short excerpts, bits and bobs from a large work.
There is one person for everyone. In the infinite universes with their sprawling cosmos and unending constellations, certain bodies are always drawn to each other, no matter how far apart they are or how much they resist these tugs and pulls. Ade believes this without needing more proof than what he already had. In his 30-something years in life, he has never once doubted that Ekong is the person for him. His soul mate–if he were to believe in that stuff. He is his person for him. His one man. He knew this from the very first day he set eyes on him years ago in class, when he asked if he could sit beside him and made his home next to him. Though, admittedly, it wasn’t that apparent to him then. He didn’t even know how it felt to be tethered to one person, to want nothing but to exist for this person. To want nothing but breathe the same air, and no, not the all-free, atmospheric circulation everyone so spontaneously breathes in. But to want the air that comes right out of this person. Be there when they exhale. From their nose right into yours, your sustenance, clearly in their bequeath. From their lungs to yours; they, your host, and you, bound to them—a blissful parasite. For eternity. In this life and the next. In every multiverse. Yes, he didn’t know it with this much perspicuity then. But he knew it. Even if he didn’t know it.
Growing up, Ade felt he was different. But not in a way that is draped in surety, like death being the end of everyone’s story. Or that during Christmas, your parents will buy you that new pair of shoes you’ve been asking for. That you would get bullied in school if you were anything but the same as other kids. In some way, that was how Ade knew—when the bullying started. And also how he never showed any interest in football like other boys. How the other boys called him names when he refused to play with them. He always chose to hang out with the girls in class. How his father looked at him with disapproving eyes, disappointment latching itself on his face, a joy-sucking parasite. Ade had seen how other fathers were with their sons. Or how, sometimes, he found himself drawn to the clothes in his mother’s dresser, drawn to those colourful Boubous and how they came together with a well-tied matching head scarf each time he tried them on. He never found himself to like stilettos or understood why they had to be worn. He thought of them as a pair of torturing devices each time he wore them. He was more of a platform-heels kind of boy.
The day Ade became that way, some would argue, was in his mother’s womb. When Papa Ade’s sperm swam its way, fought its way, found its way to Mama Sade’s ovaries, something might have swum with it. Something that altered the chromosomes of the baby and made him a bit of both sexes. Something that made him not quite like other boys. Something that would make him hate himself for years. Or was it the way Mama Sade kept Ade to her side, close to her breasts, always carrying him around like a mother kangaroo would her Joeys; always cradled in a pouch? Papa Ade had complained about it. He had told her to let the boy be a boy, to let him do things for himself and be by himself. But Mama Sade never did. Perhaps she knew. Perhaps, her mothering senses, sharp, cutting and grating, knew Ade was not like other boys.
…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 unholy moments. 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. Each time he woke up, feeling his erection throb between his thighs, he would go down on his knees and recite ‘Our Father’. He never knew what kind of prayer to say to get the devil’s thoughts away.
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 so 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 the turbulent winds of life.
The day Ade decided to tell Ekong how he felt, he had another dream the night before. It was the third year of their friendship, the year when carefully parented buds of friendships blossomed—this invincible threshold, if a relationship manages to pass, is believed to grow strong roots. Something about the power of three. In the dream, he and Ekong had gone to study for their JAMB exams in their school till late at night and were on their way back home. Ekong had insisted on escorting him home. They walked hand-in-hand in silence because they were too exhausted to talk, and it was too late; they didn’t want to draw attention to themselves, but also because they liked the comfort of each other’s silence. And in that silence, Ade found this lingering want, this desire. And in that want, he heard, through Ekong’s palm in his, a mating call. It was as loud as the silence.
And so, Ade stopped in his tracks and pulled Ekong close to him, wrapping his hands around Ekong’s waist. Ekong, though surprised by this sudden and swift motion, relaxed into his arms, like that was where he was supposed to be. Ade cupped Ekong’s face and planted his lips on his. Ekong leaned into it, folding his hands around Ade’s neck. They kissed for minutes, or could have been hours. In the dream, time didn’t matter. It could have been eternity. Ade didn’t know, or cared. All he knew was that it was tender and rough. It was urgent and facile. The world around them paused and spun. All life held its breath just as Ade had. The kiss deepened, their lips moved in sync like they were individual pairs of a whole, a pair of lips made for each other—two halves of a yin and yang.
That morning, Ade woke up with a white wetness in his boxer and on his bed. He knew it was a sign of victory. White had always been. He knew then what to do. He was going to tell Ekong how he felt. And about the dreams. And about how he thought he, Ekong, could feel it too. They were made for each other, meant to be together and there was no point pretending.
I saw a quote you posted about books. Would like to swap subs. I am new here and like your page. I am a digital political reporter who writes about the resistance.
https://substack.com/@bochablue25