FOREWORD: I’d like to correct a misconception brought on by some comments some persons made on Unoma’s lesbian erotica. Kito Diaries is not a blog for gay men; it is a blog for LGBT PEOPLE. And the last time I checked, that included both men and WOMEN who have love for the same sex. I am trying to break my female readership out of their writerly silence and get more submissions from them. But when the males begin to make chauvinistic comments against lesbian stories like ‘Nice story, but this does nothing for me…’ – Hello?! We know you’re gay; that it does nothing for you is already an established fact. Can you not state the obvious? It is such ‘It’s A Man’s World’ comments like this that make it hard for me to convince the ladies to send in articles.
Let me reiterate. Kito Diaries is HOME for ALL GAY PEOPLE, and that includes the WOMEN! Guys, please, stop with the discrimination. Whether intended or not, when you make such comments, that is the message perceived.
I did my fourth year university industrial training (IT) in – where else? – Lagos. I packed my things at the commencement of that six-month period and journeyed from the East to Sin City to get a taste of life on the proletarian lane. The IT attachment didn’t come easy o. I suffered the indignation of polite rejections, brusque brush-offs and unresponsive correspondences. But I was young and basically not in a hurry. The job would come in its own sweet time, I was sure. In the mean time, I could spend my days sampling the treats that Lagos had to offer, in as much free time as I could get, living as I was under my strict uncle’s roof.
Chibuzo (yes, my darling roommate also came to Lagos for his IT attachment) was staying with his cousins. That meant that he had more latitude than I could ever hope to get. He went to night gay parties that I could not attend. He had wild experiences that I could only imagine. And he met men who requested for his company at hours I could not hope to entertain. Whenever we got to hang out, he related his stories to me, and I stared and laughed and clapped my hands and felt just a smidgen of envy smoulder in a corner of my heart.
And then he mentioned the white men. Hah! Jisox! That is where he got me. A white man lover that I’d been fantasizing about having, ever since I was in second year, staying in the school hostel, and observing one of my hostel neighbours always getting dropped at the end of most Sundays by a pasty-skinned older man, who he tried to pass off as his sister’s janded husband… (Yea right, and I’m Angelina Jolie’s adopted son) I was fascinated by the idea of getting it on with a Caucasian, of having his pale skin pressed against my coloured skin in all the points of sexual contact, of having his thin pink lips slipping and sliding over my fuller mouth, of tasting him, of feeling him, of breathing him in. It was almost scientific, this fascination I had for the white man lover.
And to have Chibuzo rubbing it in my face that he’d been catching his fun with a number of them – that was just cruel and unusual punishment. I had to get in on the action. I simply had to.
So he generously offered to check if there was anyone of them who would be interested in hooking up with someone new. There was. His name was Smith. He lived in Victoria Island. We chatted a bit over the phone, before he asked me to come over. I was very excited. This was before the giant leap technology took into the age of BBM and Whatsapp. So I hadn’t seen what he looked like. But whaddaeck! I set out for VI with the image of Tom Cruise firmly imprinted on one corner of my mind, and Paul Walker (God bless his soul) juxtaposed next to him.
But Smith was neither a Tom cruise nor a Paul Walker. There was no well-built stoutness or long-limbed athleticism. No blue eyes you could get lost in. No abundance of dark curly hair you could sink your fingers into in those final crazed moments when you’d be screaming ‘Oh yea! Give it to me! Oh fuck yea!’
No. Smith was of average-height, with average looks, a sallow skin, and sleek dark hair that was falling away from his temples in advanced balding. His eyes were brown and had shadows under them. His mouth was small, dusky and opened when he spoke to reveal the fetid breath of tobacco. (Ugh! There would be no kissing, that I decided at once) His frame was on the skinny side, even though a small paunch pushed against the shirt he was wearing. He absolutely looked nothing like the image of a gorgeous white man that Hollywood had been feeding me for years. Haba nau! He singlehandedly wrecked all my fantasies about a white man lover.
I sat politely in the living room, and endured his stilted accent as we conversed. I nursed a bottle of Coke. He drank from a bottle of small stout. And it wasn’t even midday yet. After the awkward conversation had lasted a considerable amount of time, he suddenly got to his feet and asked if I would accompany him someplace. I said ‘Yes.’ He went inside and moments later, came out dressed in – well, he simply pulled on a pair of jeans. The T-shirt he’d been wearing was still on and he pushed his feet into bedroom slippers. No glamour. No sophistication. So, that ruled out any exotic hangouts as our destination. I decided not to ask where we were going, preferring instead to sit beside him in his car and watch with resolute quietness as he navigated his way through the streets of the Island.
It was the chillier freshness of the atmosphere and the roar of waves slapping against each other that alerted me to the fact that we were close to the sea. A beach perhaps? I wasn’t sure. At that time, I hadn’t been to any of the beaches in Lagos…or any other beach for that matter. I quickly dismissed the notion that it was a beach, because the environment where Smith pulled up to didn’t have the endless stretches of sands ending at the cusp of cascading frothy water. There was sand, sure, but then there were metal fences built to firmly set the land away from the seas, which I could see angrily tossing their waves about beyond the embankments.
