*BARBER BY FORCE* *(The Graduate Barber)* *EPISODE 1* Chukwudi Nnamdi Okafor graduated with a Second Class Upper in Political Science from the university and for the first two weeks after his graduation, he behaved like a man whose future had already been approved by heaven. For where? Na so e easy to enter heaven? He walked with confidence, spoke with authority, and smiled like someone who already had a job waiting for him in a glass office somewhere in Victoria Island. If you see him, you would think life had already answered all his prayers. Life, however, had not even picked his call. Back at home, his mother moved around with quiet pride, telling neighbors, “My pikin don graduate o.” The way she said it, you would think job offers were already knocking at the door. A story by Jb Da Silva Usman Chukwudi himself believed it too. After all, he had suffered through lectures, exams, and group assignments where he did all the work while others brought vibes. Surely, something good was supposed to happen. But nothing happened. The first shock came gently. Then it became aggressive. Chukwudi entered what he called “job hunting mode,” which was the beginning of serious struggle. Every morning, he would wake up early, iron his only white shirt—which had now lost its original brightness—and wear it carefully like a uniform of hope. He would stand in front of the mirror, adjust his collar, and say, “Today is the day.” See motivation na. Sometimes, even he himself did not believe himself. He printed CVs like a man sponsored by a printing company. The printer operator had already memorized his face. “Chairman, you don come again today?” the man would say. Chukwudi would laugh awkwardly. “This one na final batch if I print this one, I no go come again because I don nearly get job.” The printer operator would just nod slowly. They both knew that was a lie. He submitted his CV everywhere. Banks, offices, buildings with big gates, places that looked official, and even places that looked like they sold spare parts. One day, in a moment of pure confusion, he entered a shop and submitted his CV. The woman behind the counter looked at him carefully. “Excuse me… shey you want buy moi moi ni?” Chukwudi blinked. “Na moi moi una dey sell here?.” The woman replied with a nod. She frowned slightly. “My brother, na shop be dis o and na moi moi we dey sell o.” He looked around slowly, then shakes his head. He collected back his CV and went out. He left quietly, questioning his life choices. The interviews were even worse. One particular day, he received a call for an interview, and his joy knew no bounds. He dressed carefully, polished his shoes until they almost reflected light, and arrived earlier than necessary. When they finally called him in, three people sat in front of him with serious expressions. “Tell us about yourself,” one of them said. Chukwudi smiled confidently. “My name is Chukwudi Nnamdi Okafor, a graduate of Political Science—” “Okay, thank you,” another interrupted. Chukwudi paused. “Thank you… for what?” “You can go.” He stood there for a second, confused. “That’s all?” “Yes.” That was the entire interview. As he stepped outside, he muttered under his breath, “Na wa o… this one no be even insult, na express rejection.” Weeks turned into months, and months turned into two full years. At some point, even rejection emails stopped coming. It was as if companies had a meeting and agreed to ignore him completely. Hunger, however, did not ignore him. One hot afternoon, after walking under a sun that seemed personally offended by his existence, Chukwudi sat under a mango tree. Sweat covered his body, his legs ached, and his stomach began to protest loudly. “Grrrrrr…” He held his stomach gently. “Abeg calm down, we go figure out something.” That was when he noticed a small barbershop across the road. The shop was not fancy. The walls were slightly cracked, the mirror had seen better days, and the chairs looked like they had stories to tell. But the place was busy. Customers were coming in, money was exchanging hands, and the barber looked focused and in control. There was no CV, no interview, no waiting. Just work. Chukwudi stood up slowly. “This one… fit work,” he said to himself. After all, all work na work. Before his pride could stop him, he crossed the road. The moment he entered the shop, noise welcomed him. Music was playing loudly from an old speaker, a generator hummed in the background, and two men were