It was all the hair on his person that attracted me to Bala first. He had a full head of hair, and sprinkles of it all over his arms and on the part of his chest that was visible above the top of his shirt. He also had this rugged bad boy look about him that strengthened the attraction I felt for him.

We were in front of the WAEC HQ in Yaba, Lagos, for the purpose of submitting a letter to get original certificates for the previous year’s GCE. I initiated the conversation with him, and soon, we were clicking like we were old friends. Perhaps it was the frustration of having already been turned back more than twice on the grounds that “the person collecting the letter is not around.” Maybe he liked me the way I liked him. I don’t know. But one thing was for certain: in that hot afternoon, I was heavily in lust with the hairy, rugged-bad-boy-looking Bala.

Before we parted ways that day, we exchanged numbers. And, boy did we talk. In the days following that afternoon, we talked and texted and talked some more. And with each call or text, I kept slipping in innuendos, hoping Bala would catch my drift, and luckily welcome my subtle advances.

Finally, after some pressing on my part, we decided to meet and hang out. The arrangement was for me to go see him at his place. When the day dawned, I was so giddy with the excitement of getting to set my eyes on Bala’s hairy loveliness once again.

I made the trip to Abule-Egba, the outskirts of Lagos that I barely frequent. I called Bala, and he gave me directions to a filling station, where he’d be waiting for me.

“I’ll be waiting for you there,” his voice had sounded in my ears through the phone connection.

He’ll be waiting… He’ll be waiting… I kept thinking as I darted across the road to the other side, feeling my penis swell in my snug jeans.

I met him at the filling station, dressed in a shirt and jean shorts, manifesting the glory of his hairy legs. He had big toes, and I’d read somewhere that big toes meant the owner has a big dick. Oh yes, just what I want!

We talked as we trekked down a bad road beside the station. Soon, we came to a block of flats. Bala’s place was on the ground floor. As he opened the door to usher me into a modest living space, he told me that he stayed with his elder brother who had gone to work. At this time, my heart was playing ‘tinko-tinko’ with excitement. He proceeded to get me comfortable, by turning on the TV and offering me a drink.

And then, he said, “You mentioned one time that you’d like to give me a massage.”

Oh yes, I had. Aloud, breathlessly, I said, “Umm, eh, yes I did.” My tongue was dry, and I felt a tremble work its way over my body.

He got up and said he needed to get something. Not suspecting a thing, I said ok, and continued sipping on my drink, comfortably perched on the couch, and waited. And then, to my eternal shock, Bala burst back into the room, brandishing a machete, with a mad look on his face.

My instant thought was, Oh God, I’m dead, I’m dead…

“So you want to fuck ba?!” he snarled in a menacing tone. “You want to massage your father, abi?! You want to convert gay me, eh?!”

I managed a feeble “No” before he slapped the side of the machete on my thigh. The pain ricocheted throughout my entire being. I gasped, “Bala, please… please…”

“Shut up!” he roared. “You! See, I’ll just kill you, you hear me?! My brother is a police officer and I have all your messages! Oya! Remove your clothes!”

“Bala, please…” I felt utterly helpless.

“I said shut up!” And then, he proceeded to lash out at me with the machete, yanking at my clothes as he did so, telling me he had people waiting outside who would finish me. Next, he took his phone and started taking pictures of me as I cringed in my nudity and tried to shield my face from the intrusive camera lens. Then he rummaged through my pockets and retrieved my phone and wallet.

As he went through my wallet, he barked, “Where is your money?”

Momentarily confused, I didn’t respond.

“I said, where is your money?”

“Please… that’s all I have…” I replied tearfully.

He hissed, “Oya, wear your clothes! By this time tomorrow, I want to see ten thousand naira. Don’t worry, I’ll contact you!” And he waved my phone at me. “Now, get out! What are you waiting for?”

When I said I didn’t have transport fare, he threw a two-hundred naira note at me for a four hundred naira trip.

“Don’t forget, tomorrow,” he said after me as I made for the door.

