THE WAIT TO CUSTOMER SERVICE

It was a really hot day with the scorching sun seemingly hanging just two feet above my head, reminding me of the reason why I need to make paradise, because after all this travail on earth, imagine then getting dumped into a pit of unending fire. Not cool!

I was making my way to the express road to take public transport to the bank. I was on a mission to go and make trouble for customer service. Days ago, I made some transfers on my phone. I was debited, but the people I sent the money to didn’t get their money. It’d been a week now and all my efforts to rectify the situation virtually had proved futile. So now, I had to do that which I really, really, REALLY didn’t want to have to do, which is to go to the bank. Going to a Nigerian bank is like going to a general hospital; it requires one to be mentally and psychologically prepared for everything that will test you.

My armpits were already sticky with sweat and I kept stylishly sniffing at my pits while I was in the cab to ensure I still smelled fresh. Thankfully, I was. The heat was making me irritable, and just thinking about the impending stress I’d meet at the bank made me close to lashing out at anyone that tested my patience.

Upon entering the bank, I was immediately enveloped by the cool breeze from the air conditioners. It was a momentary relief, which lasted just until I saw the long queue that was edging really slowly toward the customer service station. Heaving a sigh, I walked over to the last person standing in the queue. His back was turned to me, and after I gently tapped his cardigan-clad shoulder –

The most breathtakingly handsome man I’d ever seen in my life turned to face me!

I stood there, enraptured by the face I was looking at, unsure if I still had my legs because I didn’t feel like I was standing anymore.

He was tall, about six feet, dark-complected, with that type of beautifully-broad shoulders you just want to cling to. He was wearing an ash-coloured tank top that perfectly moulded his pecs and biceps, revealing the chiseled body he had; the cardigan was loosely hung across his shoulders. He was barbered to a nice low cut, and his succulent dark lips had a pink hue on the upper lip. Soft-smelling cologne that seemed to tone down his masculinity, so he wasn’t too overpowering, wafted from his being, seducing me so powerfully that I found myself feeling slightly dizzy.

A few seconds must have passed – a few seconds where I just stood there, gaping at him – because he made an enquiring face at me, clearly wanting to know why I’d called for his attention. I opened my mouth to speak, and to my horror, found that I’d momentarily lost it. I stammered out what I had to say, and then feigned a cough to buy me time to gather myself. At that, he made a face that suggested that perhaps I thought his breath was bad.

Oh God no! You’re good, babe, I wanted to say to him.

Finally, I could speak and I asked if he was the last on the queue. He leaned back a bit with a wry smile and said yes. I told him then that I’d be behind him. He nodded and turned away, back to his phone.

I stood there, beside him, dreaming about him, about how we were in a relationship, about mornings with breakfast in bed and nights of steamy sex. I glanced at his body and his lips, and I felt something hot and desperate coil inside me.

In that moment, I wanted to be a girl. Why wasn’t I a girl? A girl wouldn’t have a hard time getting – and keeping – his attention, as evidenced in the way the girl in front of him kept flicking her weave here and there. She would get some of the tresses on his phone’s screen, and then she would shyly apologize, and he would smile at her, and they would talk for a bit, and then drift back to their phones. I didn’t even know this guy, and I was already fuming at this injustice of being a homosexual in this world.

As the queue gradually drew closer to the customer service station, I began to feel desperation clutching at my heart. I knew that once this guy gets to that desk, gets his problem attended to and leaves this bank, that would be it. And then, I would be tortured by the memory of him in my head for weeks to come.

I had to do something, and I had to do it fast!

My friends from my days in the university would be so disappointed in me if they knew I let a fine bobo slip through my hands without at least getting his number, because back then, I was known as the queen of daring antics who always got all the guys I wanted. But it’s been a few years since I left school and I’d gotten rusty. Also, with the world now being very aware of the gay community and how we move, I had gotten a lot more reserved with how I approach random men I fancy. The risk of public embarrassment or worse, getting mobbed, was enough deterrent on how ballsy I could get.

But I simply couldn’t let this gorgeous son of Adam go just like that.

I kept casting furtive glances at him, and each time, the motivation to say something kept growing bigger and bigger in my mind. Different strategies raced through my head, and my brain sorted through scenario after scenario of what could be a conversation starter as the line before the customer service station got shorter and shorter.

And then, he let out a sigh, the sound of one who was tired of all the standing and shuffling forward. He folded his arms across his chest, causing those guns of his biceps to pop out majestically. My throat went dry, and at this point, I couldn’t take it anymore. An idea had struck me, but I was still too deathly scared of making the move. This was a banking hall; what if I said what I had to say and he wasn’t nice with his response? The thought of being publicly humiliated was daunting, but I couldn’t back down. If I did, I was positive I would regret it deeply later.

I began to think of all the possible things that could go wrong and mentally preparing my response to it. Do I scream above his voice if he lashes out? Perhaps speak plenty grammar to come off as a polished person, which would make him look like a bully? Dear God! I kept thinking and the queue kept shrinking.

Fuck it!

I leaned toward him and said in a low voice only he could hear, “Bros, abeg cut small muscle for me na.”

I smiled to show that I was making a complimentary joke, and he seemed to get it, because he laughed. My heart was pounding at this time, but I’d already set the ball rolling and I could only hope it would score. There was no backing out now!

