Busted

"Behind the Mask of Emmy White"

“Oh no… no, no, I… I’m not… I didn’t mean to hide who I am, I swear. I’m sorry…”

I shivered, swallowing an invisible lump in my throat. My voice trembled like a secret begging not to be discovered.

“It’s just… I don’t like attention. I like my space.”

she stared at me, stunned. “Are you sure? I mean, I’ve always said I loved Inkspire and hoped I’d meet her one day. I just didn’t know you were the one.”

Silence.

“I thought she was a white woman,” she said, almost whispering, “Not knowing she’s African—Nigerian, to be precise. Oh my God.”

She kept staring, trying to piece together the two worlds I had carefully kept apart.

“You share so much with her… your stories sound like her life. But… why did you choose to write as a white woman? Why?”

Sometimes, the mask isn’t to deceive; it’s to survive.

Today, I had PHS lectures. We were waiting for the class to begin—African time, you know how it goes. I had arrived early, and the hall grew overcrowded as usual. The noise swelled like a crashing tide.

I slipped in my earbuds, pulled out my phone, and began to write.

That’s when she walked up to me… and peeked.

And just like that, she saw me. Really saw me.