The Second Act | Emmanuella Roli Atsiangbe
Buzz, buzz.
The clipper’s hum vibrated through my fingers as patches of hair fell around me on the bathroom tiles. I couldn’t look away from my reflection in the mirror as my hair disappeared in slow motion. The glass felt too close, daring me to acknowledge the change that was happening, both to my hair and to me. My stomach tightened with doubt as I stared at the middle section of my once-full hair, now shaved clean by my brother’s clipper.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I whispered, bracing myself to continue.
The clipper buzzed louder with each movement of my hand, its restless vibration a small rebellion I couldn’t reverse. My reflection stared back at me as the final strands scattered like confetti. A heartbreak song floated through the air as I stood frozen letting out a high-pitched gasp.
What had I expected, really, for my first time? If I had been silly enough to experiment with hair dye, I should have at least prepared for the consequences of a failed blonde transformation. Blonde looks good on some people. I just wasn’t one of them. I tried fixing it with a darker color, but my frustration had reached its limit. I decided to let it all go. After all, it’s just hair.
I turned sideways to inspect the shape of my head as I placed the clipper on the porcelain counter. My brother and I had more in common than I thought. I noticed the patches of hair I missed. I steadied my breath to start over. Tears stung at the back of my eyes, but I swallowed them. This wasn’t supposed to be my life.
“Why didn’t you just go to a salon?” My brother, Nimi, asked later that evening, leaning against my door frame. His brows remained furrowed as he took in my new appearance.
I sat on my bed across from him and massaged shea butter into my dry scalp, deliberately avoiding his worried eyes. “I just didn’t want to wait.” I finally replied.
He raised an eyebrow. “You were in a hurry to ruin your hair?”
I rolled my eyes but accepted the relief from his teasing. Nimi wasn’t one for long, emotional conversations. He was two years older and had always been the kind of brother who’d laugh first, then step in when things got serious.
“Can you keep this to yourself?” I asked as I put the lid on the round bowl of shea butter. My hands felt greasy.
He smirked. “You really think Mama won’t notice?”
“I hope not.”
Mama noticed. She walked into the kitchen the next morning and sighed as she stared at my scarf-wrapped head, “what happened to your hair?”
“I cut it.”
Her forehead creased as she adjusted the strap of her handbag. “Why nau? Are you okay?” She marched up to me and pulled me into a tight hug, her arms warm and solid around me. She examined me in a way only a mother could. Her hand brushed my neck, as if checking for a fever, before gently tilting my chin up, left, then right. Almost like she was searching for a trace of the girl she once knew, the one who was slowly becoming a shadow of herself. Tears welled in her eyes.
Please, Mama, don’t cry. I’m okay, I promise. I wanted to say, but the words struggled to make it past the lump in my throat. Was I really okay?
“Nii baby, it is okay, you know.” Her voice was soft and cautious.
Please, don’t say it.
“A failed engagement is better than a failed marriage. We’re here for you, my baby.” She stroked my face gently as she held onto me. Her words cracked through something deep in me, and tightened my chest. My vision blurred.
For the first time in weeks, I let myself cry. Not the quiet sobs I held in the shower, not the silent tears that slipped out when no one was looking. This was messy, desperate, a kind of soul-cleansing release I hadn’t known I needed.
A failed engagement is better than a failed marriage. Mama had said that so many times, I heard it in my sleep. Her presence now, her tenderness, felt… different. Growing up, she wasn’t one for coddling. It was always “It is well” or “God is your strength.” But since the breakup, she has been my quiet pillar. She stopped by my room more often and brought trays of my favourite meals with a wide smile. I couldn’t tell if her extra attention was guilt or pity, but whatever it was, I needed it now more than ever.
Two months ago, I was a thirty-year-old woman preparing to marry my childhood love. Then, life happened. We stopped being enough for each other. We had been inseparable, tied together by years of shared everything. Shared school, church, friends, and even work. Somewhere along the way, we grew apart, and neither of us knew how to fix it.
I haven’t stepped foot in our church since, or met with my friends, who are his friends, too. I couldn’t bear their pity, or worse, the thought of anyone picking sides. So, I have been attending a branch of the church farther away and working remotely—thankfully, my manager understood.
My family and my secret blog have been my comfort. Writing went from an irregular hobby to the place I poured out my heart without fear.
I’ve dreamed of leaving everything behind and starting over. Maybe in a new city, or even a new country. But every time I attempted to picture it, the question of what I would do there sharpened the blur of the dream, bringing me back to reality.
