Hi, I’m Woody, and I have a kito story to tell.

My story is the kind you don’t wish on your friends, and sometimes, not even your enemies. It’s a chapter of my life that I’ve been trying very hard to forget, the kind of story that I swore never to recount, especially not on a forum such as this. It took a lot of courage on my part and encouragement from Pink Panther for me to let this story be told here.

It started from a visit my family and I once made to the village a long while back.

The trip was for the burial of an aunt, and at some period during the time, I lost my phone. I’d plugged it to charge in our living room, and several moments later, I returned to find it gone. There were lots of questions asked, investigation done, but that had been a very rowdy period, with people thronging about everywhere in the premises. So the pool of potential suspects was vast.

After the funeral, we returned back to our base. Exactly one week after the phone disappeared, my cousin called me (I’d retrieved my number, but I hadn’t a fine phone yet), and she told me that someone was chatting her up through my Facebook account, someone who gave her his number when she asked for it. She passed the number on to me, and I called it. The guy who answered told me he had my phone (he hadn’t stolen it, mind you); he’d merely obtained it from the thief, a young girl he knew who he reasoned couldn’t be the owner of such an expensive-looking phone. Good Samaritan thinz.

So, of course he told me where I could come get my phone, a place which was quite close to my hometown. I knew the place. We agreed on a meeting point, and the next day, I set off to the place. The person I met was distractingly good looking. Cute. Tall. Dark. Well-built. And pink lips that made my mouth water from the mere thought of tasting them.

But we were there for business, and we soon got down to it. He asked me questions to verify my ownership, and thereafter, handed me the phone.

That was supposed to be the end of it all, right?

In the few days that passed after our meeting, I began to desperately wish I could have the guy. Chijioke is his name, by the way – Ceejay for short. I had his number in my phone (we exchanged contacts that day, you see), and I yearned to call him up for us to see again. I wanted him, but I cautioned myself to refrain from pursuing my fantasies about kissing those pink lips and running my hands over that well-built physique.

And then more time passed, and I eventually forgot about him.

A few months later, I suddenly got a message on Whatsapp. It was from Ceejay. I was surprised he still had my number. I wasn’t surprised I still had his. Lol (I mean, you may forget a fine boy, but you don’t go willfully deleting his number from your phone). That message from him started a frequent chatversation between us, and we gradually became friends. We even began to hang around each time I visited my hometown, and no matter how much I wanted him, I willed myself not to do anything that would cause me to make a fool of myself.

Several weeks of our friendship passed, before, at some point in our chatversations, the tone of his responses to me changed. He started throwing about (at me) endearing words like ‘Baby m’, ‘Love’ and ‘Cutie.’

All this time, my gaydar had been beeping slightly whenever he was concerned. I was almost positive he was TB, but I feared my judgment was getting clouded by my attraction. So I just remained conflicted between the rationalization that he was a deeply closeted gay and the more logical reasoning that he isn’t and I’m just crushing on a straight guy. So when he started going on ‘baby m’ and ‘cutie’ on me, I was giddy with pleasure. He was gay, I thought, and was now finally letting himself be open with me.

Those pink lips… It was now only a matter of time, I told myself.

We talked, and gently, I drew him out. Our talks became frank (or so I thought), and he started telling me about how complicated his sexuality was. About how much more he felt attracted to guys than to girls, and how he was too afraid to act on his feelings. About how he had fucked a girl exactly twice in his life, and how he hadn’t enjoyed the experience. He went on, and on, and on… Music to my ears.

Eventually, we agreed to get together. To hook up.

On that fateful day, the 20th of February (Yes, I can never forget that horrifying day), my mum asked me and my other siblings to accompany her to the village, in order to help her with some stuff. We were going to be in the village for awhile. I very gladly agreed, because I hoped to use the opportunity to hook up with Ceejay. I called him and informed him I was coming home. I can still recall how gay I was (no pun intended) during the trip to the village, as I envisioned finally knowing the pleasure of having Ceejay. My mind was alive with images of my mouth on those pink lips and that sexy, well-rounded ass succumbing to my cock. There were so many things I wanted to do to him in bed that made me wish I could teleport myself to his place already.

When we got to our hometown, I hurried through the things my mother wanted me to do for her. And then I hurried off to my destination, along with a bag of goodies I’d bought for him. Upon getting to his place, I realized that everywhere was quiet. He was home; nobody else was, except for his father. When I enquired about the rest of his family, he told me his mother went for a burial and his siblings were at school. We moved to his room and started gisting just as we used to. I sat on his bed, and he sat on the plastic seat in the room. At some point, I took his phone and started going through his pictures. He thought I was going to check his messages and he rushed over to my side to grab the phone from me. There ensued a light struggle, which quickly turned into a wild making out, heavy with kissing, necking and smooching.

