I used to think that I had immunity to any kito situation as I always did what I wanted and got away with it. That feeling of fortification came to an end when I had a kito encounter that brought me very close to the 14-year jail term.

Saturdays are usually fun and restful for me. Saturdays are usually the only day of the week I dedicate to catching up with my bestie on the gossip, sexcapades, and music and fashion current affairs.

But this Saturday was different. First, I was hung over from the night before. Then the Wi-Fi wasn’t strong enough to let me stream a show I wanted to see. And it’d been two weeks since I got laid and I knew I needed a good digging. To make situation difficult, the phone that had all my contacts was defective, making it impossible to reach out to a friend with benefits.

What was I to do? I thought to myself.

It was a sunny day, this Saturday. The weather was hot and the sun felt like a piece of hell in the sky, burning bright as it was like a thousand embers. I pondered on where to get me some.

Then it flashed through my mind – that eureka moment. I remembered I had a muscular gym instructor who wanted my goodies and who I’d always wanted to give him a head. But I waved the idea aside because I wasn’t cool with driving to Maitama unannounced to meet with him when there could be a real possibility he’d be out.

And so, just when I thought I was going to have to resign myself to no action, I noticed the LED indicator of my work phone beeping. My initial thought was a text from a board member of the organization I work for, or a message from a client. I checked out the text; it was from an unknown number. But I recognised the name in the text: Marcus, an Eritrean-Italian I chatted with on Grindr a while back, who had to travel to Europe about a week after we started chatting. I had no idea I’d shared my work phone number with him. Apparently, he had just returned from his trip to Europe and wanted to meet.

I was instantly excited, so much so that I didn’t notice there was a caveat with the venue. Usually I suggest my place when about to hook up with someone. But if my place is too busy, then the hookup’s place would do. But I agreed to meet with Marcus at an unconventional and public location for what we intended to do.

Variety is the spice of life, they say. And I’m the kind of guy that likes adventures. So, I welcomed the idea of having a quickie at a lakeside park, a novelty that would certify my fierceness as an outdoor sex royalty. Prior to this type of outdoor affair, I’d tried the office space, dilapidated building, car and swimming pool; oftentimes, I just love to get it on outside the four walls of a bedroom.

I anxiously watched as the hours went by, until it was almost time for our rendezvous: 7pm. Some minutes before 7pm, I got ready in no time, picked my car keys and was about to leave, when my sister tried to dissuade me from going out since it was already late. Late – at 7pm? Please! I got in the car and zoomed off. God made my annoying sister an obstacle, but I brushed her aside.

I am waiting for you by the lake, where there are boats: Marcus texted me three minutes to the agreed time of rendezvous.

Perfect! He’s right on time, I thought. Thinking that the quickie would probably not last very long, I remembered I knew another foreigner who lived not very far from the lake, and I thought of checking on him for another round after my tryst with Marcus. A chance to kill two birds with one stone!

As I drove, I bopped and shimmied to Arianna Grande’s latest offering, Focus, feeling fly and fab, and with no inkling as to what the night held in store. This was going to be a night to remember and a lesson waiting to be learned.

I met Marcus by the lake. We talked for a while and got chummy. Before long, he reached for my waist and began patting on my booty. I kept trying to get him to behave. There were still people around us, people doing yoga, jogging, walking and engaging in other recreational activities. He suggested we move over into the thick bushes to “make quick love.” I suggested we go the other way that was quieter and darker. After a little back and forth, we decided to go my way. We walked around and tried to find us a comfortable place, while canoodling like lovers. Little did we know that we had spectators who had taken notice of us and had started on our trail.

We soon found somewhere safe enough to begin. Marcus unzipped his shorts and rolled a condom on his cock. Just then, I noticed three people hurrying towards us, a heftily built guy with two smaller framed men. Thank heavens my pants were still on and I hadn’t lubed up. As they got closer, I noticed they had bullet-proof vests on and held guns. I didn’t panic at this.

They came up to us and began to interrogate us. Then they sniffed at our hands to find out if we had been smoking there. Next, they began to search our pockets. I brought out my car keys, phone, wallet and power bank. I felt safe. Marcus, on the other hand, still had his pants unzipped and in his pocket were rows of condoms with a lube. The men searched him and happened upon the damning evidence of our intended sodomy, plus the used condom Marcus had unfurled to use on me.

Before I said ‘Jack’, handcuffs were out and Marcus’ right hand was cuffed. It quickly turned into a dream as my left hand was clamped in the second fetter. OMG! Am I going to jail? I thought.

The huge guy, who was the leader of the trio, confirmed that the condoms found served as evidence. I thought it was something we could settle quietly there and then. That hope was quickly shattered when we were dragged out and marched through the park, followed by people staring and talking about how we were two men who had been caught doing something suspicious in the wrong part of the park.

As we progressed through the park, the huge guy sneered, “I think say na man and woman sef dey hold each other when I see una waka pass me. I don dey follow you since.”

Marcus began to bluster, “But we haven’t committed any crime and I wasn’t caught in the act! I know my rights! We are friends who came to discuss and have a drink or two –”

The huge guy cut him short. “You dey claim rights, abi? Where are you from?” He’d apparently noticed Marcus’ accent.

