Chapter 3: Signs She Refused to See
645 Words
Sasha woke late the next morning to the smell of fried stew and the sound of gospel music humming from the small radio in the kitchen.
Her head pounded from the champagne and lack of sleep, but she pushed herself out of bed anyway, her lashes half-stuck and her wig askew. She grabbed her phone as the battery was dead. She sighed. She’d meant to reply the promoter last night, but the moment she hit the mattress, sleep had won.
Dragging herself to the bathroom, she stepped into the cold splash of water from the bucket with a hiss, trying to wash off the night before. Her reflection in the mirror didn’t match the confident girl from rooftop parties, it looked tired, a little swollen around the eyes, but still beautiful, still… Sasha.
By the time she entered the kitchen, Mama Grace was plating food. Boiled yam and pepper sauce. She didn’t look up when Sasha walked in.
“I can’t eat that,” Sasha said, voice croaky. “Too heavy.”
Mama Grace wiped her hands. “That’s all there is.”
Sasha picked a bottle of soda from the fridge and leaned against the counter. “Why didn’t you just sleep? You were waiting for me.”
Mama Grace finally looked at her. “I can’t sleep when you’re out, Sasha. Not with the kind of things that happen in this city. You think every mother gets peace when her daughter is out till 3 a.m. in a dress that barely hides her skin?”
Sasha rolled her eyes. “Nothing happened. I’m careful.”
“Careful doesn’t stop bad things,” her mother said, voice low. “And your reputation is starting to smell.”
Sasha scoffed. “Reputation? This isn’t 1985. Nobody cares. In fact, the more attention I get, the better.”
“And what will you do with that attention?” Mama Grace pressed. “Where’s your plan, Sasha? What are you building? Likes and DMs don’t feed you forever.”
Sasha didn’t answer. She took a sip of her drink and grabbed her power bank from the shelf. “I’m hosting a party next Saturday. I’ll get paid.”
“How much?”
“₦20,000,” Sasha replied.
Mama Grace laughed bitterly. “After the ₦50,000 you spent trying to look like you belonged at the last one?”
Sasha’s stomach tightened. “You’ll never understand.”
“I understand more than you think.” Mama Grace’s tone hardened. “I was like you once. Pretty. Full of dreams. But life doesn’t wait for you to figure it out. It knocks and takes what you have if you don’t stand firm.”
“You’re preaching again,” Sasha muttered.
“I’m warning you,” Mama Grace said. “And I’m begging you.”
Sasha stood straight. “I don’t want your pity, and I don’t want your fear. I’m not you.”
The air froze.
For a second, Mama Grace looked like she might cry. Then she simply turned back to the yam, slicing another piece in silence. That silence dug under Sasha’s skin like a nail—but she didn’t let it show. Instead, she walked out, power bank in hand, stomach hollow.
Outside, the sun was high and unforgiving. She slipped on her shades and sat on the porch. Her phone was slowly charging. Notifications poured in—comments, messages, new followers. That gave her a small high again. She needed to keep the momentum going.
As she scrolled, a message popped up from her old secondary school friend, Vanessa.
> Vanessa: “Hey girl. Saw your post. I have something to tell you. It’s about Chika. Urgent.”
Sasha frowned.
> Sasha: “What happened?”
> Vanessa: “Not here. Can we meet?”
She hesitated.
Chika? What could possibly be wrong?
- Writer
