Lit Up

Chapter 1

It started with one puff; just one puff of the cigarette, one year ago. Sharon had stretched the lit cigarette stick to her, urging her to take a puff.

“It would help with the pain”, she had said. “It would make you feel better. It won’t hurt so badly anymore.”

They had been in Sharon’s bedroom, the only source of light coming from the torch seated on the bedside table, the smell of cigarette floating in the air.

And so, she had hesitantly taken the cigarette stick from her, holding it tightly between her middle and index fingers. She had never tried this before.

“Relax, Fikayo,” Sharon had said. “Put it your lips.”

She had been too afraid of the consequences, afraid of becoming a drug abuser, a crack head, a crazy fellow. They said drugs destroyed lives. Her life had been damaged enough.

“It’s just cigarette, Fikayo. Common! No be igbo I give you o!” Sharon had voiced out, as though she had heard her thoughts. “I’ve been smoking this thing for long o. I never die! Abi wetin you dey fear? Omo mummy!”

Fikayo had been vexed by the humour dripping from her friend’s voice.

“Is it by force? Abeg I no want. I don’t want to be a smoker!”

She had thrown the cigarette on the floor and stomped on it with her right foot angrily. Rising from the edge of the bed she had been seated on, she had marched out of the bedroom, her heart beating wildly, her hands trembling.
The week after, on a chilly evening, she had found herself in front of a Mallam’s kiosk, requesting for a pack of cigarettes. If it could help her feel better, she was ready to give it a try, she had thought to herself as she trekked back home with the pack of cigarettes. She didn’t have to smoke it often. Besides, Sharon had had the same experience as her and if smoking helped her deal with it, then she would.

Now, Fikayo was sitting on the edge of the bed in her torch lit bedroom just like that day with Sharon, with a cigarette stick between her index and middle fingers. It was late in the night and there was no power supply. There had been no power supply for three days in a row. She parted her lips slightly and placed it in between, taking a long drag; she held the smoke in her mouth for some seconds, removed the cigarette from her mouth and then released the smoke into the hot air. This was her life now and she didn’t believe she could quit this addiction.

One morning two months earlier, she had woken up with a burst of positive energy, determined to put an end to smoking. But a day passed without her dose of nicotine goodness and she began feeling nauseated. Her feet and hands had tingled and sleep had eluded her. It had been too much discomfort. Her body had needed it.

Her body still needed it, she said internally. There was no going back. Purchasing cigarettes too often ate deeply into her savings but it was good that she made a substantial amount from hair styling. She shifted and tapped the ashes on the ash tray in front of her, before stubbing it out. She pushed the ash tray under her bed and rose. Her room door was locked so nobody could walk in on her smoking session. She picked up the air spray from her dressing table and sprayed her room so the smell of smoke will not linger.

The next morning, she exfoliated her face and applied her lip scrub. Sharon had been generous enough to give her the recipe to her DIY lip scrub that ensured her lips did not get black from smoking.

“Happy one year smoking anniversary!” she said to herself in the shower, laughing out loud as the water from the shower head touched her skin. She continued laughing and did a little dance.

She had a booking for braids today so she put a stop to her silliness and quickly had a shower.  After hopping out of the shower, she wore a pair of skinny blue jeans and a white T-shirt with “Black girl Magic” printed in a cursive font on it. She let down her black box braids which she had braided herself and applied lip gloss to her dry chapped lips before stuffing her phone and some money into her jean pocket.