Still, I hear Mama’s voice in my head: “Nii, you can’t keep running from your problems.”
*
In the middle of organizing old files on my laptop, I stumbled on a vision board from two years ago.
It was simple. A patchwork of images and words, each one carefully arranged with innocent hope. At the center, a Bible with a highlighted verse that read, “For I know the plans I have for you...” Below it, a couple holding hands, smiling in the kind of easy joy I thought I had found. On the left side of this couple, was an image of a graduation cap and a master’s degree certificate. Business Analysis used to feel like a career within my reach.
I stared at what should have been my life, the weight of forgotten dreams settling heavily on my mind. I knew deep down what I wanted to do, but was I ready?
“Mama, I’m thinking of applying for a master’s,” I blurted out at dinner that evening. I’d never been good at keeping my plans to myself, especially not from my mother.
Her spoon paused mid-air, a thoughtful silence filling the space between us. “You want to go back to school?” she asked, her voice steady. She placed the spoon in the bowl and leaned back in her chair.
“Yes, Mama. I was thinking about Business Analysis... Maybe in the UK.”
Nimi, who had been quiet up until that point, finally spoke. “UK?”
Mama’s expression softened, her eyes narrowing with a mixture of concern and amusement. “Nii, lately you’ve been making some interesting decisions.”
I met her gaze and attempted to explain myself. “This isn’t like the haircut. This is different. This is for me. Like, like a fresh start.”
She studied me for a moment, her expression unreadable. After what felt like an eternity, she nodded slowly, as if settling the matter in her mind. She murmured under her breath as she resumed eating.
*
Over the next few weeks, I threw myself into the application process. The mountain of personal statements, emails, and interviews was gruesome. The question of whether this was the right decision persisted in my mind, but I made sure I barely had time to entertain it.
One evening, I found myself slouched on the couch with my laptop, my mind clouded, fingers barely moving on the keyboard. Nimi appeared by my side, glancing at the screen.
“So, you’re really doing this?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“You’re not scared?”
“Of course I am,” I admitted.
He nodded without saying a word.
I gave a forced laugh to break the silence. “What?”
“Nothing,” he placed his hands on my shoulders, giving them a reassuring squeeze.
“I’m proud of you,” he mumbled. Before I could process his surprising words, he turned and headed upstairs.
*
The only thing that compared to the chaos of the last couple of months was the race to the airport. But one overweight bag and two hours in Lagos traffic later, we made it. I had spent the entire day avoiding my mother’s gaze, but as we stood at the departure gate, I couldn’t any longer. Her face was a blend of pride and sadness.
“Do you have everything?” she asked for the third time, her voice breaking slightly.
“Yes, Mama.” I forced a smile, waving my passport.
She nodded, her eyes scanning my face, memorizing every detail. “I’m proud of you. You’ve been through so much, and now look at you.”
I swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond. There were so many things I wanted to say. Instead, I reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Thank you, Mama. For everything.”
Beside her, Nimi shifted awkwardly. He wasn’t the type to say much in moments like this, but his presence was enough. He had driven me here, helped with my bags, and cracked a few jokes on the way to lighten the mood.
“Remember, Nii,” he said, his voice gruff yet kind, “if anyone looks for your trouble over there, just tell them you have a crazy brother in Lagos.”
I laughed for the first time since we arrived at the airport. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass.”
“Just saying,” he added, ruffling my hair the way he used to when we were kids. I playfully pushed his hands away, smoothing down my wig.
He handed me a small package with a grin that made me skeptical. “Just a little something to remind you of home.”
I walked towards the gate after a final wave with my carry-on as my only companion. At the security check, I turned back one last time. My mother and Nimi were still there, watching me with smiles that failed to hide the tears in their eyes.
As I settled on the plane, I unwrapped Nimi’s gift: a journal and a small, portable clipper. An unexpected laugh escaped my lips, earning me a glare from the older woman beside me. She was trying to pray before takeoff. I apologized.
As the plane ascended, I watched the city I called home shrink into a collage of scattered, twinkling lights. This wasn’t running away. A new beginning awaited, and for the first time in forever, I felt ready to embrace it.
Emmanuella Roli Atsiangbe, widely known as Ella Roli, is a storyteller who masterfully blends faith, personal growth, and real-life experiences into captivating narratives. With a unique flair for analogies and heartfelt reflections, she empowers young adults to navigate life and discover their purpose authentically. Through her writing and stunning visuals, Ella Roli creates content that resonates deeply. Connect with her on YouTube at Ella Roli, or on Instagram @nutella_rol.
Cover Image by David Eluwole