You must be shocked to know that there are some creatures that actually take off their head, place it on their laps in order to braid their hair. Fasten your seat belt as I share the mysterious tale of Romoke. In the heart of Oyo State, nestled among the rolling hills of Ibadan, stood St.
Catherine's Girls' Boarding School, an institution steeped in tradition and history. The school was a bastion of learning and discipline, where the girls who attended were not only groomed to excel academically but were also taught the values of leadership, resilience, and integrity. The school itself was a sight to behold—its towering gates framed by lush gardens, ancient trees shading the pathways that crisscrossed the sprawling grounds, and whitewashed walls that glowed under the Ibadan sun.
Inside the school, there was a rhythmic hum of activity—girls scurrying from dormitories to classrooms, from chapel to dining halls, their crisp uniforms swishing as they moved in unison, a sign of the discipline instilled in them. And yet, amid the constant activity, there was one thing that never failed to draw attention, no matter the time of day or the season. That thing was Romoke’s hair.
Romoke was unlike any other girl at St. Catherine's. Though she was quiet, preferring to keep to herself, her presence was undeniable.
She had a way of making people feel comfortable, as if her mere presence was soothing to those around her. The teachers noticed her because of her excellent behavior, her classmates admired her for her kindness, and even the junior students looked up to her as a model of how they, too, should carry themselves. But it wasn’t just Romoke’s character that made her stand out.
Her hair was the talk of the school. Romoke’s hair was unlike any other the girls had seen. It was thick, black as night, and shone with an almost unnatural gloss.
It cascaded down her back in long, silken waves that glimmered in the sun and even seemed to shimmer in the dimmest light. Every week, Romoke would appear with a new hairstyle—an intricately woven braid, a crown-like updo, or twists that were so perfectly done that the other girls could hardly believe they were real. Every style Romoke wore looked as though it had been crafted by the hands of a master hairstylist, yet no one ever saw her getting her hair done.
This mystery became a source of endless fascination for the girls of St. Catherine’s, who were used to spending long hours in the care of Mama Ojo, the school’s resident hairstylist. Mama Ojo had been working at the school for decades and was known for her skilled hands and sharp tongue.
Every Friday, the girls would queue in front of her little salon, waiting their turn to have their hair styled according to the week's announced style. The girls would sit patiently as Mama Ojo worked her magic, transforming their unruly hair into perfect cornrows, braids, or buns. For some, this weekly ritual was a dreaded ordeal.
But for others, it was a time of bonding, gossip, and laughter. Yet Romoke never participated in this ritual. She never visited Mama Ojo, nor did she seem to have any interest in the hairstyles Yemi, the social prefect, announced every Friday afternoon.
Yemi was responsible for setting the style of the week, and she took her role very seriously. She would march into the dormitory every Friday, a clipboard in hand, and read aloud the style for the following week. Some weeks, it would be a simple style like cornrows, but other times, Yemi would announce something more elaborate, like Senegalese twists or a complex braided bun.
Whenever Yemi made the announcement, the girls would grumble or groan, knowing the time and effort it would take to achieve the perfect look. But Romoke would simply smile politely and nod, never once showing any concern for how she would achieve the style. One night, long after the dorm lights had dimmed and the chatter of the other girls had quieted, Romoke sat upright in her bed.
She glanced around the room, making sure everyone was asleep. The soft snores of her roommates filled the air. Dolapo, her closest bunkmate, was snuggled deep under her blanket, her back turned.
Slowly, Romoke slipped out of bed. She tiptoed across the cold tile floor and out of the dormitory. The corridors of the school hostel were eerie at this hour, the faint sound of rustling trees from the nearby forest the only noise breaking the silence.
Romoke crept quietly to the school bathroom, which was empty and cold. She locked the door behind her and exhaled slowly, her breath visible in the chilly air. In the dim light, she reached up to her head and twisted her neck gently.
It came off smoothly, like a puzzle piece being removed. She set her head down on her lap, and with the dexterity of a master braider, she began to braid her hair. Her fingers moved with skill and precision, weaving the strands into the tight, intricate pattern Yemi had announced that Friday.
It was an almost otherworldly sight: Romoke’s body, headless but serene, working methodically while her head rested peacefully on her lap. Her face was calm, her eyes closed as if in meditation. There was a faint humming in the air, an ancient lullaby that seemed to echo from Romoke’s lips, though her mouth never moved.