He said he wished he could, and I said he could, seeing as he had excess muscles and all he had to do was cut some from his arms and chest and give me to add to my skinny frame. He found this very funny, because he was now jerking with laughter. The girl in front of him shot me a scowl.

That’s right, bitch! I made him laugh. You 0, me 1!

I was so happy now and my fears were easing out. Knowing I got him to laugh was very freeing.

And just like that, we were conversing. He said I needed to start working out and I groaned, lamenting that I tried push-ups one time and ended up fucking the floor. He laughed at that too. I told him I tried squats too, and even though I saw some improvement on my thighs, I gave up on the tenth day.

“Pain isn’t delicious abeg,” I concluded.

He laughed out loud this time, a beautiful sound that got other people’s attention. He didn’t seem to mind, and neither did I. I was all warm and gooey inside. He said I was really funny, and in my mind, I was like: Oh my god, he thinks I’m funny!

He began giving me tips on how to have a successful workout, encouraging me to endure and giving all that usual “no pain no gain” mantra that body builders often quote.

As I listened to him, I was thinking: I really don’t give two fucks about working out, boo. I just want you to keep being delicious by pumping steel and being my man.

At this time, it was almost his turn to get attended to. I needed to move things along. I introduced myself. I had to establish a familiarity for the next phase to work. In response, he told me his name was Raymond.

Raymond. What a fitting name for him.

I asked if he stayed around and he said yes. I said I did too and asked if we could be pals, and maybe I could come watch him train to build up my motivation to start working out. For the first time, hesitation settled on his face. I saw he was trying to find an excuse to turn me down, and I quickly added that I wouldn’t bother him with frequent visits. Even if it was just once, I just needed to be inspired by him.

Something about being the source of inspiration for someone else must have appealed to him, because the hesitation eased away, and he smiled as he agreed to an exchange of contacts. He typed his number into my phone and I flashed him so he could get mine. (But really, I flashed him to make sure he gave me his actual number).

Then the bank staff called, “Next!” And we said quick goodbyes as he went to get attended to.

We didn’t get to interact thereafter, as he was gone by the time I was done with my own issue. However, when I got home, I sought him out on WhatsApp and sent him a message, thanking him for agreeing to let me watch him train. It was an experience I couldn’t wait to have, but for reasons other than to be inspired to work out. I mean, have you ever had to watch your man work out?

Delicious!

A huge turn-on, I tell you.

In the days after that encounter at the bank, I started getting friendly, sending him voice notes and asking about his welfare. Whenever he told me he had just finished working out or was about to work out, I’d ask him for pics of him either working out or post-workout, and he would oblige, although somewhat bashfully.

Then I began to dig deeper. During our conversations, I would encourage him to talk to me about his innate desires and things he was too embarrassed to admit he wants. I made him know he could talk to me about anything and I wouldn’t judge him. I validated him.

He started to trust me as we got closer. I would visit him and we’d hang out. He said he’d just gotten out of a relationship, so I started dialing up my feminine energy around him, so he would see me as the closest thing to a girlfriend he could have.

It got so much that one day, he asked me if I was gay. The question came so abruptly, I panicked and said no.

“Thank God,” he said, “because I don’t like them.”

My heart was pounding, as I wondered if I should feel grateful that I’d dodged a bullet or disappointment that he might be homophobic.

“Why do you hate them?” I queried.

He shrugged, muttering something. I got the impression that he was the type of antigay Nigerian whose prejudice came from a conformation with society’s bias than any real strong feelings on his part.

So I pushed forward. “So, if I tell you I’m gay, does that mean you will hate me?”

He laughed at that, sidestepping the trap. We had become the kind of close friends, that he couldn’t just say yes, he’d hate me. Instead, he brushed the line of conversation aside.

And then came the time when he told me he wished I was a girl, because then, I could become his babe.

Oh my God!!!

I was almost there!

I was ecstatic.

IT WAS TIME!

I didn’t say anything to his face. I waited till I got home that day, and then I picked up my phone and shot my shot at him.

I was no longer the boy in the bank who wanted tips on how to get muscles…

Or the acquaintance who wanted to know how he was doing…

Or the friend who made himself readily available for his confidence.

I was now just a boy, looking at a boy, asking him to love him.

He left that message on Seen and didn’t respond for a few days.

I didn’t push. When next I texted, I didn’t refer to what I texted him. I simply wanted to know when next I could see him. In responding, he also didn’t mention what I texted. Instead, he told me when he’d be home for me to come over.

Okay then.

That day, I went to see him. He made spaghetti and we ate. And while watching a Netflix movie, I made a move. I reached for him. There was no resistance from him; it was almost like he’d been expecting me to do this.

And so, for the first time since I met him at the bank all those weeks ago, I kissed Raymond.

His dark lips with the pink hue on the upper lip were the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted. The kiss was sweet and lingering.

It lasted a few moments, and then he pulled back. I let him. We turned back to the movie, and didn’t speak on what had just happened.

But I knew I’d gotten him. He had had a taste. I just had to gently but insistently make him realize that this taste was a much better option than any other girlfriend he might think of having.

There is still so much work to be done. But I am patient and we die here.

Written by Emjay