A NIGERIAN FROM GRINDR

We met on Grindr.

His name is X.

After a brief conversation, we moved to WhatsApp. We conversed for a bit there, firming up our acquaintanceship. When I mentioned that I was sorting through my late father’s things, trying to decide what to give away, he suggested donating them to an orphanage close to where he stays. I’d given to an orphanage before, so this idea appealed to me.

“It will also give us a chance to meet,” he said.

I agreed.

The plan was to meet him at his junction, go with him to the orphanage, make my donation, and then move over to his place to bump and grind.

I was at the junction by noon. I was picking out my phone to call him when I saw him walking out toward the main road from the direction on the other side. He had seen me already and waved to get my attention. I made to cross the road but he gestured for me to stay there; apparently, the orphanage was located on my side of the road.

He walked over to me.

We sized each other up.

“You’re just shining, looking fresh,” he complimented with a beaming smile.

He didn’t look bad himself, and I told him that.

We shook hands and then started walking.

As we walked, we gisted about the weather and the floods that were wrecking the country, about ASUU strike getting called off and how everywhere was suddenly full of university students again, about this and that.

It wasn’t a long walk; we were soon at the gate of Mother-something-something Orphanage. The words on the signpost mounted over the wall wasn’t clear; the elements of rain and shine had worn them off.

We knocked and a gateman let us in. A young woman emerged from inside the building, from where we could hear the happy squeals of little kids, to meet us. I told her what I was there for, hefting the small Ghana-must-go in my hand. She was very solicitous, led us into a room where I signed my donation into a logbook and she answered some of my questions about the children in their care.

“The older ones are in school,” she said. “Do you want to meet the other ones?”

“That’s alright,” I said with a polite smile. “I have some other engagements to get to.”

I saw X flash a smile at me, that knowing expression of exactly what “other engagements” I have to get to.

Soon, we were back out on the street, walking back the way we came. We had gotten to the junction when he suddenly remembered he had to collect his voter’s card from a collection centre just a few yards away from the junction.

“I went to INEC and they said I should collect my card here,” he said, pointing to the building. “Can we go collect it first before going to my place?”

“Sure,” I acquiesced. We started walking. “I went to my collection centre yesterday and they told me to return November ending, that the cards aren’t ready.”

“Hian! When did you register?” he asked.

“May,” I replied.

“I registered in June. That means this one we are going is just a waste of time.”

We soon got there. It was a clubhouse. I wondered why this place would be made a PVC collection centre instead of some local government office. The security man proved my doubts right; he affirmed that this place couldn’t possibly be connected to any INEC activity because it is a private property, insisting that nobody had ever come here to ask to collect their PVC. He wouldn’t let us past the gate to confirm from any staff member of the club.

So we turned away.

X looked exasperated.

“This card is even just for my banking activities o,” he grumbled. “It’s not like I’m even going to vote. On that day, I’m jejely going to stay in my house and sleep.”

I stopped walking.

“Wait, what?” I said softly.

He stopped and looked at me with some amusement. “Let’s be going na.”

“Let’s not. There’s no rush. Why won’t you want to vote?”

And that was how we started talking about the upcoming elections, the three major presidential candidates and the call for Nigeria’s votes.

It was a bit of an intense conversation, but here is the summary of his stance: Nigeria is a shithole that cannot be fixed; just because Peter Obi was a good governor doesn’t mean he will make a competent president; and the Igbos should be allowed to secede.

“Are you a BATist?” I asked at one point, feeling my skin crawl at the thought that I was going to get naked with this guy.

“No,” he said with a laugh.

“Do you support Atiku?”

“Of course not! I don’t even want any of them to win.”

“But that is not what will happen,” I said. “One of them will win. You can’t be so mad at how bad Nigeria has gotten, that your response to it is to not vote, hoping the three of them will just go away. One of them will win. And your vote can count for the right person winning.”

“And the right person is Peter Obi?” he said with annoying superciliousness.

“Yes!”

“That man may not even be the good person you people think he is. These politicians will just make all sorts of promises, show you what they know you want to see, until they get to that seat, and then they become who they truly are.”

“We already know that about politics. You’ve not revealed any brand new information here,” I retorted. “But based on their records, based on what we already know about these three main candidates, there is a reason Nigerians are more willing to take their chances with Peter Obi than the other two.”

“Nigeria is too fucked up for that man to fix if he becomes president.”

“Okay. So what then is the alternative? If he is such a hopeless choice, what is the alternative? A geriatric overlord who says he will continue from where Buhari stopped? Or a former vice president who can’t even be courageous on Twitter? What is the alternative?”

“For none of them to win.” He gave a stupid little laugh. “They should all just lose jare.”

My exasperation cooled then. The annoyance stopped kindling in my soul. The desire to have sex with him had long since died. All I felt was a sadness for him – for me, for every Nigerian who is desperate for their vote to count and for those whose ambivalence will fuck that up.

“I’m going home now,” I said with some tiredness.

“What? Why?” he spluttered. “Don’t tell me this small argument is making you not want us to fuck.”

“Small argument?” I said with a sardonic laugh. “That’s your takeaway from all this? That we had a small argument? You are too grown to not understand why these issues are gravely important, especially as we come to the end of 8 years of a hellish administration. And all it comes down to you is that it is a small argument?” I shook my head and began walking away. “I’m going home please.”

“Nawa for you o,” he said behind me. “Your blood is just hot anyhow. It’s well. When you have calmed down, we can see tomorrow. You’re just too fresh for us not to fuck.”

I continued walking toward the main road where I’ll get a taxi headed my way, fetching my phone from my pocket to hit DELETE on his contact.

Written by Pink Panther