Chapter 1: Small Chest, Big Wahala

My chest flat sotay my own mama dey suspect say I get wahala for body, she drag me go see doctor. Sun just dey bake my head as we waka reach hospital, sweat dey run for my back like tap.

I just dey wonder if na only me for our street wey her mama go dey count bra cup like say na lottery number. My mama carry her wahala for head, full of concern, as if small chest fit carry family problem join.

As God go run am, the doctor na my fresh ex-boyfriend.

E be like Yoruba film—na so person go waka enter wahala for junction. I for just carry body disappear but my own luck dry like January harmattan.

Him face just strong, voice no even warm at all.

He bone, face dey tight like NEPA bill wey no get light. No single shine for him eye, e just dey operate as if na mannequin dey before am.

He raise my shirt reach my collarbone, unhook my bra.

For small second, my heart skip, I dey wonder if na flashback go enter. E do am sharp sharp, no shaking—like say na operation theatre we dey.

Then, he come dey yarn me: “Hmm, Ifunanya, this your chest still dey hide? Abi you dey do hide and seek with nature?”

Na so e talk am like na joke wey no dey funny, eye dey shine anyhow, as if he dey read weather report. The insult sef dey touch bone.

I just grit my teeth, fire back, shift blame: “Small chest? Abeg, na ex-boyfriend wey no sabi him work cause am. Doctor wey dey busy, no dey give body chance to grow.”

Wetin I talk no even finish land, I just dey look am, dey try package myself with small dignity.

Next thing, he press me for exam table, him voice come low and dangerous: “We never check finish. E be like say I go need try harder.”

I wan vanish. But as him voice deep, my mind dey race. E be like play wey turn serious.