I eventually got home that day after trekking to cover some of the distance. I met my mother in the living room, and upon keenly looking me over, she asked why I look disheveled. I replied that I’d scuffled for a bus home.

“Then why didn’t you call when you saw my missed calls?” she queried. “And by the way, where are you coming from?”

“My friend’s place…”

“Which friend is that?”

I hastily supplied a name. as she advanced on me to closely inspect my disheveled appearance, I knew I had to say something to assuage her suspicions. So I delivered an incredulous tale of being involved in some scheme to dupe me at Abule-Egba on my way back home, adding that I lost my phone and transport money in the process. When I was finished the story, my mother relented and bade me to go take a shower. But I still sensed her doubt. The woman seemed to believe there was something off about my entire me that day.

The rest of the day was uneventful, until my mother received a call and then called me to hand the phone to me, saying, “It’s for you.” Her eyes were on me with surprise; no one had ever used her line to contact me.

“Hope you have gotten my money ready?”

If I were white, I’m sure the colour draining from my face would have been very obvious when I heard the unmistakable voice of Bala. How did he get my mother’s number? My phone has been locked, oh my God!

Knowing my mother’s gaze was on me, I feigned I was having a conversation with my long-ago friend from secondary school, talking about how I’d lost my phone as I moved further away from the earshot of my mother. And then, I told Bala in a hissed whisper that I couldn’t get the money until about three days. (I couldn’t get the money, even if he had given me a year!)

After a barrage of questions from my mother when I returned her phone to her, I went to bed. And lying amidst the bed covers, I kept on praying that I would wake up and this would all be a bad dream.

Two days passed without incident and all seemed fine in the world, until mother asked about my phone again on a Friday evening. I did my best to corroborate my previous story. And that’s when she said, “Stop lying to me, you can only deceive yourself.”

My heartbeat started racing, just as I felt her bedroom walls start closing in on me. I couldn’t speak as my mouth had gone dry.

She went on, “For the past two days, this your ‘friend’, Bala, has been calling this number, saying that you owe him money. You better tell me truth, what happened to your phone? In short, where did you go to the day you said you were going to see a friend?”

My head was spinning, as I frantically pondered what to do. To tell the truth? NEVER! To try another lie? That seemed like the better idea. So I started stammering another explanation, one which my mother cut short mid-speech, and said cryptically, “Consciousness is an open wound. Only the truth will heal. You can go.”

I left her room befuddled by the words she’d just said to me.

I was jerked awake the next morning by a flurry of slaps on my face and body. I blinked my way to wakefulness to see both parents staring sternly down at me, with my father demanding to know what had happened concerning my phone and who “this Bala fellow is.” Apparently, my mother had brought my father up to speed on the situation, and the man was spitting mad. He interjected his queries with frequent slaps across my face. My mother, being the product of a stern upbringing, decided that some detention time in a police cell would shake the truth out of me, and she proceeded to call in a favour with an old friend, just as her younger brother came upon the scene, which had moved to the living room.

My uncle (the man who abused me at an early age, by fucking my mouth with his penis #StoryForAnotherTime) quickly took charge of the situation when he heard what my parents had to say. From the knowing look he threw me, I knew he suspected rightly what must have happened to me. I was ordered to my room, to remain there while the rest of the family dealt with the ‘crisis’.

The day waned, and it was in the evening that my uncle finally came to me in my room, to deliver the good news, along with another mouth-fuck. As he panted with desire, writhing beside my unresponsive body, he talked about all that had happened that day. How he had handled everything. How he met with Bala, and hashed it all out with him, giving my blackmailer the impression that he had succeeded in outing me to my family, and that there would be no money for him. Bala had retreated, reportedly satisfied with himself, and believing that my uncle was an authority in my family who would see to it that I was punished for my homosexuality.

But you see, my uncle is gay, and what he knows that my parents don’t know won’t hurt me. And so, that was how I gained my freedom from that fiasco with Bala, my hairy rugged-bad-boy-looking attraction.

Written by Moth

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