Man Must Chop.

The cracks on the mirror Dada stands before crisscross like the roots of the mango tree in the backyard of my childhood home. Ba mi loved to lounge beneath it in the evenings, right up until his last days with us in Ilupeju.

From outside, the sound of Shina Peters mingles with the hot breeze seeping through the windows. Hawkers stroll past, trading razzmatazz, while okadas buzz back and forth like restless flies.

A faint creak emanates from the mirror, drawing me back to Dada. Soft light from the sun, beaming in, bounces off its surface and lands squarely on his head, reminding me of the expanse of his forehead.

He spins around quickly, cuffs the waist of his sokoto twice, then seizes the frame by its metal edge, shifting it this way and that, as if such movements would adjust the image he studies.

Dada does not know it holds weight for me. He does not know I got it from Mummy Bisi before she left our compound for her new adventure into marriage.

“Can I take the mirror?” I asked her, already envisioning where and how I would place it.

“This one?” she responded, baffled.

I replied at once, certain, beating her to her angelic nature. She was a bony woman who loved to weave herself into any predicament that happened to reach her ears. Ki la ma ṣe? What would we do? She would say, even when she knew she lacked the capacity. It was her only flaw, to me. One cannot be too kind, especially at one’s own expense.

The steaming sigh of the iron pulls me back to the present. I set it down on the metal surface and sink into the chair behind me, my back stiff from hours of standing.

Dada, still before the mirror, hums and whistles over the rattling of Barber Lamidi’s generator next door. Between them, the noise only deepens the ache now blooming at my temples. I rub the side of my head, willing myself to stay calm, but Dada, oblivious as ever, continues with his preening.

He grabs the flat cap first and dusts it against his thigh. The cloud that escapes makes me wonder if his closet is a hole dug into the ground of his bedroom. He places the dusty cap squarely on his head, then turns it left, then right, but he is not satisfied. He then grabs the fila, but it must have been made when he still carried a childlike plumpness, because the multicolored material slips straight down to the bridge of his nose.

“Taju, abi I should just go with my bare head?” He turns to me, smiling impishly.

“Some women,” I respond flatly, “like their men bald.”

“Ah, you don’t say!” he responds.

But I am done with the conversation and his fatuousness. He’s an irritating customer who knows nothing beyond women, and frankly, he’s overstayed his welcome. Another customer, one also looking to rent some of the Big Oga’s clothes I dry-clean, will be here soon, and I don’t want any crossovers.

As I rise from the chair I have been sitting on, the ache in my back reminds me I might need an extra hand. But that would only bring problems to the way I run my business, so I push the thought away and peer back at Dada.

“Make sure you return the clothes before eight a.m. tomorrow!”

“Taju, have I ever been late?” he replies as he walks out of my shop, carrying deceit with him gracefully.

I exhale, set my hands back to the iron, and wonder if I should quit this side hustle. But my mind and brain do not concur; at the end of the day, man must chop.