Danika's shop opened on a Monday.
The sky was clear, unusually so for a Lagos morning. Her new signboard shimmered faintly in the sunlight, and the front of the shop had been freshly painted with soft beige and white accents. Inside, the smell of fresh polish and mild air freshener mingled with hope.
It was a humble space one mirror, two plastic chairs, a shelf stocked with conditioners and oils, and a portable dryer buzzing in the corner. But to Danika, it was a temple. Her own ground. Her own roof. A dream she could finally open the door to.
She took a photo of the shop with her iPhone and posted it on her WhatsApp status:
"My beginning. Thank you to everyone who believed. Let's make beauty a reason to breathe again."
Mike saw it.
Smiled.
Replied with a simple:
"Proud of you, D."
She didn't respond until three hours later.
Danika: Sorry, baby. Clients dey. I'm so tired already. But I'm smiling.
Mike stared at her message, his thumbs hovering above the keyboard.
He didn't write what he was really thinking I feel like I'm slowly disappearing behind your success.
Instead, he typed:
"Keep shining. I'm here."
The days that followed were filled with activity not for Mike, but for Danika.
Clients came. Word of mouth spread fast in that part of town. Her handwork was excellent, and her aura warm but professional kept people coming back. Soon, she was booking more appointments than she could handle. People started calling her "Madam Danika."
Mike watched it all happen like someone watching rain fall on someone else's roof. Happy for her. Genuinely.
But alone.
More alone than he expected to feel.
His small Lenovo system was too slow to handle the freelance project he had just landed. It crashed midway through his third design submission. The client ghosted after two delays. His bank account sat at ₦7,300. And his rent well, he'd stopped counting days. There was no point when there was no backup.
One night, while sitting at the foot of the bed in Lance's room, he scrolled through old photos of Danika one at the pool, one where she wore his oversized hoodie, another where she was painting the shop wall, streaks of white on her cheeks.
She hadn't called all day.
When he texted, she replied four hours later:
"Sorry love. My mom has been stressing me. No time to breathe."
The message was short. Flat.
He started to type a reply.
Stopped.
Deleted it.
A few days later, they met again in her shop, at night, after she had closed.
The room smelled of burnt hair and grease. She looked tired. Her wig was off, her scalp bare and vulnerable. She had bags under her eyes, but her smile was soft when he walked in.
"I'm happy you came," she said, hugging him.
"I always will," he said, hugging her back.
But even the hug felt like it didn't quite reach her ribs anymore.
They sat on the floor, sharing a small bowl of eba and egusi she had brought from home. She was quieter than usual. So was he.
"Are you okay?" Mike asked.
Danika nodded too quickly.
"You sure?"
She wiped her mouth and looked down. "I'm trying."
He waited.
"My mom said… she said I'm not cut out to be a woman with peace. That I attract problems. That I bring bad luck to good men."
Mike inhaled slowly. "You're not bad luck."
"I don't know what I am anymore."
"Danika"
She stood abruptly. Walked to the mirror. Looked at herself.
"I wake up every day and pretend I'm whole," she said. "I smile. I braid. I collect money. I post on social media. But at night, when I'm alone… I bleed quietly."
Mike walked to her, placed his hands on her shoulders.
"You don't have to pretend with me."
"But I do," she whispered. "Because I don't want to lose you too."
He turned her gently to face him.
"You're not going to lose me."
She leaned in and kissed him not hungrily, not softly. Just long enough to feel like she believed him. Then they sat down again. No more talk.
She laid her head on his lap and fell asleep right there in the shop.
And for a moment, Mike believed maybe everything could be okay again.
Until the next morning.
Mike was standing by her shop counter, scrolling through his phone, when her iPhone rang.
It was face-down.
The name on the screen flashed once, then twice:
"Zubby – Don't Pick "
Mike froze.
He knew better than to jump to conclusions. Names on phones didn't always mean what they suggested.
But the emoji.
The "Don't Pick."
The hidden alert tone.
It felt like a slap wearing perfume.
Danika returned from the back, wiping her hands with a towel.
Mike lifted the phone silently and turned the screen toward her.
She stopped mid-step.
Her eyes darkened for a split second fast, but deep enough to register.
"I was going to tell you," she said.
He waited.
"Zubby is… someone I used to talk to. He helped me get some hair supplies last year. It wasn't serious. But he still calls sometimes."
"Why's his name saved like that?"
"Because I don't want to answer."
"But you don't want to block him either."
Her silence was louder than the question.
Mike nodded slowly. "Okay."
Danika stepped forward. "Mike… it's nothing. I swear. I haven't seen him in months. I don't even reply his messages."
"I believe you," Mike said.
But something in his tone said: I don't know if I believe us.
That evening, while walking home, Mike stopped by the same small shrine his aunt once took him to. He didn't enter. He just stood outside. Listening.
Inside, the priestess was singing softly, alone.
Mike felt a sharp pain in his chest not heartbreak, not fear.
Just… warning.