The Press
947 Words
She wore yellow.
Not because yellow was a statement. Because it was the first thing her hand found in the wardrobe that morning and she was not in the mood to second guess her instincts. Later people would write about the yellow. They would say it was deliberate. Defiant. Calculated. It was none of those things. It was just a blazer she liked that happened to exist in a colour that photographed well in afternoon light.
She called the press conference herself. Her publicist had suggested it. Her lawyer had advised against it. Kola had said it was her decision and meant it without qualification which was the response that made her trust him most.
She did it without a script.
She stood in front of the cameras in the lobby of her own building on a Thursday afternoon with her hands loose at her sides and her face the way her face was when she was most herself. Composed. Precise. Completely unwilling to perform distress for an audience that would consume it and move on.
There were eleven cameras. Four radio recorders. Six journalists she recognised and three she did not.
She spoke for four minutes.
She said the following things.
She said that she had seen the photographs. She said that they showed her speaking to a friend in a parking lot which was something she intended to continue doing without apology. She said that the publication of those photographs by an anonymous account with no journalistic standards was a deliberate attempt to damage her reputation and the reputation of someone who had done nothing except know her. She said that she knew who was behind it. She did not name anyone. She said that she expected it would not happen again. The way she said this was not a threat in any legal sense. It was simply a statement of fact delivered by a woman who had spent nine years building something in a city that did not give things to people who asked politely.
She said that her private life was hers.
She said that anyone who disagreed with that was welcome to bring their disagreement to her directly.
She said thank you and turned and walked back into the building.
The lobby staff watched her cross to the lifts. Nobody spoke. One of the junior account managers started to clap and then stopped because nobody else had started and the silence felt more appropriate anyway.
She went upstairs.
She sat at her desk.
Her hands were completely steady.
Her assistant appeared at the door with water and a look that said I watched the livestream and I have questions but I understand this is not the moment.
“Hold my calls for an hour,” she said.
“Yes ma.”
She drank the water.
She looked out the window at Lagos spread below her. The island glittering in the afternoon sun. The bridge. The water. The impossible geometry of a city that should not work and worked anyway through sheer collective will.
Her phone was buzzing continuously on the desk.
She turned it face down.
She allowed herself four minutes of stillness. Just four. Then she turned the phone over and began to work through the messages in order of importance.
The third message was from Kola.
He had not sent words.
He had sent a voice note.
She put the phone to her ear.
His voice was quiet. The background sound of a car. He was either in the car or near it.
He said: “You did not have to do that for me. I know you know that. I also know that is not why you did it. I just.” A pause. The sound of traffic. “I wanted you to know that I was watching. And that it was.” Another pause. Longer. “It was something to watch.”
The voice note ended.
She sat with it for a moment.
Then she called him back.
He picked up immediately.
“Where are you,” she said.
“Outside your building,” he said. “I came to drive you home.”
She looked out the window. She could not see the street from this angle.
“You did not have to do that,” she said.
“I know,” he said.
She picked up her bag.
“I will be down in five minutes,” she said.
“I will be here,” he said.
She ended the call.
She stood at the window for one more moment. Looking at the city. The city that had taken everything she gave it and demanded more and given nothing back that she had not earned three times over.
She straightened her yellow blazer.
She went downstairs.
He was parked exactly where she expected. Leaning against the car with his phone in his hand and his jacket off because the Lagos afternoon had opinions about jackets. He looked up when she came through the doors.
He did not say well done.
He did not say you were incredible or that was brave or any of the things that would have required her to perform humility in response.
He opened the passenger door.
She got in.
He got in.
He drove.
The city moved past the windows.
After a while she said: “Yetunde watched it too.”
“Good,” he said.
“She said.” Adunola paused. “She said it was the most Adunola Savage thing she had ever seen.”
“She is right,” he said.
She looked out the window.
She did not say anything else.
Neither did he.
It was enough.
- Writer
