A friend spoke to her mum concerning my unemployed status and the mum promised to look into my matter.
Recently, she called one evening to inform me her mum asked that I come to her office the following day with my résumé and two passport photographs. My friend also said, “Please dress very well. You know my mum can worry,”
After ransacking my wardrobe in search of the perfect office wear, I sighed in exasperation when I stood in front of a mirror.
You see, I have been indoors for a while and at ease, rocking ‘didi’ in my natural hair since I’ve had nowhere important to go. My didi makes me look like a 15 year old and there is no way I want to look like a 15 year old when I’m out to look for my Chevron job. I quickly loosened my hair and all I was left with was a confused looking afro.
I had discarded the last of my worn-out wigs some weeks back and I was completely disoriented on what to with my hair as I had only a night to get ready. I proceeded to do what they call twistouts, my first twistouts as a naturalista before going to bed.
Next morning, after getting dressed, my heart was pounding wildly as I unravelled my twists. I don’t have the right words to describe how my hair looked when I was done. I was tempted to compare it with twistouts photos on Instagram but I held on to the conviction that what you don’t know won’t kill you and the only way I could get away with the thing on my head was to rock it with an arrogant confidence.
As I walked out of my estate, a white infinity with slightly tinted windows pulled up at a sharp bend beside me and a male voice said,”Hello, excuse me.”
Thinking Mr Right has finally found me, I stopped only for the guy to say a woman hawking bread is coming that I should please wait and help her offload her bread when she comes. Truly, there was a woman hurrying towards his car with agege bread on her head but when I peeped into the vehicle, there was a lady wearing a long Brazilian hair, his girlfriend maybe, fiddling with a Samsung phone.
She didn’t even raise her head to say good morning to a single girl. I was so infuriated!
“You think you people are the only ones that feel like eating agege bread? Is it because I am not wearing human hair that’s why you can’t tell her to get down to help the bread lady or both of you don’t have two hands. Rubbish!” I said.
The guy stared dumbfounded as I walked away.
In the bus to Obalende, I sat on the middle of the second row and eyed everybody behind who stared at my hair from the mirrors. The conductor with his unhealthy mohawk dreads said “Fine girl, this your hairstyle resemble my own.”
“God forbid bad thing.” I cursed.
As I pulled out my wallet to pay my fare, it dawned on me I had no passport. Luckily, I located a small photograph studio by the bus stop at Obalende. The operator, after promising me he was the next best thing after Kelechi Amadi Obi took me the most ugly set of photographs. I know passports are naturally ugly but the ugliness of my photo on the computer screen was beyond comprehension. When I complained as he was about printing them, he said, “But na your hair make it dey so. I snap wetin I see.”
I just pretended to answer a fake phone call and sneaked out of the building so I wouldn’t pay.
On arriving the office, my friend’s mum handed me an address of a recruitment agency in Broad Street and said the manager was her friend, that I drop my CV with her. Then she said “My dear, this your hair sef. I hope she judges your appearance based on what she sees on your passport.”
That was when I told her I forgot my passport. She said I am an unserious person. Then she took out a turban from her bag and I thought she wanted to give it to me but she shocked me by taking off the horrible looking foul nyash wig from her head and replacing it with a turban.
“Wear this wig to take a passport and make sure you bring it back to me on your way from Broad street.” she said. I put the wig in my bag with the promise to wear it once I get to the studio.
My high point of the day came when I was about crossing a road to take a keke. An afro-naturalista at the backseat of a passing vehicle screamed, “I LOVE YOUR HAIR, GIRL.”
When I heard that, my confidence was restored and I resolved not to wear the wig.
I found a 2-min photography booth at Broad Street. This one was run by a lady. I got seated and was reapplying my powder peacefully when the lady came close to me with her cheap camera and a small tooth comb. She told me to bend my head.
“Meaning what? Who sent you to comb my twistouts?” I shouted. “Don’t you know this is the style? Do you know how many people have told me I LOVE YOUR HAIR?”
“Ejo e ma binu. It’s for your own good.” she said as she withdrew.
“Thank you but it’s not your head! Just do the work I’m paying you for please.” I said.
I got my very ugly passports and went to the recruitment office.
The recruitment agent, a soft spoken lady, refused to take her eyes off my hair as she asked me series of questions, based on the information on my CV. When the interview was finally over, she said, ”You are smart but my major concern in recommending you to a potential employer is this your hair. I’m going to call you back in a few weeks for another assessment. Please try to make your hair then. I know money is hard to come by when you have no job but if you can’t afford that, you can even go natural. I heard that’s what is in vogue.”
