A Thin Line

Amidst a Thin Line: Burn the old Map

Thank you for reading.

Enjoy!

The rain hadn’t stopped since dawn. Thin trails slid down the wide glass windows of Zins Couture, soft like tears refusing to fall. But Ezinne stood tall inside her showroom—shoulders squared, eyes locked on her team.

It was a Monday morning meeting, but not the usual kind.

This time, they weren’t just talking about new designs.

They were talking about survival.

“We need to tell our story,” she said, voice calm but firm. “And not just in response to scandal. I mean a reintroduction. Of Zins Couture. Of our journey. Of our values.”

A murmur of approval followed.

“But,” said Imani, her marketing lead, “the press still has you and Richard trending for the wrong reasons. There are hundreds of articles questioning the company’s originality and his motives. The public sees two lovers caught in corporate warfare, not pioneers.”

Zinne gave a tight smile. “Then it’s time we change the story.”

Imani and the rest of the media team started scribbling ideas. A press conference, a gala, an article. Things that could shape the Public perception of them.

Zinne went through each idea carefully.

“A press conference is nice but what are we discussing, remember we're shaping the public not begging them to forget or explaining anything. We're moving on. So what would the press conference address?”.

“An article is the same, what does it talk on”

“How about our journey, growth and vision” a voice pipped from behind.

“That's a really good idea” Ezinne replied.

“We'd pin it for use later, but not now. If an article like that came up, it'll basically be swallowed by other trending articles, besides it might have the negative effect now”.

That left them with the gala.

One themed resilience.

A fashion show displaying a new collection. One for the street, yet the elite.

The elite in private booths watching while the public seat together,

As she envisioned she smiled, gate fee would be unnecessarily cheap for the street at five hundred naira. Then the elote can be lured to make contributions to cover the cost or even pay a worthy fee for their booth and refreshments.

17 different pieces 9 from the three major ethnic groups, the Igbos, Yoruba, and Hausas each divided into male and female attire.

A thought sneaked into her head, Richard on the runway. It made her smile.

Before she knew it her head drifted to a private runaway him in very tight cloths buttons undone, his chiseled abs on full display as he bends downs, staring at her hungrily, he walks closer towards her and . . . .

“Ma'am what color would the event be?”

The question jolted her.

Her fire for him burned and she decided to take a walk a bit later to clear her head.

Her team got busy with the color palettes, guest lists, order of events and finer details.

“We’ll need sponsors,” someone said.

“We’ll need an exclusive design line,” another added.

Ezinne stood quietly in the middle, already drawing silhouettes in her head. A line built on reclamation—every piece a metaphor.

Richard had said it once. “You sew strength into thread.”

She’d do it again. This time, for herself. For the truth.

That afternoon, needing a moment to breathe after another day dream this time of him cooking, Ezinne ducked into her favorite local café—The Brewed Nest. The scent of baked pies and roasted chicken warmed her bones. For her to daydream of his cooking she guessed she was completely famished.

She stood in line, phone in hand, when she heard it.

“—I’m telling you, Johnson should’ve been jailed. If his family name wasn’t slapped on everything, he’d be behind bars like the rest of those corrupt billionaires.”

Ezinne froze.

It was a man, late thirties, too loud and too confident. He sat with two others, clearly trying to impress.

“I mean, how dumb can a woman be,” he laughed, “to build a fashion house off a family that’s been laundering money since God knows when?”

Her jaw clenched. Her pulse rose like boiling water.

And then, without even thinking, she turned and walked up to his table.

“Excuse me,” she said, cutting through their laughter like a blade.

The men went silent.

“Repeat what you just said,” Ezinne added. “About Johnson. About me.”

The man blinked. “Look, miss, this is—”

“I asked you a question,” she snapped. “Repeat. It.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “I was just saying… if he was innocent, why’d it take so long to clear his name?”

“Because due process exists,” she replied coolly. “Because when false accusations are involved, the burden of proof is heavier. And while you sip lattes and gossip like schoolchildren, some of us are busy actually building something.”

The café had gone quiet.

“Do you know how many people that man has helped? Do you know how many children his foundation educates? Or how much of his personal wealth went into rebuilding flood-damaged homes in the East last year?”

The man fumbled. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did. You meant every word. And that’s the problem with men like you. Loud. Misinformed. And proud of it. Before using someone's reputation as a subject to get a few laughs from friends and feel good, try to get your facts straight, or you might just end up being the clown you're chasing amongst the informed and important.”

She didn’t wait for a response. She turned, paid for her coffee, and walked out.

Back at the office, fire still in her veins, she entered the media room.

The walls were covered in brainstorms and pinned sketches for the upcoming fashion gala.

Richard hadn’t called all day. But that was okay. They were building something again—from the ashes.

“I want the gala themed Hydra Resilience,” she said, setting her coffee down. “Let the world know Zins Couture was never anyone’s shadow.”

Imani nodded. “And the centerpiece?”

Ezinne inhaled, then pointed to a fabric on the corner table—black silk and burnt gold. “A three-part showcase. Growth, betrayal, and triumph.”

“Do we invite the Johnsons?” Imani asked, eyes cautious.

There was a beat.

Ezinne’s lips curved just slightly. “We invite Richard as Richard. No one else.

Later that evening, as she sat sketching the first piece of her “Legacy” line, her phone buzzed.

RICHARD JOHNSON: Hi mama just wanted to say I'm proud of you.

Just that.

No pretense. No pressure. Just presence.

Her hands stilled. Her heart didn’t race—but it pulsed differently.

She texted back:

Thank you.

I’m trying.

He replied:

Trying looks good on you. But standing tall? That’s where you shine. Oh and I kind of, miss you a tiny bit.

She bit back a smile.

That night, she stayed in the studio long past closing. The team had left. Mabel had checked in. Even Victor had sent flowers.

But Ezinne sat alone with swatches and sketches, designing not just clothes—but clarity.

“Burn the old maps,” she whispered to herself, running a finger along her newest drawing. “Let them see a woman who redrew her entire world.”