Chapter 8: The Weight of the Mirror
The morning sun over Lagos felt like a mockery. It was bright and indifferent, shining on the millions of people scuttling about their lives, unaware that Eliana's world had just fractured. She didn't go to the restaurant. Instead, she spent the day in a state of suspended animation, sitting on the edge of the bed she shared with Anita. Every time her phone buzzed, her heart leapt into her throat, fearing it was Tobi calling to say their mother had slipped away. The silence of the room was heavy with the ghost of her former life. Just yesterday, she was worried about a stained apron; today, she was contemplating selling the only thing she had left: her dignity.
When Anita woke up in the late afternoon, her eyes were rimmed with fatigue, but her movements were purposeful. She didn't offer empty platitudes. She knew the arithmetic of survival. "If you're doing this, Eliana, you do it right," Anita said, pulling a suitcase from under the bed. "The men at the Night Rose don't pay for desperation. They pay for a fantasy. You cannot go in there looking like a girl who hasn't eaten since yesterday. You go in there looking like a queen who doesn't need them. That is how you keep the power."
Eliana watched as Anita laid out a collection of cosmetics—paints and powders that felt like warrior's soot. Anita began to work on Eliana's face, contouring her cheekbones and darkening her lashes until the girl in the mirror looked like a stranger. "Your beauty is a weapon, Eli. But weapons can hurt the person holding them if they don't have a shield." Anita reached back into the suitcase and pulled out a piece of delicate, blood-red lace. It was a mask, intricately woven to cover the eyes and the bridge of the nose. "This is your shield. Tonight, Eliana Okoro stays home. Tonight, you are just the Girl in Red."