Chapter 4 Confessions and Cornrows

The next time they met, it wasn't orchestrated by whispered messages in the dark or impulsive appearances outside holy places. It felt almost... mundane. Casual. Which, Anaya realized later, made it all the more dangerous.

Two days after the charged walk near the church, Khalid had dropped a seemingly innocuous question into their late night chat:

Khalid: Where do you get your hair done? Need a retwist, and the boys under the bridge are butchering mine.

Anaya, lulled by the relative normalcy of the question, distracted by studying a complex passage in Romans, had typed back without thinking, the automatic response of someone used to sharing mundane details within her safe circle:

Anaya: Mama Peace's, near Rumuola Junction. She's good with natural hair.

She hadn't expected him to act on it. Mama Peace's Salon was firmly within her world a bustling, no-frills establishment frequented by church sisters, market women, and students. Not a place for boys with dreadlocks and gold chains. She'd sent the message and promptly forgotten about it, immersed in theological complexities far safer than the complexities of Khalid Yusuf.

Saturday afternoon arrived, thick and heavy with Port Harcourt's signature humidity. The sun hung low and lethargic in the hazy sky, bleaching the color from everything it touched. Outside Mama Peace's Salon, the air was a potent cocktail of smells: the sharp, acrid tang of chemical relaxer, the unsettling scent of burning hair and scalp under hot combs, the sweet, greasy aroma of plantains frying in bubbling palm oil at a nearby stall, and the underlying perfume of various hair pomades and oils. Gospel music, loud and joyful, blasted from a small, crackling radio perched precariously on a shelf inside the open fronted shop.

Anaya sat on a low plastic stool, wedged between Mama Peace's substantial knees. Her own knees were drawn up, her face scrunched in a mixture of discomfort and concentration as the formidable hairdresser, her brow furrowed, tugged relentlessly at Anaya's new growth, sectioning it with practiced, slightly painful efficiency. Mama Peace worked with the focus of a sculptor, her strong fingers deftly applying thick, blue black gel before meticulously twisting each section into neat, uniform cornrows that would be gathered into a bun later. Beads of sweat dotted Anaya's forehead, mingling with a smear of palm oil Mama Peace had applied earlier "for shine."

"Ehn, Sister Anaya," Mama Peace grunted, pausing to wipe her own brow with the back of her wrist. "This your hair strong well well o! Like your papa's preaching! Hold still, my daughter." She gave another firm tug, making Anaya wince. The gospel singer on the radio belted out a triumphant "Victory is mine!"

And then he walked in.

He didn't burst in. He just... appeared in the open doorway, a silhouette against the bright afternoon light. Black joggers, crisp white tee, baseball cap turned backwards, hiding the dreadlocks. He paused, scanning the small, crowded space filled with women in various stages of hair transformation under dryers, having braids tightened, waiting patiently. His gaze swept past the chattering women, past Mama Peace's broad back, and landed directly on Anaya. Recognition sparked, followed by that slow, disarming grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

Mama Peace, sensing the shift in atmosphere, squinted over her shoulder. Her eyes narrowed, taking in the unfamiliar young man, his stance, the confident grin. "Na who be that one?" she muttered, her voice low but carrying easily in the sudden lull of chatter. Several women looked up, their expressions curious or wary. "Wey dey smile like he get land for Dubai? Which kind fresh fish be dis?"

Anaya's heart lurched violently against her ribs. Mortification warred with that now familiar, unwelcome spark. "Nobody, Mama Peace," she mumbled, ducking her head, hoping the flush creeping up her neck could be blamed on the heat and the palm oil. Nobody? He's Khalid Yusuf, the serpent who talks sweet, and he's standing in Mama Peace's! Her mind raced. Go away. Please, just go away.

But Khalid, seemingly oblivious to the sudden scrutiny or choosing to ignore it, stepped fully inside. He moved slowly, taking in the small space the posters advertising Brazilian hair and lace fronts, the shelves lined with colorful jars and tubes, the pervasive smells, the women watching him with undisguised interest. He stopped near Anaya's stool, his gaze lingering on her half cornrowed head, the beads of sweat and oil on her forehead.

"You look different," he said, his voice calm, conversational, cutting through the gospel music.

"I have palm oil on my forehead," Anaya retorted sharply, embarrassment making her tone brittle. She refused to look directly at him, focusing instead on a loose thread on her skirt. "Don't flatter me."

His grin widened, unfazed. "Still beautiful." His gaze was appreciative, genuine, and it only made her flush deeper.

Mama Peace made a sound somewhere between a snort and a grunt. She straightened up, wiping her hands on her apron, fixing Khalid with a look that could curdle milk. "Young man, wetin you want? We no dey do retwist for dreadlocks here, abeg. Dat one na special work. Try those boys under the bridge or for Aggrey Road." Her tone brooked no argument.

