Knots of purpose: My Scrunchie Hustle

I never thought my life would change because of a scrunchie. Actually, I never thought my life would change at all. At least not anytime soon. I was sixteen, sitting cross-legged on my bed in my tiny room, wearing an oversized T-shirt and munching chin-chin like it held the answers to my destiny. The ceiling fan spun lazily above my head, making a rhythmic squeaky sound that matched my mood—bored and unsure. I had just finished my exams, and school was out for a few weeks. While other people were out there turning up, going on vacations, or starting YouTube channels, I was at home… staring at my phone with zero data and one bar of network. “Nifemi!” my mum called from the kitchen. I groaned. “Ma!” “Come and help me sew that torn wrapper.” I rolled my eyes dramatically, the way teenagers do when no one’s watching. I dragged myself off the bed and shuffled to the kitchen, my pink slippers making slapping sounds on the tile. I’d always known how to sew, kind of. My mum taught me how to fix buttons and stitch basic tears when I was younger. Nothing fancy. Nothing professional. But that day, when I took the wrapper and started sewing, something clicked. It felt... calming. Like all the noise in my head had been silenced. Stitch after stitch, I zoned out, only hearing the faint background sound of the TV and my mum humming a gospel song. When I finished, the wrapper didn’t even look bad. It was neat, tight, almost perfect. “Hmmm,” Mum said, eyeing my work. “Maybe you should be a tailor.” I laughed. “Mummy, abeg.” But something about the idea stayed with me. Later that evening, when NEPA decided to bless us with light, I turned on my old Infinix phone and connected to the Wi-Fi from our neighbor’s house—don’t ask how. I went on i********:, and the first reel that popped up was a girl making scrunchies. Bright pink ones, yellow ones, some made with Ankara. She had this whole vibe—like she was living her best life. The reel was short, but I must’ve watched it ten times. Each time, something tugged at me. That could be me. I rushed back to my room, dug through my mum’s sewing box, and found a blunt needle, black thread, and some old Ankara fabric. I didn’t even measure it. I just cut, folded, stitched, and stuffed an elastic band inside. It was rough. The stitches were crooked. But when I tied the final knot and held it up to the light… I smiled. It was mine. The next morning, I wore the scrunchie proudly on my wrist like it was a Rolex. I didn’t go anywhere fancy, just to the corner shop to buy bread and Milo. But every time someone looked at my wrist, I pretended like they were admiring it. In the afternoon, I made another one. Then another. I messed up a few, stabbed myself with the needle at least five times, and nearly gave up when the elastic snapped—but I kept going. That night, I created an i********: page: @nifemiknots. I had one follower—my cousin. But that didn’t matter. I posted my first picture: a slightly blurry image of my three scrunchies lined up on the bed. The caption read: Handmade with love. More coming soon! I stared at it for ten minutes, smiling like a mad person. Then I started brainstorming. How do I sell? Who would buy? What would I charge? I opened my notes app and typed: “Nifemi Knots — Business Plan (kinda)” 1. Post more scrunchie pics 2. Tell people in school 3. Ask friends to repost 4. Save money to buy better materials 5. Blow. That was the plan. --- The first challenge came two days later. I ran out of fabric. Mum caught me sneaking into her old wrapper stash. “What are you doing with that?” she asked, hands on hips. “I’m making scrunchies,” I said boldly. She raised an eyebrow. “With my church wrapper?” I smiled sheepishly. “It’s for the brand, ma.” She sighed, walked away, then came back and dropped a few worn-out wrappers on the table. “Take these ones. But if I catch you inside my Sunday special wrapper ehn…” I nodded like a grateful orphan. “Thank you, ma!” By the end of the week, I had made ten scrunchies and gotten three orders—from my cousin, her friend, and one girl from church. Each one paid ₦500. It wasn’t much, but it felt like a million bucks.