But I thought my hair is natural?
Recently, she called one evening to inform me her mum asked that I come to her office the following day with my résumé and two passport photographs. My friend also said, “Please dress very well. You know my mum can worry,”
After ransacking my wardrobe in search of the perfect office wear, I sighed in exasperation when I stood in front of a mirror.
You see, I have been indoors for a while and at ease, rocking ‘didi’ in my natural hair since I’ve had nowhere important to go. My didi makes me look like a 15 year old and there is no way I want to look like a 15 year old when I’m out to look for my Chevron job. I quickly loosened my hair and all I was left with was a confused looking afro.
I had discarded the last of my worn-out wigs some weeks back and I was completely disoriented on what to with my hair as I had only a night to get ready. I proceeded to do what they call twistouts, my first twistouts as a naturalista before going to bed.
Next morning, after getting dressed, my heart was pounding wildly as I unravelled my twists. I don’t have the right words to describe how my hair looked when I was done. I was tempted to compare it with twistouts photos on Instagram but I held on to the conviction that what you don’t know won’t kill you and the only way I could get away with the thing on my head was to rock it with an arrogant confidence.
As I walked out of my estate, a white infinity with slightly tinted windows pulled up at a sharp bend beside me and a male voice said,”Hello, excuse me.”
Thinking Mr Right has finally found me, I stopped only for the guy to say a woman hawking bread is coming that I should please wait and help her offload her bread when she comes. Truly, there was a woman hurrying towards his car with agege bread on her head but when I peeped into the vehicle, there was a lady wearing a long Brazilian hair, his girlfriend maybe, fiddling with a Samsung phone.
She didn’t even raise her head to say good morning to a single girl. I was so infuriated!
“You think you people are the only ones that feel like eating agege bread? Is it because I am not wearing human hair that’s why you can’t tell her to get down to help the bread lady or both of you don’t have two hands. Rubbish!” I said.
The guy stared dumbfounded as I walked away.
In the bus to Obalende, I sat on the middle of the second row and eyed everybody behind who stared at my hair from the mirrors. The conductor with his unhealthy mohawk dreads said “Fine girl, this your hairstyle resemble my own.”
“God forbid bad thing.” I cursed.
As I pulled out my wallet to pay my fare, it dawned on me I had no passport. Luckily, I located a small photograph studio by the bus stop at Obalende. The operator, after promising me he was the next best thing after Kelechi Amadi Obi took me the most ugly set of photographs. I know passports are naturally ugly but the ugliness of my photo on the computer screen was beyond comprehension. When I complained as he was about printing them, he said, “But na your hair make it dey so. I snap wetin I see.”
I just pretended to answer a fake phone call and sneaked out of the building so I wouldn’t pay.
On arriving the office, my friend’s mum handed me an address of a recruitment agency in Broad Street and said the manager was her friend, that I drop my CV with her. Then she said “My dear, this your hair sef. I hope she judges your appearance based on what she sees on your passport.”
That was when I told her I forgot my passport. She said I am an unserious person. Then she took out a turban from her bag and I thought she wanted to give it to me but she shocked me by taking off the horrible looking foul nyash wig from her head and replacing it with a turban.
“Wear this wig to take a passport and make sure you bring it back to me on your way from Broad street.” she said. I put the wig in my bag with the promise to wear it once I get to the studio.
My high point of the day came when I was about crossing a road to take a keke. An afro-naturalista at the backseat of a passing vehicle screamed, “I LOVE YOUR HAIR, GIRL.”
When I heard that, my confidence was restored and I resolved not to wear the wig.
I found a 2-min photography booth at Broad Street. This one was run by a lady. I got seated and was reapplying my powder peacefully when the lady came close to me with her cheap camera and a small tooth comb. She told me to bend my head.
“Meaning what? Who sent you to comb my twistouts?” I shouted. “Don’t you know this is the style? Do you know how many people have told me I LOVE YOUR HAIR?”
“Ejo e ma binu. It’s for your own good.” she said as she withdrew.
“Thank you but it’s not your head! Just do the work I’m paying you for please.” I said.
I got my very ugly passports and went to the recruitment office.
The recruitment agent, a soft spoken lady, refused to take her eyes off my hair as she asked me series of questions, based on the information on my CV. When the interview was finally over, she said, ”You are smart but my major concern in recommending you to a potential employer is this your hair. I’m going to call you back in a few weeks for another assessment. Please try to make your hair then. I know money is hard to come by when you have no job but if you can’t afford that, you can even go natural. I heard that’s what is in vogue.”
But I thought my hair is natural?
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