Marcus replied, “I come to Nigeria from Italy and I work as a volunteer. Come on, my friend, you can’t do this! Please don’t involve my people. They will send me back!”

“That one na talk. Come on, move, my friend!” The man pulled Marcus forward by the belt as he pleaded. “You come Nigeria to dey chop our men for nyash.”

“You go answer for torture room before you go do 14-years for jail!”



The other men taunted, slapping Marcus as they spat their contempt at us.

The huge guy soon turned to me. “Yo! Where are you from?”

“I’m a Nigerian…”

“You know the implication of this rubbish, abi?”

“Yes sir! But we haven’t done anything wrong. We were only discussing the possibility of a partnership between the companies we work for and this is not the first time we are meeting. Are you not the park security team? I believe we can settle this quickly and quietly.”

The huge guy snapped, “We are SARS! I believe you know we can waste you and your so-called friend right here, right?”

It dawned on me that I was in even bigger trouble than I’d thought. These SARS people are even worse than the police and army. There’s just no way out with them. We began to beg. We begged and begged and begged. I swore on all the dead people’s graves I knew. I got down on my knees and sobbed my pleas at them.

We quickly became a spectacle, as people began to gather close to us, some asking questions, others offering answers, everyone of them spitting their disgust at us. A male bystander aimed a kick at my stomach, claiming to be disappointed by how low I stooped to give my nyash to a foreigner, who no doubt had promised me money in exchange for the sexual favour.

Before long, the SARS patrol van arrived and we were told to get inside for a ride to the headquarters somewhere in Abuja. All the while, I was thinking of how my sister had tried to stop me from going anywhere. But I’d let my desire for adventure override that bit of caution. And here I was, getting my fill of that adventure, like a movie scene.

Just as we were about to get into the van, one of the patrol officers called us aside to tell us how difficult our situation was, and advise that it’d be best if we bribed our way out of the mess. I just had 5k on me and Marcus had 4k. I had $300 in the pigeonhole of my car that was meant for some visa stuff. I kept quiet about it though, as the men were more concerned with ‘chopping oyibo’s money.’

After our interlude with the patrol officer, Marcus pleaded with the SARS leader, “My friend, can we give you some money so you let us go? We have just 9 thousand naira with us.”

The man bellowed, “What?” He looked properly offended. “My country is not a corrupt place! How dare you try to bribe me!” He lashed out a slap at Marcus and then me.

At this point, I’d secured a bruise on my eye, and I couldn’t cry any more, as my eyes were failing to produce tears. All I could do was offer silent supplications for a quick solution.

Eventually, the huge guy decided not to put us in the patrol van but in his car, and along with the other two men, he drove off to no specific location. As we drove, we negotiated the money to pay. The man wouldn’t budge from 500k. We absolutely didn’t have that amount available, but Marcus admitted to having $350 for his feeding back at home. He said we could get it if we can get to his house. The man agreed. And finally, we had a destination for the drive.

We got to Wuse 2 and parked outside a lounge. And that was when we were stunned by another shocker.

The SARS leader and his men, the moment we alighted, began to jeer loudly at us, calling us homos, and drawing the attention of the busy Ademola Adetokunbo Crescent on us. Shame washed over me as the Hausa men in front of the Amigos Supermarket spat insults at us and passersby snapped their fingers in disgust. We stood there, heads bowed, awash with humiliation.

As if that was not enough, the other SARS men began trying to change their leader’s mind from accepting the $350, saying that it was too small, and insisting that we be taken to the SARS headquarters.

Thereafter, they demanded for our phones. I handed mine over. Marcus refused to hand over his own. In response to his defiance and unexpectedly, one of the other men exploded a tin of teargas at us, causing us to cry out and go into coughing fits. They forcefully took Marcus’ phone then. My phone battery power was out, so they concentrated on ‘investigating’ Marcus’ phone, inside which they discovered all the nude pictures and trashy chats possible! More beating followed.

At a point, while we were alone, Marcus asked me if I had set him up because I wasn’t getting the same amount of hate he was getting. I didn’t blame him for asking me that, because he was bearing more of the brunt of the men’s viciousness than I was. I was perceived as the victim (and Nigerian brother) that Marcus had tried to lure into gay sex with the promise of money. I assured him that I hadn’t set this up.

Because Marcus was unfamiliar with the exact location of his house, his driver had to be called over. While we waited in a parked spot, the huge guy began to preach to us the “homosexuality is a sin” sermon. I interrupted him to deny yet again that we’d been about to engage in any homosexual act, only to get silenced by a slap.

It wasn’t long before Marcus’ driver got to us, and was brought up to speed on what happened. He merely gave a short laugh while shaking his head. He’d brought the money Marcus said he had, and handed it over to the officers. The cuffs were unclamped and we were told to go.

I thanked the men and turned down Marcus’ offer to drive me back to the lake. I just wanted to get away from him, from the men, from everybody associated with this kito experience. I got on a cab and was soon delivered to the lake where my car was parked.

I got inside it, turned on the ignition and zoomed off while listening to Carrie Underwood’s Something in the Water; just the right song for the moment. As I drove home, I realized then that this wasn’t just my kito story; it was also Marcus’ – an unforgettable Nigerian experience.

Written by Halcyon

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