And come Monday morning, Romoke’s hair would always be done—perfectly, flawlessly, and always in a way that made the other girls’ efforts seem amateurish by comparison. “How does she do it? ” the girls would whisper to each other in hushed tones as they watched Romoke glide across the courtyard, her hair glistening in the sunlight like strands of polished obsidian.
“Does she have a secret stylist? Does she wake up at dawn to do it herself? ” But no matter how much they speculated, no one could figure it out.
Romoke never revealed her secret, and the girls were left to marvel at her hair, week after week, as if it were some kind of mystical phenomenon. Dolapo, Romoke’s closest bunkmate, had once been her friend. The two girls had arrived at St.
Catherine’s around the same time and had initially bonded over their shared experiences of adjusting to the rigors of boarding school life. Dolapo had admired Romoke for her grace and quiet strength, and the two had spent many nights whispering in the dark, sharing stories about their families and their dreams for the future. But as time went on, something changed.
Dolapo began to notice how the other girls gravitated toward Romoke. It wasn’t just her hair, although that was certainly a big part of it. It was the way Romoke seemed to effortlessly command attention, even when she wasn’t trying.
The teachers praised her for her neatness, her academic performance, and her good behavior. The girls wanted to be her friend, to be close to her, to soak up whatever magic it was that made her so special. Dolapo, on the other hand, felt herself fading into the background.
She was beautiful in her own right, with soft, delicate features and a warm smile. She was intelligent and witty, often making the other girls laugh with her quick comebacks and sharp observations. But when Romoke was around, it was as though Dolapo didn’t exist.
The other girls barely noticed her, their eyes always drifting back to Romoke, as if drawn by some invisible force. At first, Dolapo tried to ignore the growing jealousy that bubbled within her. She told herself that it didn’t matter, that she and Romoke were friends, and that friendship was more important than popularity.
But as the months passed, the jealousy became harder to suppress. It gnawed at her, making her bitter and resentful. She began to distance herself from Romoke, no longer sharing late-night whispers or joining her for walks around the school grounds.
Romoke, for her part, seemed to notice Dolapo’s change in behavior, but she said nothing. She continued to be polite and kind, always greeting Dolapo with a smile, but the warmth between them had faded. Dolapo, once Romoke’s closest confidante, now watched her from afar, consumed by a burning need to know Romoke’s secret.
Dolapo’s obsession with Romoke’s hair reached its peak one Friday afternoon when Yemi announced that the style for the week would be a complex braid pattern known as the “Waterfall Crown. ” The style required precise parting, intricate braiding, and an almost impossible level of symmetry. The girls groaned in unison, knowing that even Mama Ojo would struggle to achieve perfection with such a difficult style.
But when Romoke smiled at the announcement, as she always did, something inside Dolapo snapped. That night, after lights out, Dolapo lay in her bed, staring up at the ceiling, her mind racing. She had to know how Romoke did it.
She had to uncover the secret that had eluded everyone else at St. Catherine’s. And she was willing to do whatever it took to find out.
As the dormitory fell into silence, with only the soft snores of the other girls breaking the stillness, Dolapo remained wide awake, her heart pounding in her chest. She knew that Romoke always waited until the dead of night to style her hair. Dolapo had stayed up many nights pretending to sleep, hoping to catch Romoke sneaking out to some hidden corner of the school to work on her hair.
But Romoke had never moved—at least, not while Dolapo was awake. Tonight, though, Dolapo was determined to stay awake, no matter how long it took. She watched the minutes tick by on the clock, her eyes growing heavy but her resolve unshaken.
Finally, sometime past midnight, she heard a soft rustling from Romoke’s bed. Her heart leaped into her throat as she watched Romoke slowly sit up, glancing around the room to make sure everyone was asleep. Dolapo closed her eyes just enough to appear asleep but kept them open enough to watch Romoke’s movements.
She saw Romoke slip silently out of bed, her bare feet making no sound on the cold tile floor. Romoke moved with the grace of a dancer, her long nightgown trailing behind her as she glided toward the door. Dolapo waited until Romoke had left the dormitory before slipping out of bed herself.
