THE MEN OF PORT HARCOURT (Till Death Do Us Part)

Madam Theresa Omemgbojiso, a woman of pristine pulchritude and power, a woman without prejudice, began her most recent viral video with, “Your husband might be a homosexual… Ụnụ na-anụ ndị homo!”

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And no people, in my opinion, does it apply to better than Port Harcourt people.

That video might have seemed like a humorous take on the issue of heterosexual marriages embarked on by lesbian and gay people, but it underscored a deep sense of the resentment people within this community have for both the society, and for those among us who enter into heterosexual unions with heterosexuals.

I, for one, have no issues with gay people’s decisions to enter into heterosexual unions. I understand pressure, both familial and societal, and all the ways it can warp one’s sense of self. It is a rare person indeed who can look that pressure in the face and refuse to cave in to it.

I always maintain that that bravery, that courage, is not only in standing against the storm. It is also in knowing when, and how, to give in to the storm; in giving in, yet preserving one’s dignity, one’s sense of self; in giving in, yet holding firm to what is true, what is dear, and what is real, to one, refusing to let the storm rip that away from them.

That is bravery, albeit of a different kind.

But, this story is not about the bravery of gay people in heterosexual unions. Oh, no. It is about the fiendishness of gay people in heterosexual unions, a fiendishness that I have only seen here in Port Harcourt.

I know several gay men who are married to heterosexual women. I see the kind of gymnastics these people undergo to keep their dalliances away from their wives. I see how much they adore their wives and kids.

But, Port Harcourt men? Mbanụ! All of this is beneath them.

The men of Port Harcourt take fiendishness to a whole new level. Before now, I had heard about gay men mistreating their wives, being utter monsters to them. But I had never seen it play out, never seen any married gay man castigating their wife or talking down on her or anything of that nature. That is, until I came to Port Harcourt.

Let me tell you guys of two of my experiences with the married men of Port Harcourt.

First man, we shall call Don. I named him this because he has that commensurate big Igbo man stature. Average height, big belly, fleshy cheeks, with the all-round looks of one who is well-fed and comfortable. He has a quiet voice, quiet and cultured.

I met him at Boma’s house. He came over one afternoon, and spent a few hours talking with Boma. I was in my room, trying to finish some work I had pending, and I didn’t know Boma had a visitor. So I stepped out of my room in just bumshorts. Boma introduced us. But while he was doing that, I could see Don leering at me, his eyes practically stripping me naked, boring into my skin. I found it intrusive and disconcerting, but I wouldn’t have done or said anything if not for what happened next.

He looked at me, smiled, and asked me to come sit on his lap and give him a hug. In my head, I was like: Heu! Dike, ịhụla ihe. Ịhụshiela anya na this Porrakot ị bịara.

But I had to be a good person, so I smiled, said welcome to him, and went back into my room. I hoped I would not get to see him again.

Unfortunately for me, he visited again a few days later. This time around, he came with someone else: Ime, a mutual friend of Boma’s and his. And, this time around, I was home alone.

I couldn’t well leave him and the other guest alone in the parlour, so I joined them, paying attention to them while also doing some work on my phone.

He and Ime were conversing, jumping from topic to topic, asking my opinion once in a while. Then Ime said he was hungry. I offered to cook for him, and he accepted. Then Don asked me to include him in the meal. Ime looked at him askance, asking why he wanted me to cook for him when he would soon be going back home.

Immediately, a frown marred Don’s genial features. “Me,” he asked, “Go home to eat that witch’s food? God forbid!”

Ahn-ahn! Witch ke? His wife? From where to where?

Ime was shocked, as was I. We asked him to explain what he meant, why he would call his wife a witch.

And so Don began to spin this long tale about his wife. How she was disrespectful, how she is not submissive, how she is a bad woman, how much she repulses him… just a lot of talk. Ngwanu, Oga sir, what exactly did she do to you? He couldn’t mention a single infraction she had committed against him. He just kept reiterating that she is a bad woman, and how evil she is, and how he hates her.

The more he spoke, the more my initial suspicion blossomed in mind. At a point, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. So I asked: “Don, is it that you’re tired of the marriage, or is it that your wife has hurt you in some way you’re struggling to explain? Because I really don’t get it.”

That was when he finally said the truth. That he was tired of her, tired of being married. That he loves his kids and wants to keep them, but he doesn’t want her in his life anymore. That he is doing all he can to frustrate her into leaving the marriage, but that he would keep his kids.

I could not help but feel bad for the poor woman who would be wondering why her husband treats her like shit at home, refusing to eat her food, always buying stuff to eat from outside and giving some to their children, while refusing to give her any upkeep money for the family. The one thing I was grateful for was when he said that she was a working class woman. At least, she wouldn’t be dependent on him for everything.

Because, ahn-ahn! If this is not the perfect definition of someone marrying their enemy, I don’t know what is.

The second married man, we shall call Jack. He, like Don, is a friend of Boma’s. The day we met, Boma was going out, and he told me a friend would be coming over with a flame of his. To fuck, apparently. I said okay, and went back to my work. Jack arrived about an hour later, with a twink. I simply showed him to Boma’s room and let them do their thing.

When he was done, he came to meet me in the kitchen where I was cooking. We got talking and he took my number before he left. A few hours later, he buzzed me on WhatsApp and our conversation, though still perfunctory, continued. A few days later, he posted a picture of two beautiful boys on his status and captioned it: “Daddy’s boys.”

I replied the status, asking if the kids were his. He replied in the affirmative, and I complimented their looks, adding that his wife must be a pretty woman too, because his sons were positively beautiful. Next thing I saw was a message from him talking about how his sons don’t look like his wife, that he’s happy that ugly witch didn’t contaminate his sons in any way. That he hopes they don’t resemble her in character either.

Just a whole lot of vituperations.

I wasn’t in the mood for any of that nonsense, and I told him as much immediately. Told him to keep his unsavoury opinions about his wife to himself, that I did not want to hear them. He must have gotten the memo because he didn’t say another word about his wife to me again. He texted a few days later, asking how I was.

I read his messages, and I ignored them. Because it can never be me getting involved or even friendly with people like that. God forbid, abeg!

What’s even more annoying about all this is that these men do not seem to understand what bodily autonomy is. They feel an entitlement to people’s bodies, an entitlement to touch everybody they want to touch. I had to slap both Don and Jack’s hands away from my body several times during the few minutes I was with them. If they were not trying to fondle my ass, they were trying to stroke my thighs, or some such.

It was annoying, honestly. To be both a complete ass to your wife, and still feel entitled to the bodies of young boys.

These men of Port Harcourt have to be high on something. My money is on ment. Pure, undiluted ment.

Written by Dike