Chapter 4: The Mirror Cracks
732 Words
Sasha sat in the back of the keke, one hand gripping her phone, the other clutching her bag tightly. The sun was brutal, bouncing off the corrugated roofs and dusty windshields. Her wig clung uncomfortably to her scalp, and her sunglasses slid slightly down the bridge of her nose. She wasn’t in the mood to look glam; she just needed answers.
Vanessa had asked her to meet at a small, quiet café on the mainland—far from the clubs and lounges Sasha now frequented. The kind of place where people sat and read newspapers or held business meetings over soft music. It felt out of place for her, like stepping into a version of life she used to have but didn’t want anymore.
When she walked in, Vanessa was already seated by the window, sipping a smoothie. She hadn’t changed much still modest, her natural hair in a puff, her makeup minimal. She looked up, surprised for a second, then smiled.
“You actually came.”
“I wouldn’t come if it wasn’t about Chika,” Sasha replied, sitting down.
Vanessa sighed, placing her cup down. “How much do you know about her lately?”
“What do you mean?” Sasha asked, brows drawing together.
“She’s been saying things,” Vanessa said, leaning in. “About you. That you’re trying to copy her lifestyle. That you show up where she goes uninvited, just to feel relevant. She even said you tried to hook up with her plug behind her back.”
Sasha’s jaw clenched. “That’s nonsense.”
“I know,” Vanessa said. “But she’s saying it to people who matter. People who might believe her. And if you're trying to build something in that world… you need to know who's smiling at you and stabbing you when your back is turned.”
Sasha stared at her untouched menu. Her appetite was gone.
“She acted like we were sisters,” Sasha murmured. “We went out together. We shared makeup. I paid for her Bolt once when she was stranded in Lekki.”
Vanessa nodded slowly. “That’s the industry for you. Nobody's really your friend. Not when you're all climbing the same ladder.”
Sasha let out a breath through her nose. “She’s just jealous. She saw my post last week. That promoter followed me because of it. She thinks I’m stealing her light.”
Vanessa looked at her, eyes steady. “Maybe. But don’t fight dirty. Just be smart. There’s a difference.”
Sasha sat back, crossing her arms. “Thanks for telling me. I’ll handle it.”
Vanessa paused. “Sasha… don’t lose yourself. You used to have dreams, real ones. Remember when you said you wanted to start your own fashion line?”
“That was years ago,” Sasha replied, deflecting.
“It’s still possible.”
Sasha gave a small, bitter smile. “Dreams don’t pay rent. The likes do.”
Vanessa reached into her bag and pulled out a small flyer. Just in case. There’s a fashion seminar happening next week. Designers, stylists, even investors. You don’t have to decide now. But I figured if the noise gets too loud you might want to find your way back.”
Sasha looked at the flyer without taking it. “I’ll think about it.”
They said their goodbyes shortly after. Vanessa left with grace. Sasha sat in the café for a few minutes longer, watching her reflection in the glass. Her makeup was flawless, her wig still decent. But something inside her felt messy, like a wire had come loose.
Back home, she scrolled through Chika’s i********: stories. There it was a boomerang of her at the salon with the caption:
“Some girls just wanna be me so bad. But you can’t fake class, darling.”
Sasha stared at it for a long time, then closed the app.
She didn’t cry.
Not yet.
Instead, she walked to the small wardrobe in the corner of the room, pulled out her old sketch pad from the bottom drawer, and stared at it. The pages were dusty, the edges bent from neglect. She flipped through her old designs, skirts, tops, even a jumpsuit she once dreamt Beyoncé would wear.
A dream that had once burned bright in her chest.
Maybe it still lived. Somewhere deep. Under all the glitter and smoke.
- Writer