Before I could have time to appreciate the beauty of this particular side of Nature, a group of young men pounced on the car. They had the look of Lagosians who had grown up on the streets, agberos – wild, rough, with tattered clothes, brazen attitude, and a patois that was simply made up of Yoruba and Pidgin English. My first startled thought as they slapped their hands against the sides of the car was that they were robbers. And I was turning to tell Smith to step on it and drive us out of there, when I saw him beaming and pulling over.
Are you mad? Do you not see these agberos? Why are you smiling? And why are we stopping? I wanted to screech the words at him. But I speechlessly watched as he stepped out of the car and was soon swallowed by the street guys, who were all enthusing with words like ‘Ah, white oga don land!’ ‘Oga, welcome o!’ ‘My customer, my customer!’
My customer for what, bikonu? I wondered with faint unease. Still seated inside the car, I watched as the tide of agberos swept Smith several meters away, to a corner of the beach, where they stood, huddled close to each other, transacting whatever business Smith had with them. I couldn’t, for my life, imagine what kind of business that would be. But as long as it was amicable and non-threatening, I could breathe easy.
The transaction lasted just a few minutes, and soon Smith had broken away from them. The men cheered at him as he jogged back to the car. He got in beside me, and I could see that he looked animated, like for the first time that day, he was about to finally have some fun. (Okay o, hmm, let me just be looking you with side eye)
He drove back to the house, and told me we should retire to the bedroom. I wasn’t attracted to him at all. And I dreaded sharing any form of intimacy with him. But I hadn’t grown into my decisiveness at that time. I was still suffering the shackles of politeness that came only from being a teenager who ‘never tear eye pass 360 degrees.’ In my mind, as we walked up the stairs to the bedroom, I was torturing myself with excuses and reasons I would give to stop any ghen-ghen from happening. None was plausible enough. I kept discarding each one after the other.
And the countdown was already on. He had removed his shirt. Kicked off his slippers. Yanked away his jeans. Was strutting toward the large queen-sized bed.
Ghen-ghen! Lord, give me a sign! Father, rescue me from this situation abeg! I cannot do this with this man nau, ehn?! I wanted to sob, wallai! My clothes were still on, and I was moving stiffly behind him.
“Come on, get your clothes off, you,” he said, gesturing and fiddling with something inside the drawer of the vanity table.
“In a minute,” I mumbled, still wracking my head for something, anything to say.
I wasn’t watching him, so I missed it when he brought the things out. He was reclining on the bed when I finally saw the stuff he was spreading out on the bed. They were drug paraphernalia. There was a spoon, upon which he had started emptying the white, powdery content of a small nylon-wrapped package, which he’d retrieved from the pocket of his jeans before he disrobed. And then, there was a burner-like thingie, which he turned on, causing a blue flame to spring up, before he gingerly positioned the spoonful of white powder above it. I watched in stupefaction as the powder simmered a bit above the flame, before he moved the spoon away, picked up a syringe-like contraption and dipped its end inside the cooked contents of the spoon. He drew in some of it, guided the needle to his arm, and injected himself with it. Then he sighed oh-so-blissfully.
I simply stood there and stared with mounting astonishment, unable to comprehend how I got catapulted into this real life Hollywood movie scene.
He injected himself a couple more times, intermittently sniffing and groaning with pleasure. He had a look of pure rapture on his face. Then he squinted at me, like he was seeing me for the first time, blinked his recognition of me back into his eyes, and then asked why I was still standing there, fully dressed. I was just forming the words I would say in response, when he instructed me to hurry up and remove my clothes. But that first, would I be a good boy and get the things in that drawer, that we would need them.
We would? What things? I soon found out.
I opened the drawer and gaped at the things inside it. Black leather. Chains. Handcuffs. Whips. Jeeezuz! It was as though I took a turn into sadomasochism-ville. Drugs and S&M? No way, José! I might be gay, but I was still a good, Christian boy at the time. And I wanted to remain unspoiled for a great deal of time to come. And my shock released my boldness, so that when he barked, ‘What is keeping you, boy?’ I whirled around and started out of the room.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he slurred.
And I spent the next few minutes telling him, without mincing my words, what I thought of him and his decadence. He tried to get a word in edgewise, but he was stoned and I was lucid, and I pretty much steamrollered over his indignation. Then he began to shout for me to ‘gerroutofmyhouse!’
Gladly! I turned again, flipped the shiny locks of my neatly-brushed weave-on, and sauntered out of the bedroom, my high heels click-clacking on the tiled floor, the sound serving as exclamation marks on the words: ‘Good riddance to really, really bad rubbish!’
#sigh So much for a white man lover.
Written by Pink Panther