An idle mind, they say, is the devil’s workshop. This couldn’t be further from the truth. I had just completed my service year and was waiting for admission for my PG program when this happened. My boyfriend of four years decided he had had enough and moved on to someone who could give him more attention. (*rolling my eyes*) I was never good at meeting people or socializing, so for months, I was alone; I didn’t even have a fuck buddy on my list.
So I did what my stupid mind suggested; I created an account on Manjam. This guy by the name Crawnkfrosh sent me a message the next day and we got chatting. He dropped his number and asked me chat him up on WhatsApp. There was nothing sexual about our discussions and he acted normal and simple. And, boy, was I smitten.
On WhatsApp, Crawnkfrosh gave me a sad story about being a corps member serving in Bokkos L.G.A (coincidentally, that was my Local Government), saying how lonely he was and how he was in need of a friend to just talk to. His story was relatable because I know what I went through in Kebbi State during my service year. Anyways, after some weeks, I decided we had established enough trust to warrant me paying him a visit. After all, it’d been ages since I went to the village.
On that fateful day, I lied to my father, saying that I was going to visit a high school mate in Bokkos. And off I went. Since I wasn’t conversant with the town, I parked the car at the Plateau State University and took a bike to Bokkos town.
The person I met wasn’t the same person I saw on the WhatsApp Display Picture and on Manjam. When I expressed my surprise at the discrepancy, he told me the pictures were of his boyfriend, and gullible as I was, I believed him. He took me to his place and I immediately simply couldn’t wait to get out of the place. But I was too well-mannered to take that initiative. I locked up my bitch persona and maintained my politeness; after all, he was a corper in a strange land. He went to get me refreshments and returned a few minutes later. My mother had called, and I told her I was in Bokkos visiting a friend. During the phone conversation, I paid no particular attention to my environment. It wasn’t until I ended the call that I looked up to find four guys looking down at me. I was instantly panicked by the impending situation, but outwardly, I remained calm and composed.
The questions came, rough and aggressive, and I feigned ignorance over the slangs they were using. I was forming, trying to act the innocent and classy fellow. But after a few slaps, I cooperated. I stripped off my clothes upon their say-so, and they searched my wallet. They asked me questions and I admitted I was gay. They took nude photos of me and said they were with the police. Fully aware that there was no law to protect me from this harassment, I knew my fate was sealed. They repossessed about 15 thousand naira from me, with my phones and shoes; then they asked me to get dressed. Amidst threats of being stabbed, I was led through some bushes and farmlands to the main road where they got me a cab and paid for my fare back to Jos.
When I was clear of them, my fear was replaced with shame and self-loathing, then anger. I like to consider myself a good person, and I simply couldn’t understand why such bad things happen to good people. I was no longer shaking with shame and fear. I was beset with a tidal wave of rage. This couldn’t be it, I told myself. This couldn’t be the end of my kito story.
I asked the cab driver to drop me at my granduncle’s house, which was along the way. When I met with him, I narrated my ordeal. Of course, I modified the story to favor me. Since I could identify the criminals, we proceeded to the Police Station where I wrote a statement, and after my granduncle told the DPO who my father is, he mobilized his men and they went searching for my harassers, with me in the lead. I took them to the house I was taken to, and they spoke to the landlady. The boys were of course long gone. And so, I went back to Jos with the assurance of the police that they’d keep at their arrest.
The next day, my father was notified that the suspects had been apprehended. So we travelled down. As it turned out, two of the boys were students of the state university (during a quick search on Facebook later on, I discovered the ring leader to be Jacob Isaiah). Expectedly, their narrative incriminated me, but I denied the whole thing. I had the truth of what they’d done to me working for me, and so, they were thrown back into their cells. After spending four days in the cell, they finally agreed with my side of the story. My father was insisting on taking the case to the court, to get the boys tried for their crime, but this would surely have gone wrong for me, I could see that. So I intervened, begged for the ordeal to end once and for all. I’d gotten my cash, phones and shoes back. The criminals were asked to write an undertaking, their pictures were taken and documented, and I withdrew the case.
It has been months since I went through this trauma, and I take solace in the fact that the two who were students in the state university were expelled because of their involvement in my kito story. My parents are still suspicious over the role I played, but I think that the way I bravely took the case to the police and stuck to my story throughout the ordeal confirmed my “innocence” somewhat.
Below are the two who were in the state university:
I still wonder though if that episode a sign that I should come out to my family.
Written by Bee