Chapter 42
42
Despite being given a second chance, I feel empty. Not only have I been pulled from Wale’s memoir but we’ve made mainstream news as well. After the call, I realize I have a WhatsApp message from Shona – a link to an article on The Daily Biz followed by
Shona:
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS?!!!
I cannot bring myself to read it. When is this going to blow over? I promised Wale that I would fix things and I haven’t. The post is still up on The Tea Lounge and the last time I checked it had nearly 13,000 likes. At least it’s now further down the grid.
I go to check again. It’s now over 15,000.
Telling myself I cannot feel any worse, I scroll through the comments. It seems to never end. Some people have connected the fact that I’m the girl he took the picture with at the barbershop and have begun speculating.
emma_gazelle Is this a PR stunt?
Many are still lambasting Wale, while some have come to my defence, condemning those who have fat-shamed me. And then I see a comment which makes me stop in my tracks like a rabbit in the headlights.
kelechi_iwobi Can people stop tagging me under this post! Wale and I are cool! You guys don’t know half the story!!!
My mind circles back to the radio interview – when Wale said he met up with Kelechi after the show and explained everything.
And then my eye hones in on one word: ‘story’. If I sit back and do nothing, God knows where we’ll be trending next. I need to control the narrative. I need to rewrite the story.
I hastily exit Instagram, tap on the camera icon and then video. My stricken face fills the screen. I’m too exhausted to put make-up on, so I add a filter instead.
I press record. ‘Hey, guys—’
I hit stop. Hey , guys is something someone with a fanbase would say.
I try again.
‘Good afternoon, everyone, my name is Temi Ojo.’
Delete. Too formal.
After my third attempt is met with me staring blankly at the camera, I abandon the plan, too frustrated with how hard it is to nail the right tone.
You ’ re a writer , Temi . So , write .
Quickly, I hop back on to Instagram and create a new post. Trying not to overthink it, I type, white text lengthening over the black background. When I finish, I read over what I’ve written. I’m tempted to edit it but it doesn’t need to be perfect. The sentiment of the message is clear:
Wale, I fucked up.