Khalid laughed, a warm, rich sound that seemed incongruous in the tense atmosphere. It wasn't mocking; it was genuinely amused, shameless. "No problem, Mama," he said easily, flashing her a charming smile that momentarily softened the hairdresser's stern expression. "Maybe next time." He turned his attention fully back to Anaya. "I'll wait outside. Finish your... transformation." He gave her a wink that sent a fresh wave of heat through her, then turned and sauntered back out into the sunlight.

The salon buzzed back to life the moment he left, whispers rippling through the women. "Who dat fine boy?" "He know Sister Anaya?" "See im confidence!" Mama Peace just shook her head, muttering about "these modern boys with their wahala," before resuming her tugging with renewed vigor. Anaya kept her eyes downcast, praying fervently for the ground to swallow her whole. The rest of the session passed in a blur of heat, discomfort, and acute self-consciousness.

Finally released, her hair neatly cornrowed and gathered, Anaya stepped out into the relative freshness of the street, bracing herself. He was leaning against the faded pink wall of the salon next door, looking utterly relaxed. In his hand, he held a bottle of Fanta, condensation beading on the glass, and a wrapped gala sausage roll. He held them out towards her like a peace offering, as if their encounter inside had been the most natural thing in the world.

Wordlessly, feeling the curious eyes of the salon women still on her back, Anaya took the Fanta. The cold bottle was welcome against her palm. Without a word, she started walking. He fell into step beside her, matching her pace. This time, the silence wasn't charged with the tension of the church encounter. It was different. Not quite strangers anymore. Not yet friends. Something fragile and undefined hovered between them.

They walked away from the main road, down a quieter side street lined with modest bungalows and small shops shuttered for the afternoon. The air was still hot, but less oppressive. The rhythmic thwack-thwack of a nearby welder provided a steady counterpoint to their footsteps.

"You ever think about cutting it all off?" Khalid asked suddenly, gesturing towards her cornrowed hair. His tone was casual, curious.

Anaya instinctively touched the neat rows. "My dad says a woman's hair is her glory," she replied automatically, the well-worn phrase rolling off her tongue. "Cutting it is... worldly. A sign of rebellion." She could hear Pastor Ejike's voice in her head.

Khalid took a sip of his own Fanta, considering this. "And what do you say?" he asked, his gaze steady on her.

The question gave her pause. She looked down at the dusty ground, then back at him. "I say..." she started slowly, choosing her words carefully, "...it's just hair. Heavy, sometimes hot hair." A small, self-deprecating smile touched her lips. "But maybe that's just me trying not to be my father's daughter all the time." The admission felt strangely liberating, spoken aloud to this near-stranger.

He nodded, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "Being your own person's hard when someone already defined you. Drew the map for you." His words resonated deeply, touching a nerve she rarely acknowledged. The constant pressure to fit the mold, to be the perfect Pastor's daughter, the unspoken expectations that shaped every choice.

They reached a small suya stand tucked into a corner, the enticing aroma of spicy grilled meat wafting on the air. Without asking, Khalid bought two sticks, the thin slices of beef glistening with peanut sauce and spices. He handed one to Anaya.

She stared at it, the delicious smell warring with sudden anxiety. Taking a deep breath, she voiced the fear that had been simmering since he appeared at the salon. "What if someone sees me? With you? Like this?" Her gesture took in the suya, the quiet street, him. "It's one thing online... but this..."

Khalid took a bite of his suya, considering her. "Then they'll see a girl buying suya with a boy," he said simply, meeting her worried gaze. "Not a sin. Not yet, anyway." His eyes held a challenge, but also a reassurance. Live a little.

Despite herself, despite the lingering fear, Anaya smiled. A real, albeit small, smile. It felt reckless. Freeing. She tentatively took a bite of the spicy meat. It was delicious.

They walked on, eating in companionable silence for a moment, the spicy heat of the suya a welcome distraction. Khalid wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his expression turning serious, the earlier casualness evaporating. "Anaya," he began, his voice losing its lightness. "I'm not perfect. You know that. I see how you look at me sometimes." He gestured vaguely at himself the clothes, the chain, the implied history. "I'm not even trying to lie about who I was. Who I... sometimes still am." He took a deep breath, looking straight ahead, avoiding her eyes for a moment. "But... being around you..." He hesitated, searching for the right words. "It makes the lies taste like ash. It makes me want to... tell the truth more. Even when it's ugly."

Anaya stopped walking, the remnants of the suya stick suddenly forgotten in her hand. The shift in his tone was jarring. The casual ease was gone, replaced by a raw intensity she hadn't witnessed since the night near the church. This felt different. Deeper. She turned to face him fully, her own expression serious, searching his face. "Then start now," she said quietly, her voice firm despite the sudden tremor in her hands. "Tell me something real, Khalid. Something true."

