Bruno, The Ghost Of Kito Diaries

Hello.

I am Bruno, a subscriber of Kito Diaries.

And I’m a ghost.

At least, that’s what the wind says. I know I’m not alive; it’s not a feeling or an intuition. It’s more like knowledge germinating from reality. A comparison of who I am now and who I was. There are things I can do that humans can only wish for. It’s not a supernatural thing, it’s just the way it is for ghosts, I guess.

I can climb trees without knowing I am. I can walk through walls. Although, most times, it’s accidental. I just find myself caught inside concrete. I speak to birds and they speak to me back. Let me just take a moment to say that the Eagles are not as bad as people think. They aren’t even proud, seeing as they’re the king of birds and all. But canaries? Spiteful creatures, those.

You know the best thing about being a ghost? It is that I never suffer the burden of hunger or thirst or konji. There is no danger of starvation or dehydration or stumbling through kito experiences simply because I let my libido think for me.

When I died, there was no white light. No walking into a tunnel with blinding illumination at the end of it. And I am yet to meet God. Rumors have it that He is too busy answering prayers as Nigerians alone are always – and this is not an exaggeration in the least – putting calls through to him. The poor guy. I don’t feel very empathetic toward Him though, because as long as He’s busy, no date will be fixed for my judgment.

Except for Njideka, the only other ghost I’ve seen roaming about, I have not met any spirit. She is the one that told me of the talk about God (I have no idea how she got the information but what I do know is that she goes on a lot of ghostly expeditions, if that’s a thing). Njideka died in an auto accident that happened along the Lagos-Ibadan expressway a few months before my death. I hardly ever see her. She’s the definition of a restless soul. Or maybe she’s just adventurous.

So basically, I’m alone. Perhaps because when you die, you really are on your own. What’s that thing they say? You came alone to the world, and you die alone.

Although I died in the most horrific way you can possibly imagine, it was painless. This is because I had the shortest transient time. What the doctors call “died on the spot”.

I didn’t really die on the spot. Death met me on the spot. There was no time to shout, no time to cuss and no time to say or hear any goodbyes. I had always wanted to do the sign of the cross during my last seconds on earth, always envisioned smiling as my heartbeat slowed to a stop. I didn’t get to do any of those.

The first time I thought about how I died was when I was looking through Queen Blue Fox’s window, that night he was masturbating in his room with the relish of a well-paid pornstar, and because he knew he had an audience.

If only he knew we’d been two persons watching him.

Okay I do not really count as a person. But you know, I was there. Watching. Observing the vanity of this KDian as he weaved his seduction over a man employed to be the security of his habitation.

I’m appalled by the wiles of men. (Yes, I’m allowed to sound so dignified. I’m no longer a human. I’m a ghost.)

Anyway, that was the first time I allowed myself to think about my death and all the events surrounding it. The security man, with his pants down and his tongue hanging out like a dog on heat, reminded me of my boyfriend. Not like he would ever be caught in such an unattractive disposition, but well, that carnal situation reminded me of a past I had.

Have I told you I am – sorry, was a homosexual? Well, there you go.

I’m thinking about the way I died right now, because I’m watching two people go at it again with reckless abandon. One of them calls himself Heartbeat. I wonder how much further his heart will beat if I run into his grandmother and tell her he’s been having sex at her funeral.

I mean, such disrespect to the dead.

He probably thinks he will get away with it. I laugh. I’ll find your grandma, Heartbeat. I’ll find her and report your carnal soul. So better be very afraid, for the day you join us over here, a whip is what awaits you. Make that two whips.

But I digress. You want to know the story of how I died? Well, here it is.

*

“Do not tell me you haven’t felt a burning sensation for the last thirty seconds,” Trinity, my best friend, my confidant, my amebo partner and the most annoying soul on earth, said while nudging me in the crowded audition hall.

It was actually a very large room, demarcated into two smaller rooms by a transparent sliding glass wall. One room had three swivel chairs at its centre, where three women, who we knew to be the organisers because of their custom-made attires bearing the name of the production house organising the audition, were seated behind a makeshift table, our registration forms and attendance sheet spread out unevenly on the table. Some attendees were also seated at various sections of the room on plastic chairs and the lucky ones were on cushioned seats.

The other room, which was a little smaller, was where Trinity and I were standing among others, as the settees were all occupied. The room was filled with human beings – you could stretch in a yawn and touch three people at once – and voices reverberated about the gray-blue walls like we were in some newly discovered cave out in a rainforest.

I’d been too busy paying attention to the woman with the fake British accent calling our names and corresponding tag numbers. She would call “fifty-six” and it would come out sounding like “twenty-six”.

When I didn’t respond to Trinity, she pinched me. Hard enough that I yelped, before shooting her a scowl.

“What!” I hissed.

“That guy,” she said as she moved her head leftward.

My eyes followed hers and landed on a guy I could describe as good looking.

“He has been staring at you for well over five minutes now and you haven’t noticed?”

