The morning air in Beere, Ibadan, was already warm, carrying the distant sounds of children playing and okada riders zooming past when Iya Sèègí stepped out of her room. She paused to check herself in the tiny mirror in her bag. Her bright pink blush and exaggerated comic brows sit pretty on her face as usual, thats her trademark makeup.
She wrapped her yellow wrapper tightly around her waist and stepped out onto the street, each step confident and commanding. Under the shade of a mango tree, a group of women were already gossiping and laughing.
“Iya Sèègí, onidirin alaroye, gbenu si mic second!” one called, and the others burst into loud laughter.
“That’s me ooo!” Iya Sèègí waved back with a wide grin, striding past them as if the street itself belonged to her.
By the time she arrived at her salon, the air inside was already buzzing: hair dryers whirring, women chatting, and the rich scent of coconut oil and hair cream filling every corner. Iya Sèègí perched behind her workstation, stretching her hands and ready for the day’s drama, gossip, and glamour to begin.
Bimpe, a young lady with an easy-going smile, was already seated, waiting for Iya Sèègí to begin her hair. Her phone was clutched in one hand, and she was typing away, clearly distracted.
“Bimpe, omo mi, how far now?” Iya Sèègí greeted as she began to section the young woman’s hair.
Bimpe looked up from her phone, flashing a quick grin. “I dey o, Iya Sèègí. Just dey manage. Na work, work, work every day.”
“You Manage?” Iya Sèègí laughed. “You no look like person wey dey manage. Wetin dey sup? Sugar daddies no call again?”
Bimpe’s lips curled into a mischievous smile. “Ah, God forbid nah everyday dem go dey call me.” She continued to press her phone when a thought flashed through her mind. “Iya Sèègí, you no go believe. Alhaji Oladipupo—he don send me transport money, tell me say make I come meet am for night. Na the third time this week.”
Iya Sèègí chuckled, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Ah! Alhaji Oladipo don start again. Omo, you sef, you no go tire? This your sugar daddy life no go finish you like this?”
Bimpe shrugged, trying to hide the satisfaction in her voice. “I no fit tire, Iya Sèègí. Na my hustle be that. How I wan make money if I no follow rich men.”
“You go follow well well.” Iya Sèègí teased, pulling Bimpe’s hair in gentle tugs as she started to braid. “How many of them don call you this morning?”
Bimpe’s phone buzzed again, and she checked it without hesitation. “Na only Alhaji now. Nah why I come make hair. These men no dey tire, I swear.”
Iya Sèègí rolled her eyes dramatically. “These men sef. They no dey get wahala. Them dey spoil you like person wey no get sense. But no wahala, make you chop the money, but no let your heart dey involve and keep one man for one side.”
Bimpe laughed, clearly enjoying the playful banter. “I know, Iya Seegi. I go chop the money well well, but I go remember to keep my own man intact.”
Iya Sèègí grinned. “That’s the spirit! Just no forget say money no fit buy everything. And trust me, when you old, na when you go realize say all those men no fit bring real happiness.” She continued braiding, the rhythm of her hands steady. “But enjoy am while it last. After all, na your only hustle be that.”
As she finished Bimpe’s cornrow, the young lady quickly checked her phone again, then stood up, gathering her things. “Omo, I look fine today! Thank you, Iya Sèègí. I’ll send you a message later, okay?”
“See you later, Bimpe! Just don’t go get too carried away with all these men o. No say I no warn you!” Iya Sèègí laughed, waving her off.
As Bimpe left the salon, Iya Sèègí leaned back in her chair, surveying the room, the same thoughts always swirling in her head whenever a young woman came through her doors, especially a girl like Bimpe, who seemed to have it all—looks, charm, and a never-ending stream of rich men at her fingertips.
With a heavy sigh, Iya Sèègí began muttering to other stylists, as she often did when a customer left her chair. “See that girl, she go shine for a while, but after awhile, She go come back here, face full of tears, say those men don disappear. I don tell her but ashe no hear, She think say all those men care for her? All they care about is their trouser. She go learn.”
“No mind her,” one stylist called out from one corner.
Iya Sèègí shook her head as she cleaned up, picking up the combs and brushes. “This life sef… no balance.”
With another deep sigh, she muttered, “I go just watch am, she no go hear word till it’s late. But no worry, I go still open mouth tell am say sorry.”
And with that, she returned to her station, waiting for the next customer, the cycle of gossip, advice, and life lessons continuing in her bustling salon.
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