He looked at her then, really looked at her. Not at the Pastor's daughter, not at the girl in white, but at Anaya. The vulnerability she'd glimpsed before was back, warring with something darker, something shameful. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. The sounds of the street distant traffic, the welder, children playing seemed to fade. The air felt suddenly colder, charged with impending revelation.

He hesitated, the internal struggle plain on his face. Then, the words came out in a low, rushed torrent, as if he had to force them out before he changed his mind. "I scam people." He paused, letting the blunt statement hang between them. Anaya didn't move, didn't breathe. "Mostly abroad. Women. Lonely women. Middle-aged, sometimes older. Looking for connection, for love." His gaze dropped to the ground, unable to hold hers. "I find them online. Chat them up. Create personas. Kenechukwu the engineer looking for a wife. David the businessman needing investment. I make them fall in love. Promise them forever, marriage, a life together. I spin stories... hardship, visa fees, family emergencies." His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, a recitation of facts. "Then... I take their money. Wire transfers, gift cards, sometimes Western Union. I'm good at it. Too good." He finally looked up, meeting her stunned gaze. His eyes were bleak. "That's what I do. That's who I am. Was."

The silence that followed was absolute. Thick. Suffocating. The spicy aroma of the suya turned cloying, nauseating. Anaya felt the color drain from her face. The half-eaten suya stick slipped from her numb fingers, landing soundlessly in the red dust. The words echoed in her mind, brutal, shattering. Scam people. Make them fall in love. Take their money. Good at it. Too good. The charming boy, the one who asked about her dreams, who waited outside salons, was a predator. Her father's warnings roared back with terrifying clarity: Serpent! Venom corrupts the soul!

The air wasn't just cold; it felt frozen. Her chest tightened, making it hard to breathe. She stared at him, seeing the chain, the tattoos, not as symbols of rebellion anymore, but as markers of a con artist. The boy beneath it all seemed to vanish, replaced by this chilling confession. "So this..." Her voice was a hoarse whisper, scraping her throat. "What is this? Another lie? Another scam?" The words tasted like bile. Was I just another target? Another lonely heart to exploit?

Khalid flinched as if struck. He shook his head violently, a flicker of panic in his eyes. "No! Anaya, no!" The raw desperation in his voice was startling. "This... you... this is the first thing I haven't faked in... in a long time. Years. That's the truth." He took a step closer, but stopped when she instinctively recoiled. "Talking to you... being near you... it feels... real. It makes the other stuff feel like poison."

Anaya didn't speak. Couldn't. She just stared at him, her mind reeling. The image of the lonely Canadian woman sending $2000 to "Kenechukwu" swam before her eyes. The betrayal, the humiliation. Was this the reality beneath the dimples and the dangerous charm? The boy trying to change was standing knee-deep in the muck of his own making.

The silence stretched, agonizing. Khalid stood rigid, waiting, the bleakness in his eyes deepening with every passing second. Finally, Anaya found her voice, low and trembling but laced with a steel she didn't know she possessed. "You need to stop." The words were simple, absolute.

He nodded, a jerky movement. "I'm trying."

Her gaze didn't waver. The fear was still there, the disgust, but beneath it, a fierce, protective anger surfaced anger for the women he'd conned, anger at the deception, anger at the danger he represented. "Try harder," she said, the words sharp, final.

She didn't wait for a response. Turning on her heel, she walked away, back towards the busier streets, towards the world where things were black and white, safe and defined. She didn't look back. Khalid didn't follow. He stood rooted to the spot, watching her go, the untouched Fanta bottle sweating in his hand, the confession hanging heavy and toxic in the dusty air. They parted at the junction, no promises exchanged, no scripture quoted. Just the echoing silence of a truth too ugly to bear and the chilling realization that the lie he carried in his pocket now felt infinitely heavier than his heart.

That night, kneeling on her prayer rug, Anaya didn't pray for the distraction to be taken away. Tears streamed down her face, hot and silent. She prayed for the women whose hearts and savings Khalid had stolen. She prayed for discernment. And, with a trembling voice that surprised her, she prayed for him. For the boy drowning in his own lies, who had, for one terrifying moment, reached for the surface.

Miles away, in the dark, cluttered apartment, Khalid sat on the edge of his bed, the glow of his phone illuminating his face. He opened his encrypted app, scrolling through the active conversations "Adamma" in Edmonton, "Margaret" in London, "Susan" in Ohio. Their hopeful messages, their declarations of love, their transferred funds. He saw the usernames not as targets, but as indictments. Anaya's words echoed: "Try harder." With a grimace that felt like tearing off his own skin, he selected two profiles older ones, less active. He hovered over the delete option. It felt like stepping off a cliff. Then, jaw clenched, he tapped it. Once. Twice. The profiles vanished. For the first time in years, the constant hum of deception in his pocket felt like a crushing weight, heavier than any guilt he'd ever carried. The lie was still there, vast and complex, but deleting those profiles felt like removing two stones from the mountain. It was a start. A terrifying, uncertain start.