door to the flat slam. A moment later, her bedroom door opened, letting in electric light. She leaned up but she couldn’t see Aunty Cookie’s expression with the brightness behind her head.
‘Sorry, Ba Aunty—’ The door shut before Sylvia could finish.
When she woke up the next morning, the flat seemed the same as usual. Aunty Cookie had already gone to work at the National Registration Office. Traffic on the main road honked and rushed by. Sunlight flickered in through the curtains. The cornflakes box sat on the table, with that rooster in the colours of the Zambian flag. The only difference, it seemed, was that Aunty’s bedroom door, with its treasure chest of womanly things, had been locked. Sylvia bathed and got dressed and went to find Loveness.
Her friend was asleep inside the security hut, curled around the mbaula, which she had dragged inside to keep warm. Her skin was coated in an undisturbed blanket of ash and there was dried blood in the cracks of her big lips. Sylvia didn’t wake her. She took the mbaula outside and lit it and fried up some buns. Loveness emerged, squinting and sniffing. As they chewed their greasy, salty breakfast – Sylvia’s second of the day – Loveness explained the blood on her lips. To do that, she had to explain the man who hit her – who he was and how they’d met. By the end of the story, Loveness had retraced all the staggering steps between running away from her uncle’s house and the bruises on her face and neck.
‘Me, I must also run.’ Sylvia shook her head. ‘Ba Mwape is like your uncle. He’s sick.’
‘Awe, no!’ Loveness swallowed the lump of chitumbua in her mouth. ‘Mr Mwape is a soft man! He brings you presents. He takes care of you. Pampering is very good!’
‘But these men you talk about – they also bring you presents! Me, I can do what you do.’
‘No, Syls.’ Loveness stared into space, picking at her cuticles. ‘You cannot do what I do. It’s dangerous. Have you not seen that the police are rounding us up again? All these tuma “unaccompanied women” raids. No, you must stick to your Mr Mwape.’
‘Mwape is small potatoes. I want the big potatoes. From the hotels.’
‘You’re too young for that.’
‘We’re the same age.’ Sylvia rolled her eyes. ‘You just want the customers for yourself.’
A smile snuck onto Loveness’s face and Sylvia stuck her tongue out and then they were giggling. The two girls spent a lazy, happy day together: frying buns and selling them, crooning into paper cones, devising their futures. Someday, they would open a hair salon, maybe combine it with a nail parlour. Sylvia had no patience for market money, the baffling accounts of who owed so-and-so such-and-such, tiny numbers fluctuating like the udzudzu over the trashy ditches between stalls. They decided that Loveness would keep track of the business side of things while Sylvia worked on choosing styles and products. Between them, they finished two Mosis and six Pall Malls trying out names. Hair Today, Gown Tomorrow. Up in the Hair. The Hairport.
Sylvia swayed up the stairs at the Indeco Flats as the sun set, wondering what punishment Aunty Cookie had in store for her at home. The silent treatment? Sylvia pulled her key from the knot in her chitenge. No TV time? The key slid into the lock, but it wouldn’t turn. She pulled it out and examined it. Extra chores? She slid it in again and twisted in vain. Only then did she realise that the look on her aunt’s face yesterday had not been one of anger or disgust. Sylvia had stolen Mr Mwape from Aunty Cookie. There was no punishment equal to that humiliation. Sylvia didn’t even bother knocking.
* * *
One warm Thursday night, a month after she moved into the security hut with Loveness, Sylvia decided it was time to try her luck. Under the eerie underwater light of the plastic-bottle roof, she gathered her tools: a lace camisole, a white blouse, a skirt she had sewn from a men’s t-shirt, and salaula stilettos that set her ankles spinning. Using a child’s pocket mirror, she applied foundation, rouge and red lipstick. Then she began the mile-long march from the Indeco Flats to her destination.
A Lusaka evening: a purpling sky, woodsmoke from supper fires, mosquitoes singing delirious rounds, the clapping and chanting of a church meeting, the bitter smell of car exhaust. Sylvia teetered through it, so anxious it felt like