He rubbed himself absently through the fabric of his jeans.

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He rubbed himself absently through the fabric of his jeans.

Something felt familiar about her words.It was from one of the editors.It said, I don’t find this funny.Tunde Edo was my friend.Not dissimilar to the first.Tunde felt panic rising in his chest.There was an obituary.It was long and full of slightly backhanded praise for his work in bringing news to a younger generation.The precise phrases implied very subtly that he’d made current affairs appear simple and trivial.There were a couple of minor mistakes.They named five famous women he’d influenced.It named his parents, his sister.Tunde started to breathe more quickly.He’d left the suitcase in the hotel room.Someone had taken the suitcase.He flipped back to Nina’s story about Bessapara.It was a global assessment of the Great Change, based on reporting and interviews from around the world.Stills from his footage.His words and his ideas and his analysis.Her name was on the photographs, and her name was on the writing.Tunde was mentioned nowhere.She had stolen it from him entirely.Tunde let out a noise he had not known was in him.A bellow from the back of the throat.The sound of grieving.And then there was a sound from the corridor outside.He didn’t know what she was shouting.To his exhausted, terrified brain, it sounded like, He’s in here!Open this door!He grabbed his bag, scrambled to his feet, pushed open the window and ran up onto the low, flat roof.From the street, he heard calls.If they weren’t looking for him before, they were looking at him now.Women in the street were pointing and shouting.He would be all right.Across that roof, down the fire escape.It was only when he was into the forest again that he realized he’d left his phone still plugged in, in that empty storeroom.When he remembered, and knew he could not go back for it, he thought his despair would destroy him.He climbed a tree, lashed himself to a branch and tried to sleep, thinking things might look better in the morning.


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