cupcakes, a plate of Mongolian beef and steamed rice (finally, something on the Chinese menu), flowers and plenty cans of Pure Heaven. But I understood for the first time why they both fit each other because who matches green baggy joggers with 'Givemehy' written all over it with an off-colour Ankara shirt? And if that isn't bad enough, he completed it with red sneakers that had an inverted Nike logo. After that destructive fashion blunder, I invented their wedding tag, “Amekas 2024, Blundering Forever.” God forbid! And the way he hurriedly left after dropping off the gifts, I can almost swear Amaka forced him to do it.
You needed to see how she ate that Mongolian beef. She was chewing the meat loud and classless in a notice-me way and when no one paid attention she commented on the food saying the sugar-sweet taste of the sauce works so well with the veggies especially the tomatoes. Imagine local Amaka forming a refined palate. Forget all that talk, the way she was forcing spoonfuls into her mouth, I knew she wasn’t enjoying the meal. But the public proof was that she spent the next ten minutes after eating it in the restroom. Since then, Amaka has never mentioned Chinese food to Ebuka.
Two weeks after her birthday, during one slow Tuesday evening Samty had left with Ugo. Amaka and Nelo were both sterilizing the towels. That was when Amaka let the cat out of the bag saying Ebuka said he couldn’t marry her because she was not a graduate. Imagine! Ebuka is not a graduate either. He even said that if they marry who will help their children with homework and extra lessons.
Amaka was saying this thing like she felt like a failure, like her self worth just dissipated. But really, because of what a man said? Haba! But that was the most vulnerable I had ever seen Amaka—tears were welling in her eyes and she was blinking frantically to keep them locked up. I caught her wipe the drops that escaped. Her words came in busts, After 3 good years? Certificate? Nelo, Certificate? Wetin one spoilt graduate even fit do for am wey I no fit do times three? Lesson teachers na for wetin again? Me, Amaka, wey build flat for my family? Tell me, how many graduate fit hustle how I dey hustle?
The interesting thing during that evening was that Nelo didn’t try hugging or consoling. She simply listened to Amaka. Her silence was different. She wasn’t looking at Amaka, she stared long at the towels. Then she said, Main Market men and excuses, 5 and 6. Forget what he said, tomorrow he will shock you and marry someone with just an elementary school certificate or none at all. First of all, that many words coming from Nelo at once was new. But even newer when she now dished out reasons Amaka must never date Main Market Men again. Her volubility shocked even me. That was before I knew her thickened tea with one Main Market guy. But here is a summary of her reasons, you should find them useful:
They always have an agenda: to be considered by them, you must have a marketable professional certificate like Nursing or any medical field, or terrific marketing skills (for their shops) or come from a rich home where your parents own shops in Main Market or Relief Market. Monetarily, you should be valuable.
Their palms have araldite glue: why will they spend on you when you are not land or container of goods coming in from China or India.
They will decide your future after marriage: their mentality doesn’t understand that a woman can have a dream of her own.
They will disappoint you just like Ebuka and Nelo's guy.
And if I must add, that fashion blundering and lack of romance should be part of the reasons. But truly, if a man wants a woman he will marry her. But who can really blame Amaka for ignoring the red flags Ebuka have flaunted all these while. Love makes a fool of even the best of us.
Can you imagine? These government people are blaring megaphones about the new site the businesses here can purchase shops and move to. Forgetting the businesses and people can move, but we can’t. Not realising their announcements are a reminder of our end. You people’s insensitivity to your surroundings affles me.
But I choose to not dwell on sad realities. About the juice I was about to spill. It was that same pity I once felt for Nelo that everyone offered Samty when she mentioned how Ugo ended up being married to one oyinbo woman with three children living in Canada. Before that spill, Samty was always looking dull and her skeleton was becoming visible. Nelo was worried, always asking if she was okay, even Amaka and Mama Naza. Initially, I thought that it was the sudden absence of Chinese food that was malnourishing her. Even her real complexion was reappearing. And it didn’t seem like a problem because we all knew Ugo travelled, so I concluded, like others, that it was love sickness.
The even crazier juice was when she confessed she had been taking womb-cleansing agbo to get pregnant for him. I was like ahhh! Samty! That level of desperation for a man that did not marry her. When Amaka asked her why she now had an abortion, Samty’s confusion was funny. That’s how she said it was the herbs that messed her body up so bad she ended up in the hospital. Can you imagine? For a happily married man with children. Right now, I am very worried for Samty because two possible health problems are on top of her head like this; after that her bleaching spree with creams that most likely contain mercury like I have heard they do, I am sure kidney failure and cancer is knocking small small on her door, let’s not even get into the infertility issues she is already displaying.
Maybe I rated Samty too high because clearly her brain has lapses when in love, but Nelo’s tea with the Main Market boy awarded her the highest mumu of them all. Honestly though, for someone who has seen Nelo’s level of pain, a decent amount of wisdom should have been attained.
One thing about tea is that with patience they come to you, and they arrive brewing hot. It was on a chilly morning Nelo had gone for home service. According to the stainless gist, from Madam Stainless, it all happened five years ago while Nelo was a salesgirl at a lace shop in Main Market. There was a boy, well maybe a guy, but not a man. He was still serving a master as Nwa Boyi, who also sold lace. Madam Stainless said they were in love, but it was serious mumu-ness, because which future was she trying to build with him by stealing from her madam and giving it to him to save up until he was settled and started his own business? Like, from where to where? Even a primary school girl should have known better.
Well, he did get settled, according to the gist, and started his business; they did become a couple, cohabiting of course, until his family from Imo State, as he claimed, said they could never accept a bride from Anambra State. As in that they wanted him to marry from his hometown as the only son. Truly the best story he could come up with when they had no tribal or denominational differences to hold on to.
Nelo was cured of mumu-ness after he married a girl from Rivers State, as in way across the waters, from a different tribe. That was when she went to confess to her madam that the bundles of money that went missing from the drawers and from her handbag weren’t actually taken by customers that came with juju and made them disappear. The poor madam had fasted and prayed and even called a pastor to pray over the shop. The end of the story is that they are still paying back the millions they stole in instalments. After this tea, everyone stared at Nelo long and hard when she returned that day, ehnn! So she could be that stupid for a boy? Truly, there is juju at work in her family.
But leave the girls' stories one side, you see Madam Stainless eh, for someone who always has everyone’s tea, she is a hypocrite because her tea is thicker than smoothie. To spill this tea, we have to move to the next category.