Just as I got up to lock his bedroom door so we could have our privacy secured, a group of heftily built young guys – six in number – stormed into the room. They were armed with several weapons – clubs, cutlasses, sticks. I was instantly alarmed. Before I could get out any word, Chijioke had gotten up from the bed, and the pack of wolves pounced on me, whipping me with their clubs and sticks. The one wielding a cutlass lashed out at me with the flat edge. I cried out helplessly, hoping someone would hear. Someone like Chijioke’s father. He was home, wasn’t he? But then, as I saw that this male Delilah wasn’t doing anything to help me, I began to realize he’d probably lied about his father’s presence in the house.

The sticks of my attackers soon whittled to pieces, and then, they ordered me to quietly move out with them. They threatened that if I made any noise outside, as we moved, they’d slaughter me outrightly with their cutlasses.

I was weeping. I was bruised. I was afraid. And I agreed to do as they’d ordered.

I followed them to where they parked there motorcycles, and along with Chijioke, we all set off for a very far place, deep inside a forestation where no one could locate us. I became positive then that that day was going to be my last on earth. These guys needed a place so secluded where they could wreak their wrath on me, one which would surely end in my death.

The moment we got to a choice spot in the forest, they tied my hands behind me, and commenced with another round of beating. We were in a forest, and so there was an abundance of wooded weapons to use on me. One of them even got a cooper wire and lashed my penis with it. I was in so much pain. I cried out so much and so loudly that I began to lose my voice.

When they had beaten me to a pulp, they asked me to tell them of my history of hook-ups, who I was doing and who and who I knew in our communities were into what I was into. My flesh may have been beaten to near death, but my will was strong and alive. And so, stubbornly, I refused to tell them anything. But my stubbornness could only last until I heard them making plans to finish me off and bury me in the forest right there. I started to beg and sob and began to tell them wild concoctions of my TB history. As I talked, Chijioke – who hadn’t participated in my beating but had stood in a corner observing with an expressionless demeanour – brought out his phone and started videoing my ‘confession’.

When I was done talking, they beat me some more. By this time, there was probably no orifice on my body I wasn’t bleeding from. Then, they pulled me to my feet and told me to dance, naked as I was then, and follow them out of the forest about the community. A public display of my shame?! At that, there was still room for me to feel abject humiliation. And when I pleaded with them to spare me that, they only got angrier. So I decided to do as they had bidden.

Luckily for me, immediately we left the forest and came out to the main road where people could see us, a man we saw and they referred to as ‘Honourable Emerger’ promptly intervened when he saw my bloody self, and he delivered me from them.

Eventually, I was free to go on home. When I got home, I tried to sneak in away from any questioning eyes. The only person I could talk to about what I’d passed through was my immediate older sister. This was because, earlier on, I’d taken her into my confidence and told her about my true sexuality. She was okay with it. So, when I told her of what had just happened to me, she was horrified. And she swung into action to help me. She helped me cook up a story I would tell the rest of our family to explain away my injuries. Then she made arrangements for me to leave our village, in case my attackers traced me to our house. I left our hometown and moved to a friend’s place to hide.

Two days later, my sister called me. There was bad news. Bad. Really bad. Chijioke and his boys had indeed traced me to my place, and had come along with them the damning video Chijioke made of my ‘confession’. They showed the video my mother, and to every other person who was present in the house. My uncles, my aunts, my cousins – they all saw the video.

My family must have been terribly distressed to witness such depravity that I must have looked in the video. They must have been shocked to hear the things I owned up to, in order to obtain mercy from my persecutors. I wasn’t there to see.

But I started getting calls from them to return home – not to the village, to our base – for proper medication. I did. My elder brother wanted to file a case against them, using the video against them with the claim that I’d been unduly attacked and made the confession under duress. But I objected. I didn’t want any more of the ugliness to continue. It was bad enough that the consequence of the incident was my community-wide outing. My people, my family, everyone now knew I was gay. And although my immediate family still showed me love and support, I knew they were disappointed. I know they still are.

And they did try to do whatever they could to assuage their fears about my sexuality. They took me for deliverances and subjected me to several church activities. All my male friends, whether gay or straight, suddenly became suspect. My movements became restricted. My much older siblings abused my privacy frequently and audaciously, going through my phone at will.

Things have settled now, become calmer. A semblance of order has returned to my life now. I’m no longer either miserable or frequently contemplating suicide. And in many ways, I feel some relief. At least, now they know. They may still be in denial about how gay I am, but at least they know for certain now. That is the good things I’m determined to take away from this everything bad that happened to me.

So you see, guys, this really isn’t a kito story. It’s…well, a rain-boot story. And I am here, having worn them, still living one day at a time.

Written by Woody

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