and every waking day

That evening as she descended into the cavern beneath one of the outer huts around her house, she texted Ansa.

Bas: three parents said yes

She hoped Ansa meant what she said about not being in each other's way. Twenty years apart, right? They'd gone for four. Bassey had sixteen left. She hoped that that meant she wouldn't have to keep running over to Ansa everytime they had to share information. They could talk on the phone. One of the beauties of modern technology.

She switched on the lights in the room. Fluorescent, supplemented by yellow, inlaid bulbs, lit the room, exposing its off-white paint. She'd allowed plumpers into it, which was how she could afford to switch on a tap, run a cleaner through the large basin and then drain the water out, quickly. Unlike before when she had to place pipes through the hut, just to drain out the water, or resort to using buckets.

In decades, this silent spot of solitude had taken many forms.

As the basin filled with water, she turned on the TV that fixed into the wall, directly opposite the spot in the basin where she liked to rest her head. 

Her phone buzzed when began pulling off her shirt.

Ansa.

She considered ignoring it, but that could lead to Ansa coming to find her.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Only three?"

"The others are thinking about it."

"Unwana, Essien and Gabriel, right?"

Bassey hated how easily Ansa knew things. When she was younger… much younger… she used to think Ansa could read minds. How foolish she'd felt when she learned that Ansa had eyes and ears everywhere. People ran to her with information about the country, about Calabar, about Akpata. 

About Bassey.

"Have you talked to Oghogho?"

Bassey pulled the phone away and kicked the air, slapped the air and wailed in silence, because what the fuck!

"No, I haven't," she said, thankful for her calm voice.

"Bassey-"

"She's made her choice. You can't expect me to try and force her."

"I never said you should, I just want you to ask her again."

"The other parents-"

"I want Oghogho's son."

"Please," Bassey begged. "Don't make this difficult."

"I'm trying to be reasonable. You didn't want children involved and so I'm trying to avoid children."

"Kubiat is twenty-two."

"Congrats. He's a man now."

"He's barely legal."

"After him, the next oldest busher is eleven-years old. After that are two six-year old girls. And then it's a bunch of toddlers. Which of them would you like me to bind first? If you're worried about how young they are, try picturing a vampire feeding on a baby for the rest of that baby's life."

Bassey shut her eyes to block out the image. She couldn't imagine any parent agreeing to it. Gabriel was the first to agree because his son wasn't a child anymore. The younger they got, the less likely a parent would want that.

At least, Bassey was hoping that none of the parents of younger bushers would sacrifice their children that way.

"Talk to her," Ansa said. "She'll listen."

"I barely know the woman."

Bassey put the phone on speaker, so she could tie up her braids. 

"You can be convincing when you want to be."

"Oghogho doesn't want her son to be a slave," Bassey said.

"Then tell her his freewill will be intact."

"What?" Bassey asked, leaning closer to the phone like it would somehow make Ansa's voice louder.

"Freewill isn't a component of the bond."

"What?" she asked again, unsure if she'd heard that correctly.

"Our bond is unique to you and I, Bassey. No one else has to have the same bond."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Ansa chuckled."Convince Oghogho and maybe I'll tell you."

"What makes our bond unique?"

"You didn't care about this eighty-years ago."

"Because I-" she cut herself off from saying, because I was in love with you.

She'd been so enamored with the mysterious woman who visited her father every couple of weeks that she'd started waiting for her, leaving gifts, asking about her wanting to spend time with her. The fact that Ansa had reciprocated her feelings was beyond Bassey's wildest dreams. She hadn't cared that all Ansa required of her was complete and utter obedience. She hadn't even known there was a hindrance to her ability to say no, until well into their relationship. 

"You won't tell me because it's something that I can change," Bassey said.

Ansa didn't reply. She was quiet for so long that Bassey had to check if the call had been cut short. But it hadn't. Ansa was still on the line.

Bassey resumed tying up her hair.

"I wonder why you never mentioned this before."

"Because I never needed to. Tell Oghogho that Kubiat will retain his freewill. Along with all benefits the other bushers get."

"What of the freewill of the other bushers?"

"They didn't bargain for it. As far as I know, their parents thought it was a fair deal."

"Ansa-"

"Do we have to fight every single time?" Ansa sighed, wearily.

Bassey clenched her fist.

"Fine." Bassey kicked off her slippers and stepped onto the cold, tiled floor. "I'll talk to her again."

"Thank you."

The line went dead.

Getting completely naked, she lowered herself into the chill water, thoughts wheeling from her recent conversation. Oghogho had been careful to keep her distance from the rest of the town. If her son didn't need the community of other bushers, Bassey was sure the woman would have taken her child and fled. Barging into Oghogho's home to request for access to her precious child wasn't going to be easy.

But Bassey had said she'd talk to her. And she would. She just didn't expect a positive outcome from that endeavor.

However, while she sank into the water, her mind wasn't on Oghogho or Kubiat. It was on the fact that, for the first time ever, she knew she didn't have to be Ansa's slave.

Someone out there, somewhere, had given Ansa the incantation for the binding. And it hadn't included freewill. That was something that was unique to Ansa and Bassey. Something that could be changed. So changeable that Ansa wouldn't even tell her what it was, for fear of Bassey getting rid of it.

She had no idea the last time she'd felt this way. She almost didn't recognise it. Bassey was awash with hope. It was new.

And it was going to lead her to freedom.