She tiptoed across the room, careful not to wake the other girls, and followed Romoke down the darkened hallway. The school was eerie at this hour, the shadows stretching across the walls like long, thin fingers. The only sound was the faint rustling of trees outside, carried by the wind.
Romoke moved quickly, her figure disappearing around a corner, and Dolapo quickened her pace to keep up. She followed Romoke all the way to the school’s communal bathroom, where Romoke slipped inside and closed the door behind her. Dolapo’s heart pounded in her chest as she approached the bathroom door.
She hesitated for a moment, unsure of what she might find on the other side. But her curiosity was stronger than her fear, and she slowly pushed the door open, peeking inside. What she saw made her blood run cold.
There, in the center of the bathroom, sat Romoke, her body headless. Her hands moved with inhuman precision as they braided her hair, weaving the strands into the intricate Waterfall Crown that Yemi had announced earlier that day. Dolapo's breath caught in her throat as she pressed her back against the cold bathroom wall, her eyes wide with disbelief.
She blinked several times, trying to make sense of what she was seeing, but no matter how hard she tried, the image of Romoke's headless body, braiding her own hair with eerie precision, remained unchanged. Romoke’s head rested on her lap, her eyes closed, a serene smile gracing her lips as if she were in a deep, peaceful sleep. Dolapo stood frozen, her legs trembling beneath her.
Her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts—fear, confusion, and a strange, creeping sense of awe. How was this possible? How could Romoke do something so unnatural, so terrifyingly beautiful?
Was this some kind of dark magic? Or had she stumbled upon something far more ancient and mysterious? The faint humming that filled the room grew louder, and Dolapo realized it was coming from Romoke.
The sound wasn’t coming from her lips, but from the very air around her. It was a melody so soft and haunting that it made the hair on Dolapo’s arms stand on end. It was an ancient lullaby, one that seemed to carry the weight of centuries within its notes.
The melody wound through the air, twisting like the braids Romoke’s nimble fingers were weaving. Romoke’s fingers moved with incredible speed, her hands deftly manipulating her thick, glossy hair into the Waterfall Crown that the other girls had dreaded attempting. The braids seemed to almost form themselves, as though Romoke's hands were merely guiding some invisible force that wove the strands together.
Dolapo couldn’t look away. It was hypnotic, the way Romoke’s headless body moved with such grace, such ease, as if this were the most natural thing in the world for her. Then, suddenly, Romoke’s head twitched.
Her eyelids fluttered open, and her eyes, which were as dark as the night sky, fixed themselves on Dolapo. The humming stopped abruptly, replaced by an eerie silence that seemed to stretch out for an eternity. Dolapo’s heart raced as Romoke’s head, still resting on her lap, turned slightly to face her.
A soft chuckle escaped Romoke's lips—a sound that sent chills down Dolapo’s spine. The bathroom, once just a mundane place where the girls of St. Catherine’s freshened up, now felt like something out of a nightmare.
“Well,” Romoke said softly, her voice as calm and steady as ever, though her head was still detached from her body, “I suppose you’ve finally discovered my secret. ” Dolapo felt her legs buckle beneath her as the weight of Romoke's words sank in. She wanted to scream, to run, to flee from this horrifying scene, but her body wouldn’t cooperate.
She was paralyzed, trapped in the presence of something far beyond her understanding. Romoke, still sitting serenely, began to lift her head with one hand, while the other continued to finish the final touches of the braid. Her movements were gentle, almost tender, as though she were handling a precious artifact.
She brought her head closer to her neck, and with a fluid motion that defied explanation, she reattached it. Her neck made a soft clicking sound as her head settled into place, and Romoke blinked once, twice, before standing up gracefully. Dolapo, still on the floor, watched in stunned silence as Romoke walked toward her.
Romoke knelt down, her eyes meeting Dolapo’s with an expression that was both knowing and oddly compassionate. “You weren’t supposed to see this,” Romoke whispered, her voice barely above a breath. “But now that you have…” She trailed off, her gaze steady but unreadable.
Dolapo swallowed hard, her throat dry. Her mind raced with questions, but no words came out. She could only stare up at Romoke, her heart pounding in her chest, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
Romoke smiled faintly, her fingers brushing against Dolapo’s cheek in a gesture that was both comforting and unsettling. “You must understand,” Romoke continued, her tone gentle but firm, “this is not something that you can share. No one would believe you anyway.
