Chapter 1 - ADE | When Love Is A Silent Song

Ade couldn’t help but think of him. The barber with his small body frame, which made him look younger than he was and an unfair amount of enthusiasm for life in his demeanour, reminded Ade of him.

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Trigger Warning (TW):
This chapter contains themes of internalized homophobia as well as explicit discussions of desire and emotional turmoil related to identity and faith.
Reader discretion is advised.

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Ade realises he has a thing for his barber halfway through a shave. He grips the armrest, focusing on the steady hum of clippers, willing himself to stay still. But it’s hard—literally. His body betrays him, heat pooling low in his stomach as the fair, petite young man leans in, his thigh just inches away. Ade shifts uncomfortably, tucking his erection under the waistband of his boxer shorts, and immediately thanks the heavens for the cutting cape draped around him. He fights the urge not to let his little finger graze the warm skin so close to his. Or make his predicament any more obvious.

The barber, however, seems oblivious to the effect of the continuous brushing of his thighs on Ade’s hand as he stands in front of him, grazing atop his afro, the sound of the clippers echoing in the empty salon. From a distance, it appears the barber is doing his job, yet Ade could swear he is doing more than that. He tilts Ade’s head slightly to expose his hairline, continuing the work. The clipper glides downward in smooth strokes with stride and patience.

Ade wonders why he always develops a crush on barbers—even though he has never honestly admitted it. He knows that admitting it would open the door to entombed emotions, unleashing memories he would rather forget. Watching the barber work, Ade finally figures it out. It is how they care for his hair: the meticulousness of their craft, how they take their time, their eyes steady and fully focused, trimming his hair to perfection. It is how he becomes the centre of attention. It is how they are tender with him.

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Earlier, when Ade walked into the saloon, wearing his scepticism on his face, he wondered what kind of otherworld he had entered. The saloon was old, with peeling paint on the walls, cracked vinyl chairs that had lived beyond their life expectancy, grimy mirrors streaked with stains and the floor littered with old hair clippings. The fluorescent lights were harsh in an offensive way as if he suddenly walked in closer to the sun. Ade had turned around, about to leave, when the barber spoke.

‘I am here, sir.’

Ade wasn’t sure what it was, but something jerked at him, rooting him in place.

‘Did you want to shave?’

His voice…it was his voice! The crisp baritone. The careful way the words slid out, articulating each syllable with tenderness, gripping Ade’s core, forcing out forgotten sentiments. Ade couldn’t help but think of him. The barber with his small body frame, which made him look younger than he was and an unfair amount of enthusiasm for life in his demeanour, reminded Ade of him. His first love. No, the only person he ever loved. Ade resolved to sit for the haircut.

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The barber pushes Ade into a 180-degree turn, swirling the chair until Ade’s face is proportionate with his. Ade looks into his eyes, finding those dark brown, almond-shaped balls striking. The barber averts his eyes, beams, and holds Ade’s head in place. With Ade’s chin in his palm, the barber tries to straighten his head. The barber’s fingers brush Ade’s ears in the process. Ade shudders at the touch and wonders if he is imagining things. Or is the barber into him? Is he flirting with him?

Is he caressing his thighs against my hands and touching my ear on purpose?

Ade immediately catches himself in his absurd conspiracies, but then gives himself the benefit of the doubt. Ade has a theory. And if he is right...well, he doesn’t know what he will do if he is. But first, a confirmation is due.

Ade looks up at the barber. His heart skips a beat, sprints, skips a beat and sprints again—like it is on a defective time loop. It is an odd feeling—odd in the best and worst way. Odd in a way that makes him shudder with both passion and fear…a fear of liking the abominable.

Then it occurs to him: he can’t let himself feel this way again. Not with everything he has lost because of this very ‘odd’ feeling. Not with everything he has endured because he once allowed himself to feel his same way.

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The first time Ade felt this way, he was in Junior High School, at the dawn of his teenage years. That was when he also discovered that he liked boys. The discovery wasn’t as simple as it sounds. One doesn’t just wake up and unearth these things. There were steps to get through, moments to it. A ritual. A Passover. Moments laced with gloomy thoughts and confusing discomfort. Moments of constant disapproval of himself. Times foliated with perpetual despair. Even before these feelings rooted themselves deep in his core, just before they blossomed, he knew they were wrong—a mistake. Ade knew his thoughts were impure and destructive. Destructive to himself—condemned to eternity in hell, like Pastor Joel preached about.

Pastor Joel did that mostly at Sunday services, on those Sundays he had his special 666 sermons. These Sundays often left the congregation in a tense, concerned silence as he recounted, often with embellishments, the events of the end times from the book of Revelation. Most times, he focused his sermons on one sin or sins he found truly unacceptable. Homosexuality was on top of the list.

‘We are living in the final hours before the return of Jesus Christ,’ he typically began, his eyes lit with passion, his hands firmly gripping the microphone.

