In A, you meet on a dreary Sunday eve.
1. You’re the gentle new neighbour and he is the ladies’ man (or so you imagine). Pretend not to know his name, but know his smell⸺ know when he’s in or just passed through a place because you love the faint, seductive mix of Midnight Oud and a touch of vanilla. Assume that he stays alone because you have problems imagining anyone who would tolerate another going to school high; who turns up the volume of their loudspeakers so loud you almost swear he is just one beat away from deafness. Discover that he stays alone. Learn later that he only plays music this loud when he is ‘on cruise’ after smoking or high on sex with a random chick. There’s really no point disturbing the peace of the entire lodge with all that moaning, you know.
Wizkid’s Love my baby blasts from his speakers the first time you knock on his door. There is steady power supply so everyone stays in their rooms doing whatever. The room lighting is dim when he opens after the fourth knock. You cannot tell if he is alone or not but the smell of weed greets you, chokes you. He is wearing only a tight Versace boxer. Look at his bulge for a moment, and swallow. Swallow. Someday, laughing as you choke, he explains that a session like this is airtight⸺ you, your weed, your problems, the rest of the world shut out. Smile. Say nothing because it is your first time and your head feels heavy, or maybe light. But before the future, is now, so say, Hey can I get your curry powder, please? You want to add, mine just finished, but he has already turned his back to the door. When he storms out of the kitchen with the big sachet of curry, you think his hands brush yours, linger, but he gives it to you with such impatience that you turn and leave quietly. Later, think you are mistaken. You must be mistaken.
2. Convince yourself that he is cold. And you really don’t have the time for anyone’s bullshit. Then swear not to talk to him after you return his curry. Don’t, until the evening he unexpectedly shows up at your door. Ask him in, try hard to mask the excitement on your face. Fail. Fail even harder when he looks into your eyes and holds it: in them see beauty, terror, nothing; nothing. Your head tells you he is the kind of guy you should keep away from, but your heart tells you to follow him even into the darkest paths. So laugh too eagerly at his jokes, don’t disagree with him even when he says eating egusi with bread, is life.
The following night he invites you to his room. Officially, he says. Just to smoke and chill, he adds. Do not tell him that you don’t smoke. Never have. Instead, take a shower, wear all six of your perfumes, and underneath your fancy grey Jalabia embroidered heavily on the neck, wear only your bare skin.
When he leans in to light his dying blunt from the end of yours, lean in closer than necessary, so close that you end up burning his lower lip. He screams and you laugh, asking, can I help you quench the fire? The fire. Something about the way he had told you earlier, that he saw the way you looked at him when you first packed into the lodge, had loosened you up. I know a thirsty bitch when I see one, he said, smiling that small smile that stretches his lip to the right, like a door half open. You laughed and said nothing else.
Now, hold his gaze until the wrap falls off his hand, until his tongue finds home in yours. When you begin to moan, try hard to ensure no one from outside hears you. Let him turn on the music, high enough to drown your voice.
3. Your happiness around him blossoms like a watered plant. What was there not to love? His slightly bow legs; his hazy brown eyes; his firm dark muscles, his fine ass. His fucking fine ass. But what you love the most about him is how easily you fall asleep in his arms; how warm his heartbeat feels, like an antidote, like ice on burning skin. One day you take a night stroll to this calm place around the theater arts hall, it is the loneliest place on campus and you have heard stories of boys and girls who lose their virginity in the dark comfort of the place. There, crickets are chirping and frogs are croaking; but you can hear only his voice as he tells you, I am lucky to have you. Your head is on his lap, he is stroking your hair. You want to say something, but he starts kissing you just then. In your head, you begin to wonder what could happen should anyone see. But as if he reads your mind and your thoughts, he says, Babe, calm down nothing dey happen!
4. You will finally know he is the one on the day he jokingly calls you babe in front of Ty, his guy. He will say, Babe, come and lie here, tapping on his lap. Ty will begin to bray like a hyena. Wetin happen? He will ask, slightly annoyed. Hold your breath as they stare each other in the face. Cj, you say, your voice a plea. It is the first and last time you will ever call him by his name. Guy no dey form for here, I know say you and Blaze no be just normal gees⸺ shit! I don even see una chat before so why you dey disguise for here? Watch TY say nothing at first, his knees weak. Then open your mouth in surprise when Ty slaps his hand in that very boyish, almost ghetto way and as Ty hugs him, thumping his back. Smile when he says⸺ so, you and Emeka? See as him fine, you na better gee! Smile.
**
In B, You do not meet on a dreary Sunday eve. In fact, you do not meet at all. Or so you choose to think.