” Dolapo felt a shiver run down her spine at Romoke’s words. There was a strange certainty in Romoke’s voice, as if she knew exactly what would happen if Dolapo ever tried to tell anyone what she had seen. Dolapo realized, in that moment, that Romoke was right.
Who would believe such a story? The girls at St. Catherine’s would think she had gone mad.
Even if she could somehow explain what she had witnessed, the truth was too bizarre, too impossible for anyone to accept. Romoke stood up, her hand leaving Dolapo’s cheek, and turned toward the door. “Go back to bed, Dolapo,” she said softly.
“You’ve seen enough for one night. ” Dolapo remained frozen in place for several long moments, her mind still reeling from the events that had just unfolded. Finally, she forced herself to stand, her legs wobbling beneath her.
She glanced at Romoke one last time, unsure of what to say or do, before quickly retreating from the bathroom and hurrying down the hallway. She didn’t stop until she was safely back in her bed, pulling the covers up to her chin as if they could protect her from the strange, terrifying world she had just been thrust into. Her mind raced as she lay there in the dark, replaying the scene over and over again, trying to make sense of it.
But there was no sense to be made. Romoke’s secret defied all logic, all reason. Sleep didn’t come easily for Dolapo that night.
She lay awake for hours, her heart still pounding in her chest, her mind consumed with the image of Romoke’s headless body braiding her hair in the eerie silence of the bathroom. She wondered how long Romoke had been doing this—how long she had kept this dark secret hidden from everyone at St. Catherine’s.
The next morning, when the girls began to stir in the dormitory, Dolapo felt as though she were in a daze. Her body moved on autopilot as she dressed, her mind still clouded with the memory of the previous night. She could hear the other girls chattering excitedly about the upcoming assembly, their voices bright and full of energy.
But Dolapo felt as though she were moving through a fog, her senses dulled by the weight of the secret she now carried. When Romoke appeared at breakfast, her hair styled perfectly in the Waterfall Crown, the other girls crowded around her as they always did, praising her for her skill and beauty. “Romoke, how do you do it?
” one of the girls asked, her eyes wide with admiration. “It’s like magic! ” Romoke smiled her usual mysterious smile, her dark eyes flickering briefly toward Dolapo before she replied, “I just have a way with my hands, I suppose.
” Dolapo felt a chill run down her spine at Romoke’s words. There was something almost sinister in the way Romoke said it, as if she were daring Dolapo to speak up, to reveal the truth of what she had seen. But Dolapo remained silent, her heart pounding in her chest.
She couldn’t say anything—not now, not ever. The truth was too dangerous, too unbelievable. And so, Dolapo kept the secret to herself.
She watched from the sidelines as Romoke continued to move through the school with the same quiet grace she always had, her hair perfect, her demeanor serene. But now, Dolapo saw Romoke in a different light. She was no longer just the quiet, talented girl with the beautiful hair.
She was something more—something otherworldly, something that defied explanation. As the weeks passed, Dolapo found herself withdrawing from the other girls. She no longer joined in their gossip or laughter.
She spent more time alone, lost in her own thoughts, her mind constantly returning to that night in the bathroom. The secret she carried felt like a heavy weight on her shoulders, one that she could never set down. And yet, despite everything, Dolapo couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of awe toward Romoke.
There was something powerful about her, something that went beyond her beauty or her talent. It was as if Romoke carried within her an ancient magic, one that had been passed down through generations, hidden away from the world until now. Dolapo knew she could never truly understand what she had seen that night, but she also knew that she would never forget it.
Romoke’s secret had become a part of her, woven into the very fabric of her being, just as the intricate braids were woven into Romoke’s hair. As time went on, the other girls continued to admire Romoke from afar, never suspecting the truth that lay hidden beneath her calm exterior. Romoke’s legend grew within the walls of St.
Catherine’s, whispered in hushed tones in the dormitories late at night. Some said she was blessed by the gods, others believed she had learned her skills from an ancient witch. But no one knew the truth—except Dolapo, who carried the secret with her for the rest of her life.
And so, the mystery of Romoke’s beautiful hair remained unsolved, an enigma that would be passed down through the generations at St. Catherine’s, woven into the school’s history like a thread of dark magic that would never be unraveled.
