My story starts after my graduation from the university. I was waiting to go on NYSC, and in the meantime, I decided to go visit an aunt in Lagos. During my vacation in Lagos, I started getting bored really quickly. So, I went on a popular gay dating site and met some prospective hookups.

Soon, I got chatting with this particular guy (a bastard who will rot in hell for eternity), and we exchanged Blackberry pins, and things got real really fast, with us exchanging profile pictures and nude photos. Soon, we got around to fixing for a meet. Somehow, the arrangement fell on me going out to see him at a rendezvous. Initially, I didn’t feel too comfortable with that, going to the location he suggested (Iba axis), seeing as I was still basically unaccustomed to the hustle and bustle of Lagos city. My instincts pled caution, but you know what they say: the spirit is cautious but the flesh is weak (that’s how they say it, right?) Anyway, I was all fired up to go see him, ignoring the still, small voice in my head. After all, I hadn’t had sex in a while, and my bujaina was starting to get filled with cobwebs.

On that afternoon, I finally arrived at the location.

It took him like forever to come meet me; an alarm signal that I shouldn’t have ignored. The bastard must have being spending the time perfecting his kito plans for me. When he finally arrived, he was in a car, and there were two of them in it. He waved at me from where he’d parked, and I went over to meet them. When I got closer to the car, I noticed that both males were different from the guy I’d been getting to know from the pictures sent via BBM. That right there should have been the beginning of my wisdom, but I reasoned that he hadn’t sent me his real photos because he was being discreet.

So I got into the car. It was the type of vehicle whose doors were only in the front; the guy on the front passenger seat had to lift his seat for me to get into the back. As I sat down, I had a faint sense of unease, that feeling you get when you suddenly find yourself in a situation and you know there’s no escaping from it.

Then again, I wondered, what did I need to escape from?

As soon as I was settled, the friend (dude in the passenger seat) turned to me and said, ‘How are you, young man?’

I was already irritated that I’d been kept waiting for so long, and I felt insulted by this guy’s patronization. For crying out loud, we were both obviously in our twenties. Which one was this ‘young man’ talk? I told him immediately that he had no right to say that to me, that he wasn’t that much older than me anyway.

And he, this Rudeboi, responded with a sneering ‘So na you be the gay, abi?’

Instantly, my blood pressure hiked, and those alarm bells began ringing a bit louder.

He repeated his question in Yoruba, and continued with, ‘So you are the gay bastard that has been sending us nude pictures and naughty text messages, ehn?’

The alarm bells were now deafening. And my heart was thumping really fast. Father in heaven, what kind of wahala have I put myself in? I thought with mounting panic. I began to stammer words, trying to explain away while I would send my nude pictures to them.

The guy I was supposed to be hooking up with had been driving all this time, and at this time, he had pulled up in front of an army barracks or so they wanted me to believe. They also threatened me with exposure and a lockup in the army guardroom if I didn’t confess. Rudeboi then asked for my phone, a really new Blackberry, quite expensive too. I handed it over reluctantly. He went through my contacts and happened upon my mother’s number which he promptly dialed.

Note to self: Never store my parents’ numbers again as ‘Mum’ and ‘Dad’.

Rudeboi threatened that he would report me to my mother, and I’d be locked up in the guardroom of the barracks until my parents would come for me. These parents are the ones who are far away in the north o, remember I came to visit an aunt in Lagos.

I started to beg, pleading with everything in me, to be spared such an embarrassment and the forceful outing of my sexual orientation to my parents. I was sobbing. I was filled with desperation. I begged harder with each passing minute and each utterance my abductors made.

Finally, they ordered me out of the car. Rudeboi was still with my phone. I alighted, with the sinking realization that I wasn’t getting my phone back. I was miserable, but I was also mad, angry with these guys, probably some hungry, poverty-stricken university boys out to prey on innocent guys seeking some fun online. I started pleading for my phone, but he snatched the door handle off my hand, and the driver quickly sped off. I was on my heels after them, running and shouting ‘Ole! Thief!’, with passersby watching and doing nothing to help.

This Lagos sha, hmm…

Anyway, this was happening on an expressway. And my humiliation became complete when, as I was running, I tripped and fell heavily on the tarred road. Fortunately, my chest didn’t hit the hard ground, but my shorts ripped, and I sustained some bruises on my legs. As if my torture wasn’t enough, the skies opened and it started raining heavily. I had a smaller second phone with me, and I kept calling my Blackberry in a frantic bid to plead with the thieves not to call my mother. Whenever they answered and I begged, they’d laugh mockingly and hang up. I saw red. I saw black. I hated them. I hated everybody. I hated Lagos. I hated the pedestrians for not lifting a hand to help me. I hated myself for being gay. I hated Nigeria for its homophobia which gave bastards like these the guts to rob and traumatize me. I was bruised from my fall and wet from the rain; oh it was a dark day for me. Honestly, in that moment, if I had chance to see those scums again, and I had a gun, I wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot them down.

I didn’t want to be this person, this – this guy who’d been set up, the way I’d heard other people were, and who’d sit back helplessly and accept his fate. I wanted revenge. I wanted to hurt them back. And I was bloodthirsty enough to want to get back at them any way I could.

I quickly called a really close friend of mine on phone and told him everything. I was weeping as I narrated my ordeal, not because of the loss of my phone, but because of the humiliation I felt for not hearkening to my instincts. This friend had a ‘Baba’, a traditional doctor he consulted every now and then. And I wanted the Baba’s number; I was ready to go diabolical to make these scums suffer for what they did to me. Sympathizing with me, my friend promptly sent the number to me.

Eventually, I got home. I had a story ready to tell my aunt and her family about how messy I looked. Of course they bought it and were full of sympathy for me and outrage at the bandits (Yes, I told them street thugs had attacked me and made away with my phone). They kept calling my Blackberry and cursing the bastards out and wishing them everything bad in life!

Several moments later, my mother called my second phone and told me some guys called her, telling her I was gay and she should do something about me. Spinning every yarn I could think of, I was able to convince her they were petty thieves and blackmailers who robbed me. She believed me, and had nothing but empathy for me; she also wanted to know if I had enough money to come back to the North the very next day. I told her I wasn’t ready to come home (I needed time to put my revenge plans in action), and she left me to my decision.

The next day, I went to seek out the Baba who my friend linked me with. I narrated my ordeal to me, truthfully, because the man sabi ‘what’s up’. He was visibly mad, and informed me of the necessary things to be done and amount I was to pay commensurate with what kind of punishment I wanted inflicted on the bastards. I told him just what I wanted; I wanted those guys to lead cursed lives from then onward, and I wanted their families and entire generations roped in as well. The necessary steps were taken in earnest. The Baba is known for his power and efficiency in diabolical matters.

I might never know if it all actually worked or not, but I just needed to let out the bitterness in me, to assure myself that I wasn’t a helpless victim, that I fought back somehow. In the end, thinking back, I always pray the TBs in my contact list didn’t fall prey to those scums; I had some better markets in that phone, mostly white guys I’d been chatting with (and they could easily become victims to those guys’ shenanigans). Because they actually texted close friends of mine, pretending to be me, and wheedling for airtime from them. Some of these friends, who thought something odd about the requests for airtime, called my second number and quickly got enlightened to the situation.

To end it all, I learned my lesson. I put that experience down as a lesson learned. And what did I take out of it? To never let my hormones drive me in matters such as this. Seeking a few minutes of pleasure shouldn’t be the reason one is cost his life or reputation. One should always trust his instincts and be smart about who he lets into his life.

Written by Posh

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