Chapter 5 Bridges Burned, Truths Revealed

There was no memo for what came next.

No guidebook on how to love a woman in Lagos, not loudly, not when your last relationship was a tech prince with board seats and media-trained smiles. No script for how to navigate whispers that turned into headlines. Or colleagues who went from hugging you at brunch to removing you from group chats.

Zainab learned the hard way.

She arrived at her gallery Monday morning, greeted not with warmth but with absence. Tolu, her assistant, barely looked her in the eye. One of her part-time interns had unfollowed her on Instagram - and reposted a vague tweet:

> "We lose nothing by maintaining values. Nothing at all."

She opened her email. Her eyes caught the subject line instantly:

Subject: Urgent: Board Concern Regarding Media Attention

The language inside the email was polite - too polite. Cold. Corporate. It referenced "recent social exposure," "client discomfort," and the need for Zainab to "reaffirm institutional alignment."

Translation: Your queerness is now a liability.

She shut her laptop. Picked up her phone. Called Adaeze.

"I need air," she whispered.

"Come over," Adaeze said. "I have music, bad wine, and arms."

But not even wine could drown betrayal.

Later that day, the entertainment blog NiajaSocials dropped an "exclusive." A full spread titled:

> ART, LUST, AND CONFUSION: Zainab Bakare's Sexual Spiral

The feature included "insider quotes" - including one from Ngozi.

> "Zainab's going through something. That girl, Adaeze? I'm worried she's not helping. It's a confusing time for her. We all just want our friend back."

Zainab froze mid-scroll. Her stomach clenched.

She dialed Ngozi. Straight to voicemail.

She tried again.

Then she texted:

"You stabbed me with your mouth. I hope it was worth the quote."

No reply.

Later, her mother called again. This time, her voice cracked.

> "You are everywhere. Zainab, please. This thing you're doing... it's not of God."

"Then maybe God should come tell me himself."

"People are laughing. Your father's name-"

"Is dead. Like the version of me you want."

click

She didn't cry.

She put on black jeans, a crop top, and a hoodie. Walked through the rain to Adaeze's studio. She didn't knock.

Adaeze looked up, startled. "You're drenched."

Zainab shut the door behind her. "They want me to be small."

Adaeze handed her a towel. "Are you going to let them win?"

Zainab looked her in the eye. "Not anymore."

---

That week, Zainab made a decision.

She posted "Desire Unframed" on the gallery's main page - the image of two women's hands holding a broken mirror. No caption. No artist tag. Just the art.

The post went viral.

Some comments were cruel:

> "She's finished."

"What a disgrace."

"This is why tradition matters."

Others were brave:

> "This made me cry."

"I've never seen my story on a Lagos gallery page before."

"Thank you. Just... thank you."

One message slid into her DMs. From a teenage girl. Anonymous account.

> "I thought I was sick. But now I think I'm just in hiding. You made me feel less alone."

Zainab stared at the message for minutes.

Then she cried.

The first real tears in weeks.

---

The next morning, she received a proposal via email.

A queer arts collective in Berlin had seen the post. They wanted her to curate a travelling exhibition titled:

"BECOMING: VOICES FROM THE SHADOWS"

It would start in Johannesburg. Then Berlin. Then maybe back to Lagos - if she was brave enough.

Adaeze found her staring at the screen.

"What is it?" she asked.

Zainab turned the laptop toward her. "Proof that burning bridges can light the way."

Adaeze grinned.

That night, on the rooftop of her apartment building, with Lagos blinking below them, Zainab whispered, "I want to leave. Just for a while."

Adaeze nodded. "I'll pack my camera."

Zainab blinked. "You'll come?"

"If I'm going to burn, it might as well be beside you."