Bosom on Fire

VIII- The Closer you Look

Colette's clarion call, "Bassey, don't do that thing you always do. CALL me if anything happens," hangs above Bassey's head as she stares down at her phone screen.

She re-reads the series of tweets from Akamba's Twitter handle to be sure she isn't misconstruing anything.

@akambatheelder "Women ain't shit bruv, focus on you. You would sacrifice your entire life for them and they will leave your ass in the dust."

Tweet reply from @balogunXXL "Bro if my girl tries to leave, I'll get her pregnant"

Quote tweet reply from @akambatheelder "If she can't keep babies like mine, leak her sex tape lol

Bassey feels her blood begin to evaporate from her veins, the pressure raises her body hairs and marinates her chestnut skin with fine goosebumps. The palpitations warn her of an approaching panic attack.

Her hands shake as she fishes out Colette's caller ID. Hot tears flow freely from her eyes to the mahogany table as she sobs—suppressed muffles weighing painfully on her chest.

Colette doesn't pick up.

Unable to keep it together, Bassey dashes through her front door, gets into her car, and cries until she hears Colette's soprano hello.

She has fooled around with Akamba behind cameras several times—the tapes always got deleted. But something in the way Akamba flipped his pancakes and whistled happily as she sauntered out of the kitchen with her bowl of cornflakes, milk, and chilled water earlier, makes her believe he kept backup files of them.

     "Colette. Colette, I don't know what to do." Bassey's voice shakes as she speaks into her phone speaker. It is almost 8:00 am. The golden tint of the morning sun floods the windscreen of the Audi.

     "Jesus Christ! Akamba has gone beyond crossing the line!"

     "Colette, it's not like I can tell his parents. They never act accordingly. Never punish him or vindicate me. I'm tired of using the same angle that doesn't work," stifling a sob, "besides, I'm not exactly sure that he has a tape of me. Although it is not unlikely. Akamba is not the type of man that makes empty threats—directly or indirectly.
     "I wish I had dirt on him," Bassey groans," Akamba cleans up too good! Too good."

Horn sounds stir the Indian Jasmines and weaver birds as Bassey thumbs her steering repeatedly until her knuckles hurt.

     "Colette!" Bassey calls out.

     "I'm here. Bassey, I'm here.
     "You know what? Calm down. I'll handle it. Leave it to me. I'll talk to him."

     "Colette, what will you say? There's nothing to say!"

     "Don't worry about that. Just make sure you eat something."

Not satisfied with Colette's baseless assurance, Bassey decides to call Lawrence. Maybe ask him to double his prayer or get the head pastor to talk Akamba out of this.

Bassey has a reputation to protect from the network of people Akamba knows and this terrifies her. People she's worked with worked for and still works with. People, she has called friends and even enemies. If Akamba goes on with his advice, he will pull out an entire line of cubes from the middle of her tall stack of cubes. It is already an unfair world, and some actions—with adverse mob attention to a woman and what she does with her body—can take one to a square beyond one—0.shame,0.stigma.

Pastor Lawrence answers Bassey's 911-like call almost immediately. She hesitates before requesting to see him urgently.

"I'm at the Saloon, it turns out to be a fully booked morning. I should be done by 10 or so.
     "But we can talk on the phone now, I have my AirPods on. Will you be comfortable with that?"