The morning sun had barely stretched over Beere, Ibadan, when Iya Sèègí unlocked the doors of her salon. She was a short, chubby woman in her mid-40s, with a round, expressive face and a figure-eight body that gave her a presence both commanding and comforting. Her bright red lipstick, over-used pink blush, and comic arched brows made her look both local, playful, and sharp.
The air inside the salon already carried the scent of coconut oil, hair cream, and a faint hint of relaxer creams. Iya Sèègí brushed her hands over the counters, adjusting the mirrors and combs. “Omo, today na serious day,” she muttered. “Plenty gist dey come my shop today.”
Before long, Iya Tola walked in. She was 29, married young, but life had clearly been rough on her. Her eyes were heavy with worry, and she clutched her torn old handbag tightly as if it could shield her from the world.
“Iya Tola, how far now? Wetin dey happen?” Iya Sèègí greeted warmly, guiding her to the salon chair.
“Ah… Iya Sèègí… I… I just need make you do my hair,” Iya Tola muttered, avoiding eye contact.
“Na lie, something dey. Sit down make we yan it small small,” Iya Sèègí said, beginning to section her hair. Her hands moved expertly, brushing and smoothing as Iya Tola visibly relaxed under her touch.
After a long pause, Iya Tola finally spoke, her voice quivering. “Iya Sèègí… my husband… e dey beat me. E dey beat me wella. Every time I try talk, e dey shout, dey use hand… I no fit… I no fit live like this again. I dey afraid… afraid say one day…” She trailed off, tears welling in her eyes.
Iya Sèègí’s expression hardened. “Ah! Iya Tola, na serious matter be this o. You no fit continue dey suffer like this. You hear me? No woman suppose dey live with hand wey dey harm body or heart.”
Iya Tola sniffled, shaking her head. “Iya Sèègí… but… where I go go? Wetin people go talk?”
“Ah, Iya Tola… wetin people go talk no be your matter. Your life na your own. You fit pack go stay with your sister, your aunty… anywhere wey you go dey safe. No man worth your tears, your bruise, your suffering. I swear, if I fit, I go carry that man go prison!”
Iya Tola let out a shaky laugh. “Iya Sèègí… I dey fear… I dey fear my life.”
“You dey right. You suppose fear for your life. No woman dey made to carry wahala wey fit destroy am. I dey beg you… pack small, find space wey safe, then plan how you go start a new life.”
As Iya Sèègí worked on her hair, she muttered half to herself, half to Iya Tola: “See as men dey use power spoil woman life. Woman go just dey suffer in silence in marriage ..”
By the time Iya Tola stood to leave, her hair neatly done in soft didi shuku, she looked lighter somehow—as if her burdens had shrunk, even if just a little.
“Thank you, Iya Sèègí… thank you so much,” she said, clutching her handbag like it was a lifeline.
Iya Sèègí waved her off, a fierce glint in her eye. “No forget, Iya Tola… nobody worth your life. You hear? Nobody. And if that man try again… you know where I dey, I go put mouth for am myself!”
As the door clicked shut behind Iya Tola, Iya Sèègí leaned against her counter, sighing deeply. “This life sef… no balance. Woman go suffer, still dey fear wetin outside go talk.”
And with that, she turned to her next client—the one that came in shortly before Iya Tola, she downloaded all of her family matters to her. Everyone needs Iya Sèègí. If you need real-life gossip, go to Iya Sèègí Gossip and Glam Salon.
Read Episide Two here.
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