arguing about football like they were about to fight. Behind the chair stood a muscular man with a serious face. “Oga,” Chukwudi said respectfully, “I want learn work.” The man looked at him carefully. “You sure?” “Yes, sir.” “You go fit stand from morning till night?” “Yes, sir.” “You go fit wash hair wey kurunor or kaun don finish am? Chukwudi hesitated briefly. “…Yes, sir.” “You go fit collect insult and you no go vex?” He swallowed. “…I go try.” The man nodded. “My name na Emeka. People dey call me Razor Blade. Welcome to suffering.” Chukwudi’s training began immediately. His first assignment was to sweep hair. Simple enough, he thought. He gathered the hair into a neat pile, feeling slightly proud of himself. Then suddenly, wind entered the shop like it had been invited for entertainment. The hair scattered instantly. Chukwudi froze. Then he began chasing it around the shop, trying to gather it again. Each time he got close, it escaped, moving like it had a personal beef with him. One customer laughed. “Guy, na competition you dey do with the hair?” Another added, “Leave am, the hair don win am already.” Chukwudi ignored them and continued his struggle. That day, he learned that even sweeping hair required experience. Next, he was asked to wash a customer’s hair. He approached with confidence. That confidence disappeared quickly when he poured hot water on the customers head. The customer jumped. “Ah! You wan cook my head?!” Chukwudi panicked and quickly poured cold water. “You wan freeze my brain?! Which kind confusion be this?” chukwudi murmured to himself. The man stood up angrily, water dripping everywhere. “Who train you?!” Chukwudi pointed at Emeka. Emeka raised his hands. “I no know am o, the goat just come my shop this morning.” That betrayal hurt deeply. When Chukwudi got home that night, he expected peace. Instead, he met his compound people that operated like his village people. Mama Bisi was already shouting. “Who remove my bucket from this place?!” Nobody answered. She pointed at the sky. “Una don start again abi? Small time now una go say Mama Bisi don start. Which kind compound self be dis? I no blame una. Na me wey dey follow una dey live for this kind compound naim cause am" Chukwudi walked past quietly. He did not have the strength for spiritual investigations. Then Kunle started his generator. “BRRRRRRRRRRRRR!” The sound filled the compound like a small aircraft trying to take off. Chukwudi sat on his bed and closed his eyes. “God… is this part of my journey?” Shey na life I dey live so? As if on cue, his landlord appeared. “CHUKWUDI!” His heart dropped. “Yes, sir…” “Where is my rent?” “Sir… I just started learning barbing…” The man looked at him in disbelief. “You went to university to cut hair?” That question stayed in the air. Even Chukwudi did not have an answer. Two weeks later, Chukwudi believed he had improved. “Oga, I want to try cutting,” he said. Emeka looked at him. “You sure?” “Yes.” Emeka sighed. “Okay. Go try your luck for that man head.” The customer sat confidently. “Low cut,” he said. Chukwudi nodded and began. At first, everything seemed fine. Then slowly… things went wrong. Very wrong. The lines were not straight. The blending was not blending. The shape… was confusing. When the customer looked into the mirror, silence filled the shop. Then he turned slowly. “My brother… wetin be this?” Chukwudi swallowed. “Oga Relax small Abeg no vex make I blend the hair first…” “Blend wetin?! You draw map of Africa for my head you say you want blend am!” The entire shop burst into laughter. Chukwudi just stood there, holding the clipper, questioning everything. Emeka quickly stepped in and fixed the damage. “Go sit down,” he told Chukwudi. Chukwudi obeyed quietly. That night, as he lay on his bed, exhausted and slightly ashamed, he stared at the ceiling. His body hurt. His pride hurt. Even his future felt tired. But then… he smiled. Because somehow, despite everything—the embarrassment, the stress, the madness—he had survived. He turned to the wall and whispered softly: “At least… I no dey submit CV up and down again.” And for the first time in a long time, that felt like progress. 👉 To be continued in Episode 2 ❤️ Continue 😎 This is getting interesting 👍 I’m hooked 🥰 Next episode 👉 Please SHARE this story to motivate me to write more episodes #BarberByForce #TheGraduateBarber #AfricanStorytelling > If this gets to 30 reactions and 10 shares episode 2 drops immediately