5. Your friend Chima tells you about him: this dark-skinned, hot, fine medical student he’s currently seeing. He is a ladies’ man, Chima says, which also means he is on a down-low. Like air you cannot catch him; he is not here and he is also not there. Chima swears his member is the longest thing⸺ because you can clearly see the print every time he is wearing a short⸺and you ask him if that’s not a weird thing to notice. Chima says, abeg-abeg, Holy Mary! One day Chima shows you a picture of him on his phone, he is sweaty and just in front of the makeshift football pitch. You want to lick him clean. Chima laughs and says, Okay let’s hook you guys up. See for yourself. You snort and continue reading your Things Fall Apart because in B, you study English and Literary studies, having not made the cut-off for law. Sometimes you think about Okonkwo and you wonder just for a moment: what if Okonkwo was a closeted gay man? Laugh and laugh at this possibility.
6. You are in his room, Chima leaves the room for you two to ‘meet each other’. You start a conversation about something you will never remember later no matter how hard you try⸺ or so you tell yourself⸺ but instead of responding like he is talking to an actual human being, he is on his phone all through, making sure to respond to each question you ask in English, in pidgin; making sure to add ‘Bro’ at the end of those sentences, his eyes averted, his head down. You tease him about making all the ladies in his department go gaga and he says, Even some kain boys too! You do not catch what he throws there. So go ahead to tell him that you think he is hot. He says nothing, or maybe you do not hear. Instead he walks to the other end of the room. You watch him stroke the hairs on his chest and you are filled with a longing, a small desperation to be anything to him; even if you become the dreadlocks on his head. Observe as he picks and drops his phone. Picks and drops his phone. You smile, imaging what he must be saying to himself. Just then he pulls up his trouser which is almost falling off his ass, turns on the large boom box sitting on the floor like an angry soldier and Wizkid’s Love my baby comes on. The song continues from where it was probably paused. He walks to the switch and flips it, the white bright light goes off and a dark blue floods the room. You want to think of discussions to break the ice in the room, but you catch a glimpse of his hand inside his boxers. You lose focus. You feel something in your belly. Feel a sensation in-between your legs. Butterflies?
Girl I swear to you there’s no letting go
Na u dey make my head dey ring oo
I dream about you when I’m sleeping
And you are the air am breathing girl
Rain has suddenly began to fall. The air coming from the fan and through the windows make you cold. You get up from the bed and walk to his back turned to you. Tap him and when he turns around you are on your knees, a small smile on your face, urging him to put his rumoured weight into your mouth, to leave his load in you. At this point, know that nobody bothers to wonder why your eyes are reddish, almost closing; why you are laughing and giggling too loosely. Because nobody knows how dizzied out you become when you smoke loud. SK and AZ, you think, are for the kids. He jerks back with such force. Has he seen the devil? You are lost. Your mouth is still open, and may have remained open if not for the gravity of his palm against your cheek. Feel the air before the pain. You are no longer lost. You are here now and this is hell. You begin to stutter, you begin to say something, to apologize, to ask questions. Did you and Chima not…? Are you not..? Each question is slapped back into your mouth, unfinished. You wince when he says, So na this nonsense that Chima guy dey always find for here? I think say na real gee. Jesus! So una dey fuck una fellow man true-true?
7. Wizkid seems not to care. You don’t care for Wizkid either. In a different reality you would have asked him to play Davido instead. But the song ripples through the air non-stop.
Shivering. Your heart is pounding so painfully in your chest. Your mouth, suddenly dry. Your palms, moist. He is pacing the room, slapping your face, your eyes, kicking, kicking. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, you cry. But your voice seems to fuel something inside him so he produces his belt from the wardrobe.
Had you ever imagined your death, it would have begun with you thinking of your parents at home, of your junior brother, of that time he mercilessly beat up his friend for calling you gay⸺ how helpless you had felt then, how injured you were, and yet how overwhelmingly loving it was⸺ your brother who fought and lost a friend for you; think of how he would feel if he hears about this, how broken his heart must be seeing you this bloodied, your now naked body sprawled on the bare floor. Perhaps he would jump into this room with its door now ajar, pushing and kicking everyone on sight: the angry, the taunting, the punching, the disgusted and the horny ones⸺ with his almost tiny yet powerful hands.
Bloody homosexual!
Someone somehow unlocks your phone and starts calling someone. You hope the call is for your brother so you can hear him one last time. Pray, pray for you, for him. Finally, feel your heart shatter in its cage; blood, bones, sinew.
Close your eyes and slip away.
**
In C, you are not you. You are me. And I am you.
Nnamdi Vin-anuonye is a Nigerian storyteller and currently a final year law student at Chukwuemeka Odumegwu Ojukwu University, Anambra state. His work has appeared on The Kalahari Review, and under consideration elsewhere. He was named a finalist for J.F Powers prize for short fiction in 2022, and the Awele Creative Trust Award in 2023. When he is not being the stereotypical law student, he is either reading or dreaming of writing short stories. He is on Twitter @vin_anuonye, and Facebook @Nnamdi Vin-anuonye.