A Review which is not a full review but a subtle retelling of Damilola Mike Bamiloye’s Bosom Fire.
A heaving something. Death comes in riddles dished by darkness. Sacrificing your freedom on its altar is not an impossibility for a powerful evangelist like you, Steve, prayers do not rule out a fleshy tendency, a heaving something. Tragedies do not begin when they collide with the stage lights you are accustomed to or when you discover the cage, no, they begin with untamed secrets, indecent cravings nurtured. A fire in your bosom begins on your screen, bosoms and bottom fruits all bare before your eyes. Your wife, Deborah, whose body you called a sweet island country on your wedding night, becomes insufficient. And so you call Angela an angel and buy really expensive wine for the night, ready to quench the fire between your legs. You forget your true angels, your wife and your daughter whose birthdays coincide because your brain is empty of truth and full of illusions, empty fantasies.
You see Angela’s body as a sweet continent to explore. Later, when your wife asks, “Where were you last night? Isn’t the ministration over?” you would grip the phone and rack your brain. She must not know about your adventures. Brushing your teeth leads you to the story of last night, a sharp permanent red lipstick stain on your cheek testifies your conscious mistake.
Then death begins. Sacrificing your freedom on its altar is not an impossibility for a powerful minister like you, prayers do not rule out a fleshy tendency, a heaving something.
Death comes in riddles dished by darkness. Nicholas, the wicked devil, says he sees you but you don’t see him. His voice terrifies you but now you’re powerless. He says you should not waste your time, that since you slept with his daughter he can monitor you with his ‘sinoscope’, and you are not the first. You search the room for answers, thinking maybe Nicholas, the strange phone caller revealing your present actions is a fool hiding under the bed or in the wardrobe or at the bedside drawer. Your search is futile. Your mistake gleams in the mirror. And Nicholas controls you because he is now more powerful, he feeds you riddles and weaves fate against you, steals your innocent daughter’s breath simply because you failed his riddle. And his planned reward for the lucky one you get equals the punishment – death.
When your nightmare ends and your eyes meet a forthcoming mistake – the wine for the night by your bedside – you put an end to this story by phoning Angela, short, sharp and straight, your breath heavy, cancelling the planned exploration for the sake of your ministerial identity.
What is the point of a journey to a continent that chokes one to death?