She woke up with a flourishing smile, the kind that was reserved for the gods. Her eyes was a sight to behold. It radiated with a certain bloom. Her eye lid stood erected, the brow tilting upwards, firm and intriguing. The day lingered like a routine, Nkem simply glided through the day. It was around 2pm, when fate decided to call time on her eventful life. She walked into the shop of her hair stylist. The familarity was telling. They exchanged pleasantries in a proximity that could not be gainsayed. The process began as usual. The hair stylist began by undoing her already stale hairstyle, and before she proceeded to fixing another facade to restore Nkem's beauty. She also deemed it fit to do a thorough washing on the hair. She washed the hair with a flourish and dexterity. A dexterity that tells us that her hands have seen many years of strafing people's hair, and beating them to shape. As soon as this done, the hair stylist hurried to the shop opposite her own, to get hair cream. It's a pleasant wonder how she often exhaust her own. Perhaps, it was a testimony that business was looking up. As she was still there, Nkem sat in her stool, waiting patiently and perhaps, thinking of how her new hair-do will open the flood gate of suitors. But this was to be her last thought. BOOM! was the next thing that could be heard. It was a suicide bomber, who just inflicted havoc. His wreckage wasmore than a handful. Nkem's body laid lifeless, gutless and dead. As the hair stylist returned from her lender's store, she envisaged the damage. Her eyes remained wide open, her mouth flapped itself in utter surprise. She cried, she wailed. She panted,she gulped. As is often the case, a scene had already been created. Nkem's corpse was the spectacle.This event was a gruesome reminder of the charade that had befallen us. A tale that should better be left unimagined, the Nigerian tale. A tale we pray will someday end.