I wasn’t fortunate enough to have my fingers master the art of brow drawing when girls clustered in circles, having their brows carved and learning the tricks of perfecting angles and curves.
Try as I try, e no gree me learn.
That morning, two hours before the start of an eight-hour shift, I sat in front of my mirror, ready to wear a near-perfect brow. They say it is best to start drawing from below, that the arch is easily formed that way. So, I plunged, holding my breath and rolling my face to the drive of the eye pencil.
With every draw came a wipe. I saw my mistakes, and my mind said: “No too draw am fast, take am sofrisofri.” Time was ticking, just as it was ticking for Mama Bomboy. What she didn’t know was that, for every minute she wiped her vagina, I wiped my brows too. While it was ignorance for her, it was just a mistake for me.
I sharpened my eye pencil more, peeling height from it and wishing the tip would do the magic. Mama Bomboy was home, dripping wet from the flow of amniotic fluid and wishing it would stop. She poked her hand into her vagina and noticed green stains.
“Na shit be this?” she wondered.
The baby was in distress, just like the skin around my brows.
With 20 minutes to work time, I dumped my eye pencil. I no gree die. Wetin street no tish you, YouTube dey. Brows unfresh, I walked into the labor unit. On the couch was Mama Bomboy pushing an already blue baby.
She spent time. She wasted time. I spent time. I wasted time.
It cost me redness around the skin that holds my brows. It cost her Bomboy.
Time!
Notes By Emmanuella 