Simi had been there, Talatu told her. She’d collected her money and headed off in the direction of the hair salons. “Wants a braided bob, was what she tol’ me,” Talatu said. “Saving up her money for extensions, she says. Try Xhosa’s Beauty. I seen her there las’ week.”
So that was where Monifa took herself next, and that was where she found Simisola. She also found two stylists. One of them was a gum-popping mixed-race woman with long plaits that flowed from cornrows and were held away from her face in a ponytail. She wore a bright red pencil skirt and a blouse with a neckline showing far too much cleavage. The other stylist—also a woman and for that, at least, Monifa could be thankful—was African head to toe in a complicated bright orange head wrap and a loose-fitting dashiki print tunic. Beneath this, she wore dashiki trousers in a contrasting print, and she’d decorated herself with wooden bracelets that clacked together as she moved, and four beaded necklaces. She was much more acceptable to Monifa than the other woman, save for being heavily made up, to include false eyelashes and deep red lipstick. As she worked, she drank from a glass that appeared to be holding champagne.
Everywhere there was clutter and smell. The clutter existed at the two workstations, inside a glass display case, on the counter with the till, on the windows where handbills were posted on virtually every inch of glass, and in the dozens of photographed hair styles, each one more complicated than the last. The smell came not only from the products being used but also from the fish in a stall not far from the door to Xhosa’s Beauty. The fishmonger was pouring more ice onto the seafood, but he was fast losing his battle with the heat.
Simi was watching the red-skirted woman with complete absorption, so she did not see her mother in the doorway until Monifa said her name and added, “Talatu told me where I might find you. What are you doing here?”
Simi spun to the doorway. She said brightly, “Mummy!”
“What are you doing in this place, Simi?” Monifa asked once again. “If Masha has no work for you, you’re meant to come home straightaway.”
“Oh, I like to watch. I’m saving up for extensions, Mum. Tiombe’s going to do a bob for me. Here, let me show you the colours. They’re ever so pretty.”
Tiombe, it seemed, was the ponytailed, mixed-race woman. She gave Monifa a nod and gave the other stylist a glance in which they exchanged some message that Monifa could not interpret and did not want to. For her part, Simi grasped a sample of hair extensions with colours woven into them and held up one that was shot through with pink.
“See? Mum, isn’t it pretty?”
“You must speak to your father about this,” Monifa said. When Simi’s face altered, Monifa tried to change her tone, attempting to sound encouraging despite knowing there was little hope of Abeo’s ever agreeing to his daughter’s plans. “Come with me now, Simi,” she added. “I must speak to you.”
“But sometimes Tiombe lets me help, Mum.”
“Today that will not be the case. Come.”
Simi cast a look at Tiombe, who inclined her head in the direction of the door. The other stylist nodded at Monifa and said, “Nice to make your—”
But Monifa had stepped away and Simi followed her. They strode from the market, passing Talatu, then Abeo’s butcher shop with the fishmonger’s stall out front, then Cake Decorating by Masha, then they were at last in the High Street. Once there, however, Monifa paused. She hadn’t thought through where to take Simi for the talk they needed to have. She’d only been intent upon finding her.
She looked left and right, rejecting the shopping mall and ultimately settling on McDonald’s. It wasn’t an establishment she would ever frequent, but the day was so hot that any place with air-conditioning was a haven. She led her daughter there and directed her to a table inside, far from the noise of diners, of ordering, of numbers being announced, and of the tills. At all of this, Simi’s face showed her surprise. She knew that her mum would never have brought her here unless she absolutely had to. It wasn’t a place the family stopped in, at least on the few occasions when they were out as a family. Out and about with Tani in times past, Simi doubtless had been the purchaser of more than one baked apple pie.
Monifa asked her daughter what she would like. Simi blinked. She sucked in on her lip in that way she had, which ended up with her two front teeth showing. She said that if she could have a cheeseburger . . . ? When Monifa said of course she could, Simi added French fries and a Coke.