‘The devil is moving quickly, preparing the world for the Antichrist. And do you know one of the biggest signs that we are near the end? The world’s acceptance and celebration of sin, especially the sin of homosexuality!

‘What was once called an abomination is now called love. What was once shameful is now promoted as pride. The world is being prepared to receive the Mark of the Beast. 666. Be wise. Be wise!’ he would go on, his voice rising steadily and getting gruff with every word, phrase, sentence that followed. There was something about the act which sent quakes down Ade’s spine, frightening him—and he knew he wasn’t the only one who felt it. He could tell from the horrified faces in the church, faces which seemed to be pondering their sins. The congregation, sporadically, threw in ‘hallelujah’, ‘lord have mercy’, ' the devil is a liar’ and ‘god save us all’ around.

Even then, Ade knew his thoughts were also destructive to the boy he liked—his friend, Ekong. Destructive to their friendship. Yet, he couldn't stop himself. Or the dreams.

The dreams were constant. They were alive each night, enduring in his subconscious. They were locked in the abyss of his darkest thoughts, where they fought to be seen, yearning to take form. It was always a tug-of-war. Ade felt as if a siren was luring him with a seductive voice every twilight to a rocky island. He opposed the voices. He fought them. But they never stopped. The dreams only got worse.

In some of those dreams, Ekong took him to the beach every evening and sat with him staring at the illuminated constellation of stars in front of them, the wild wind brushing their brows. There, on the pulverulent beach sand, Ekong talked endlessly about stars.

‘Do you see those three bright stars lined up over there?’ Ekong would ask.

Ade would look at the sky, squinting his eyes through those round glasses that framed them.

‘Yes, I can see them! I do!’

‘That is Orion’s belt.’

‘What is that?’

‘Orion is only one of the many famous constellations in the night sky, rooted in Greek mythology and all. He is believed to be a great hunter who was trapped in the sky. There are different versions of his story, but…’ Ekong would rattle on about all the myths on Orion and the other constellations. Andromeda. Hercules. Cassiopeia. And as he spoke, Ade would stare at him, and get lost in his eyes—those eyes filled with so much passion. He looked beautiful.

In others, Ekong took him to his father’s house, eager to show him his PS2 game collection, keen to play with him all afternoon. In those moments, as they pushed enthusiastically on the game pads, trying to score each other in the FIFA game, Ade always felt free. He felt safe.

Then there were the pernicious dreams where Ade always caught himself waking up before they got worse. In those, both he and Ekong were usually caught in the most unspoken moments of longing. Hearts thumping, breaths raging, eyes locked intensely, desire flaring up in them; hands cuddled at each other’s backs or waists and lips inches apart. Even in those dreams, Ade couldn't get himself to kiss Ekong. Even when Ekong wanted it. Even when Ekong begged him to do it. It was wrong. What if someone saw them? Ade always woke up before it got out of hand.

In reality, it wasn't as easy for him. He couldn’t just wake up, pray that God takes away the sinful thoughts, go back to bed and dream of virtuous things. Not when the only person Ekong ever wanted to spend time with was him. Even on days the boys went out to play football, Ekong would refuse their invitation to join them because he knew Ade couldn’t play. Not when Ekong would not leave for school until Ade left with him. Even on days Ade had woken up a little late, cleaned the house and washed the pots from the previous night a little too slowly, Ekong waited. Ekong would get ready for school early, ask his father to leave without him just so he could walk the twenty minutes it took him to get to Ade’s house. Ekong would wait for him to get ready. Mostly, they both got to school very late and got punished for it.

“You know you could have prevented that, right?” Ade would say.

“Woo. What are just three hits on the palm?” Ekong would answer.

But they weren’t just three hits. They were strokes from kerosene-soaked canes that made thundering sounds when raised and caused blisters—red, ripe-for-bursting blisters—when they landed in the palm.

“But you don't have to get punished because of me.”

“If not for you, who else will I get punished for?”

When he talked like that, Ade resisted the urge to hit him (anywhere) and scream at him for making him feel things he wasn't supposed to. For making his knees weak and his legs wobbly, so much that he felt he could float. That he could defy gravity. Or go for a less violent approach: hold Ekong’s hand, look him in the eyes and tell him how he feels. But it was never that simple. When it came to Ade’s feelings, nothing ever was. So, he did neither. Ade had found himself standing at the edge of that bridge more than he wanted—the bridge between what could be and what shouldn’t be. The bridge of finding himself and losing it. And he always toppled over, a body defeated by turbulent winds of life.

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Thank you for reading this chapter!

As mentioned in my introductory post (here), this is a first draft and part of a much larger experiment I'm undertaking. The story began as a short piece titled Ade, and I’m rewriting and expanding it now, giving the characters space to breathe and evolve.

I appreciate your time here. Stick around with me!

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