Bosom on Fire

VII - You say, I say.

Bassey jolts out of a nightmare at the second ring of her alarm clock by 5:45 am. Already behind time for her morning run, Bassey rolls out of perspiration-soaked sheets, breathing heavily.

Uneasy of the quietness that will exist between her master bedroom and her morning thoughts, she doesn't press the lever on the alarm clock to stop the sound. She allows it to blare alongside the crickets as she discards old sheets for new ones—pale blue for peach colored today.

Shuffling on socks and cladded feet to the bathroom, she dumps the used sheets in the empty laundry basket by the washing machine.

A bit calmer now, she replaces the disharmony of the alarm with the harmony of Coldplay's 'You' as she busies herself with toothpaste, face wash, and forcing on her tightest running bra.

Headphones on and set to leave, she hovers her thumb over her phone screen before tapping on a Christian song from a playlist shared on LHM's telegram group for 'New Lovers.'

Lauren Daigle's 'You' serenades Bassey's eardrums as she runs steadily through her empty estate, lost in thought. "You say I am loved when I don't feel a thing" runs parallel with, "give me your final call by 9 am." "You say I am strong when I think I am weak," reminds her of, "Akamba, this is my final call."

Bassey makes her first stop at the drive-by on Marina road that detours to Qua river. She has adventured the path twice to find old fishermen working in their boats. This morning, she plans to watch them again, and learn a thing or two about baits, hooks, and catching—the only strategy that works on Akamba. Her bait is her already rehearsed speech re-up. The hook: her outline of possible clap backs. But the catch, to catch Akamba is beyond her. He is crafty at escaping her hooks unwounded.

Maybe my baits are not juicy enough, so he just sniffs and nibbles but doesn't take the bite. He pulls false weight while he does this, then I ignorantly rejoice, pull up the line to find nothing. Or maybe Akamba is really good at taking the baits out of the hook.

So my hook is the problem? It's not sharp enough?

"Ugh."

Bassey slows down her pace as reaches the bank of the river. A manly figure in white running clothes sits by the bank of the river, throwing stones into the water.

Not in the mood to chase anyone off a property that wasn't hers, she turns to walk away. She misses a step, tripping on the heap of gravel by the side of the tiny path.

The man, startled by the sound of a fall moves his gaze to the direction of the thud. Bassey, in black sweatpants and a tank top, has her butt down and legs up. He dashes towards her, like a mother to a wounded child.

Bassey recognizes the man. "Pastor Lawrence? What are you doing here?"

     "Bassey?
"Sorry, let me help you up."

     "Don't worry. I'll just sit here," dusting sand off her palm, "it seems like a better angle to watch the sunrise and the fishermen."

"Alright."

Lawrence retreats to his spot on the poorly formed concrete slap. Bassey's eyes follow his movements.

He sits, facing her.

     "How come you are here?" Bassey quips, slightly agitated that her private moment is interrupted.

     "I usually run up the distance to a house that I want to buy at barracks road. But today, I decided to do my run around the area.
"I didn't realize you could see the river from here."

     "Do you live around?"

Avoiding her piercing brown eyes. "I do. Just right after Villa Marina.
"That's why your follow-up was assigned to me."