The next evening, I stepped into the bar expecting another night of music, cheers, and maybe—just maybe—a shy smile from Bimpe. Instead, the air felt thick, hostile. Sixteen eyes pierced me with disgust, like I had sprouted horns. My chest tightened. Something was off.
"I can't believe you could do something this despicable!" Mr. Akinbiyi thundered, his face red with fury.
Before I could ask a question, he stormed up to me and landed three sharp slaps across my face.
My cheek stung. "What have I done, sir?" I gasped, rubbing my face, stunned and confused.
Everyone stared. My heartbeat was hammering against my ribs.
"What was my crime?" I cried, desperate for an explanation. I turned to Bimpe, silently pleading with her eyes to speak for me. But all I got was a weak, apologetic look.
"We found bundles of money missing from yesterday, stuffed in your bag like the criminal you are!" Paul, the waiter who had hated me since day one, spat. His lips curled like he'd been waiting for this moment.
"Money? In my bag?" I stammered.
"Yes! This bag, thief!" Ebube barked, smacking the bag against my chest.
"Ade, tell me—who got this bag? And where did this money come from?" Mr. Akinbiyi demanded, his patience snapping, hands planted on his hips.
I blinked in shock. Was this some sick prank?
"It's my bag, yes," I admitted, voice trembling. "But I have no idea how that money got there. I swear it!"
I searched Bimpe's face, praying she'd defend me. Nothing. Not a word. The silence from her cut deeper than any insult.
"Sir, think about it," I said, my voice rising in desperation. "I've been working here less than three days. Why would I be stupid enough to hide stolen money in my own bag and still come back? If I wanted to steal, would I even show up today?"
"Shut up!" Ayomide roared. "We saw you leaving last night looking worried, and the money was discovered missing that same time. All the signs point to you!"
The customers were whispering now, watching the drama like a free Nollywood movie.
"Ade, get out of my sight before I call the police!" Mr. Akinbiyi shouted. "I never want to see you here again!"
Something inside me snapped. "Fine!" I yelled, my eyes blazing. "I don't wanna work where I ain't treated right anyway!"
Gasps rippled through the bar. Heads turned. I stormed out, my anger hot enough to burn through the cool night air.
But as I walked down the street, I heard hurried footsteps behind me. I already knew who it was. I didn't want to see her, didn't want to hear her excuses.
"Stop! Please!" Bimpe's voice called.
Against my better judgment, I froze.
"Ade, I—"
"It's Adejoke," I cut in sharply, my voice like ice.
"I'm sorry!" she whispered.
"For what? For setting me up? For watching them humiliate me while you stood there mute?" My voice cracked with betrayal. "How could I have trusted you? You told me yesterday you wanted to talk after my performance, and I looked everywhere for you. This is how you repay me? With a setup?"
Tears welled in her eyes as she grabbed my wrist. "Please… listen! I didn't want to do it. I was threatened. I swear it. If I hadn't gone along, I would've lost my dignity. I'm sorry. I'm so ashamed of myself."
Her voice shook, breaking into sobs. My anger softened, but only a little.
"Whatever," I muttered. "Just go back. We won't see each other again after tonight."
Still, my heart betrayed me. I leaned down and kissed her forehead gently. She gasped, stunned.
"Can I at least have your number?" she asked through tears, hope flickering in her eyes.
"I don't own a phone," I admitted, shame burning in my chest.
She pulled out a folded slip of paper and pressed it into my hand. "This is my contact. Please… call me anytime. And thank you for forgiving me, even a little." She hugged me tightly, then planted a soft kiss on my cheek.
"Go back," I told her, wiping her tears. "Wait for me. I'll come back for you."
She smiled faintly, whispering, "Goodbye. Seems like it hurts to say it, doesn't it?"
"Bye," I whispered, turning my back before she saw the storm in my eyes.
---
Back home, a different scene unfolded. Titi was outside with a boy her age, both bent over a book. My chest tightened again—this time from anger. Our so-called father refused to send her to school, calling it a waste of money. But here she was, learning under the streetlights with some neighborhood kid.
"So, is Titilayo misbehaving?" I asked slyly, hoping to irritate her.
She rolled her eyes. "You're back? And by the way, it's Titi. Not Titilayo. You're embarrassing me!"
I smirked. Was my little sister blushing? At seven years old? Children of nowadays!
"We got Titi from Titilayo, the last time I checked," I teased.
"Leave us alone! Go inside, take your bath, eat your food," she ordered, voice dripping with fake authority.
"Stop acting like Mom!" I shot back.
"Mom never cares," she murmured, eyes softening.
"Shut up and study," I barked, pretending to be angry.
"Sorry!" she muttered, ducking her head.
I left them, retreating to my room, fury still buzzing in my veins. Paul. Ayomide. Even Bimpe. How could they?
Then I remembered the slip of paper she gave me. My one thread of connection. I searched my shirt, my shorts—nothing. My pockets were empty. Panic flooded me.
"Dang it!" I yelled, slamming my fist against the wall.
---
I couldn't stay jobless. I needed money. That same week, I hunted for work and luck smiled bitterly at me—I found a singing gig at one of Akinbiyi's rival bars.
Mr. Cole, a white man with an odd accent, hired me on the spot. "Sing for the crowd. 6 p.m. to 11 p.m. Pay is good."
This time, I sang about heartbreak. My voice cracked with real pain, real betrayal. I didn't just sing—I bled through the lyrics. Tears streaked my face, and the customers felt it. Some wept. Some sang along. Some showered me with money.
When it ended, Mr. Cole nodded approvingly. I was paid and dismissed. Yet my chest still hurt. I had money, yes—but I had lost Bimpe.
On the way home, I stopped at a shabby restaurant, bought a bottle of alcohol, and drowned my voice in it.
The boy had been mistreated. The world had judged him guilty without trial. And though he smiled at the crowd, inside, Adejoke was breaking.
---
Okay okay, this chapter was hot, right? 🔥
The betrayal, the slap, the tears, the heartbreak—it's giving Nollywood blockbuster vibes.
So… did Bimpe deserve forgiveness or nah? 🤔
Stay tuned for Chap 7 💟
Your favorite teen authoress 💞
Oziomajasmine 💝💟