Lielit
My grandmother groaned as I massaged her scalp, making my grandfather’s newspaper shake. I glanced up to find him peering over the top of it.
Oh no. He was desperate to poke fun at her.
“Why you making that noise for, woman?”
I shook my head at him and pressed my fingers harder, widening the circular motions. Anti-microbial. Anti-inflammatory. I could smell the rosemary, peppermint, coconut, and a hint of tea tree oil.
“Better than the noises you make in the toilet, old man,” she snapped.
The paper came down.
“And whose fault is that?”
The indignation echoed around the room.
“This is a big day for me,” I said, cutting into my grandmother’s reply.
Her hand lifted to pat my arm.
“You’re right, Ilma koo,” she said softly. “We are so proud of you.”
My child.
My grandfather smiled, his eyes warm beneath his glasses.
I’d sold everything I owned to move back in with my parents and grandparents. Her Glow had begun to boom—not only in the United Kingdom, but internationally. My products were originally for African hair types, but I’d branched out into soaps and deep-conditioning treatments.
“Thank you, Ayyee,” I said, resuming the massage.
Grandmother.
“Plus, we get to see so much of you now. What happened to that boy?” my grandfather added. “Darren? Darryl?”
My constant reminder of my singledom.
“She doesn’t need to rush,” my grandmother snapped. “Look what happened to me.”
“What is that supposed to mean? You weren’t shy when you—”
“Okay, that’s enough for today,” I shouted, cutting him off.
This was what fifty years of marriage looked like.
“Now look what you’ve done,” my grandmother huffed. “You’ve cut my head massage short.”
“I can finish it for you.”
“It’ll take all morning for you to reach me.”
I rolled my eyes—they were only a few feet apart. For all their bickering, they loved each other. It was their banter that kept their spirits alive.
I bent to kiss my Ayyee’s cheek, wiped my hands, then crossed the room to kiss my grandfather.
“Iszo, ambessa,” he whispered.
Be brave, lion.
“Always,” I said, straightening.
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The launch was successful, and the share prices surged. At first, I thought it was just an initial spike—but then it kept climbing, day by day, in slow, steady increments.
I couldn’t take credit for it all. There was my marketing team, my staff, and my family.
The rest came from countless hours spent building strong supply chains, securing the correct location for mass production, and acquiring the machinery we needed. The legal side of things had consumed any spare time I had.
Too many businesses built by BAME founders were swallowed whole by corporations. I gave up everything to make sure that would never happen to Her Glow.
As a teenager, I’d seen how difficult it was for my family to access quality hair products.
Most were imported, poorly regulated, and filled with damaging substances.
I chose cosmetic science because it taught me how the regulations worked—and how to work within them.
When I first began creating my products, it was all trial and error until I perfected each formula.
Science and nature, blended together.
A dream made real.
My business was rooted in my identity and my family’s history.
Our story.
And no soulless corporation would ever take that from me.
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“Urgh, we need more staff,” Anji moaned.
“The plant manager’s been interviewing people,” I said. “I told him not to rush. We need the right ones. You know how intense the trading is.”
“I know,” she sighed, rubbing her face. “But we’re selling out faster than we can produce.”
The last three months since the launch had been chaotic. I’d practically lived in our little office.
“Once you get that award, it’ll blow the fuck up,” she said, her grin sudden and wicked.
“I couldn’t have done this without you, Anj,” I murmured.
“I know,” she replied, humble as ever.
It had taken me seven years to build everything to this point.
Anji had worked almost as hard as I had, and I’d rewarded my colleague—and friend—with company shares.
For tax purposes, some of them went to my grandparents.
Since my parents were in a higher tax bracket, it made no sense to involve them.
“Are you taking—what’s his name? Dylan?”
“He bowed out a few months ago,” I said casually, eyes still on my laptop.
“What?” She jerked upright in her seat. “When? How? Why? Where?”
I rolled my eyes.
“He couldn’t handle the number of hours I was putting in.”
“What a pussy.”
Yep.
“His name was Darius,” I said, lifting my mug to my lips.
“Sure,” she replied, unimpressed. “But I like dickhead.”
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“Oh my goodness,” my mother gasped, rushing toward me. “Oh my girl, you will knock them dead.”
“Stop hogging the girl and let me see,” my grandmother said.
“You look like a queen,” my dad murmured.
“If only I could see her,” my grandmother muttered, making me chuckle.
My dad smiled at his mother as I released my mum from our embrace.
“I suppose I don’t matter,” my grandfather sniffed.
“It’s good that you know your place,” his wife replied.
My grandmother sighed as she looked at me, swallowing hard before her eyes began to well up.
The dress flowed around me in rich, sun-warmed tones—burnt amber and deep gold threaded with midnight blue, the pattern bold and unapologetic. The fabric gathered at my waist before falling into a full skirt that brushed my ankles, moving like liquid when I shifted.
One shoulder was bare, the neckline slanting elegantly across my collarbone, while the back dipped low, crossed with slender straps that framed my spine instead of hiding it. It wasn’t delicate. It didn’t beg for approval. It stood its ground.
The material was soft but structured, holding its shape the way I’d learned to—unbending, resilient. Every step felt grounded. Deliberate. This wasn’t a dress meant to disappear into a room.
It was meant to arrive.
My grandmother placed her hand over my half-braided hair, smoothing her fingers along the plaits before brushing them into the curls that rose around my head like a haloed crown.
She knew why I’d chosen the style.
“May the evil eye perish before it dares rest upon you, my child,” she said softly, closing her eyes.
Her lips moved in silent prayer as she blessed me.
It was a sweet gesture, but my homemade pepper spray would work better.