DOSAGE

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©2022 by Oremodu Bukky

Brought to you by christian writers and readers club

Theme: Romans 6:23 – For the wages of sin is death…

****

The stage lights come on and I narrow my eyes, waiting for them to adjust to the sudden brightness. Before me stands a crowd of people, my fans who came to watch me perform. Their chants of my name echoes in the atmosphere, hundreds of them pushing against each other to be closer to the stage I stand on.

"Lolly! Lolly! Lolly!"

I smile and wrap my hand tighter around the microphone. "Good evening, Lagos!"

They roar in response, my smile widening as I scan the crowd. Although all I can see are shadows, the knowledge that these people are here for me makes my heart swell with excitement. Putting the mic closer to my mouth, I begin to belt out lyrics to songs I had released a year ago.

I am on a tour which began two months back. Lagos happens to be the last state I'm visiting, and my tour would be ending here, in the city that never sleeps.

I perform for hours, ignoring the ache in my thighs that developed from standing on heels for too long. The clock strikes one in the morning before I take a bow, ending my journey of two months.

"Thank you, Lasgidi! I love you!"

The crowd cheers as I strut off the stage with my back-up dancers, the lights reflecting the sheen of sweat coating my skin.

Upon reaching backstage, I kick off my heels with a groan and fling my wig away.

"You did well, Lolly." My manager pats my shoulder, and I wince.

My whole body is in knots from the stress of being on the road for two months, and I need a release. So I motion to my P.A who had fallen into step beside me, my purse dangling from her hand. She dips her hand into it and brings out a rolled up paper.

"You have six missed calls from your Mum and a message that says; Jesus loves you, my baby." She says as she hands it over to me.

I ignore her, unrolling the paper and bringing the contents close to my nose. A sniff of it makes the powder shoot up into my nostrils.

I cough slightly, and then return the remaining to her. With measured steps, I return to my dressing room and slump on the floor, the effect of the cocaine starting to kick in, bringing me the euphoria I desperately desired.

There it is, my daily dose of sin.

****

The ringing of my phone jolts me awake the next morning, and I groan as a pounding headache floods my head. Rubbing my temples slightly, I glance around the room and notice that it's mine.

Must have been my driver and P.A that brought me back home. My phone continues to ring, so I pick the call and leave it on my speaker, the screech of my manager floating through a second later.

"Lolly! What is wrong with you?!"

"What is it?" I groan again, my head pounding all the more as her shouts filled the room.

"Haven't you seen the news? You're all over it. 'Singer performs high on a stage and remains on a high with cocaine.' Even if you wanted to sniff some, you could have waited to get to a place where paparazzi wouldn't see you."

"Then fix it, Pamela. That's your job, not mine."

"Lol–"

I hang up, and sigh. Can't reporters let me be? Must they derive joy from making every part of my life public?

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