“Someone has got to pay attention to our names being called, seeing as you’re too busy being occupied with men,” I retorted with a roll of my eyes.

Trinity giggled. She is a lesbian.

I looked away from her and refocused on trying to catch a glimpse of what was going on in the other room. Then I felt a closeness, accompanied by a strong waft of cologne I couldn’t identify. In the moment it took for me to turn to understand what was happening to my personal space, Trinity was flashing me a smile and slipping away from my side. Leaving just me and –

“Hi. I’m Dmitri.”

You’re surprised, right? I was too! Here was a very handsome, Nigerian-looking, six feet plus something man with a voice that only seasoned OAPs can boast of – and he’s bearing a European name.

I would later learn that his mother was from Russia.

Yes, Dmitri and I fast became friends. He was the outgoing, street-smart guy and I was the accommodating, reserved softie. Then one day, at a pool hangout, after he playfully pushed me into the pool I’d been dreading because of my aquaphobia, he had dived in, all rippling muscles and enviable swimmer skills, to save me as I flapped about in the water, panicked. He pulled me into a tight embrace and asked me out in hushed tones.

I’d shivered immediately, violently, but it could have been caused by any one of these three things: the cold from being wet, the rawness of his voice in my ears, or the “Be mine” he’d whispered to me.

Or maybe it was caused by a combination of the three.

Being with Dmitri went on to be the best relationship I’d ever had. I had only ever been in two relationships before Dmitri. He was an enthusiastic lover. A charmer. His enthusiasm revealed itself in every aspect of his life. For instance, he could not dance to save his soul, but the combination of his enthusiasm and energy on the dance floor when a good Afro Pop jam comes on could make him give PSquare a run for their money.

He was an amazing lover. Sex was glorious. Sex was spontaneous. Sex was Dmitri.

Then Gbenga invited us for his engagement party to his boyfriend of four months. Gbenga and I had hooked up one time from Grindr. It was a hit-and-run, an amicable one, so that when I got to find out he was Dmitri’s best friend, there was no awkwardness, even though Dmitri always teased us whenever we played Truth or Dare together. With Gbenga’s boyfriend, Ejiro, present.

“You two have fucked before, so this kissing we said you people should do should be easy na,” he would say before bursting into his very horrendous laugh. For someone with a voice like Dmitri’s, he had the most unappealing cackle.

The party was typical Gbenga. Perfection. Down to the number of balloons strung together and placed on each door of the house, the peach and gold theme colours used, the type of wine served, the taste of the samosa (he didn’t do the dodo small chops. Gbenga used to say plantains were banana wannabes. He hated them for being hypocrites).

I was charging up on the dancefloor, as my favorite jam had just come on, Cardi B’s Twerk, when I felt myself scooped up from the floor. I let out a shriek as I felt myself leave the ground, only to be settled seconds later on someone’s shoulders, with my legs dangling down his chest. I remember laughing loudly when I looked down on Dmitri’s Mohawk as he moved about, with me balanced over his shoulders.

Bad dancers are just that – bad dancers. Then imagine a bad dancer who is drunk. Dmitri is over six feet tall and he had my 5’10 frame on his shoulders, so that we were a staggering almost 9-feet structure. I swayed high above the ground as my boyfriend danced, weaving about the dance floor, creating a spectacle that had the other guests laughing. I was laughing too. Too intoxicated to see the danger drawing close in the form of the sharply-whirring blades of one of the ceiling fans.

Perhaps, if Trinity had been there, she’d have noticed. She always had a way. She was usually more put-together at parties. I cannot count how many times I have wobbled my way home with my hand slung over her slim shoulders, leaning my full weight on her for support while blabbering in drunkenness.

That night though, she had gone on a date with her girlfriend. Just as I was out with my man.

I think I heard someone shout “Jesus!” – or was it “Watch out!”

I would never know, because one minute, I was laughing with reckless abandon from the height of my boyfriend’s shoulders –

And the next, I was standing by the half-empty bar, looking with perplexity at the commotion of people screaming and gathering around someone lying prone on the floor. Through the panic and the people, I could recognise the burgundy colour of my shirt sleeve, wrapped around a Rolex-bound hand, which was lying there, palm open, on the floor.

I stared at the similar burgundy-coloured shirt I was wearing and at the Rolex that was on my wrist. Why was everyone gathering around a guy dressed exactly like me? And why hadn’t I noticed him at the party earlier?

Then I saw the blood, seeping outward on the floor around that hand. A lot of it. The crowd was eddying about him like a tide, affording me clearer glimpses of him. Of the deep gash lanced across his throat, just where his Adam’s apple should be.

“Oh my god…!”

“Someone, get him to the hospital…!”

“Is he dead…!”

It was almost amusing, the frenzy that his lifeless body was causing: girls were wailing, guys were shouting. It was pandemonium. Someone had stopped the music. And I could see Dmitri, hunched over his body, letting out a gut-wrenching bellow. I was irritated by that. He should be with me, by my side, and not part of this panic.

However, I looked on, amazed at how the blood moved, spreading gradually like a map that was brought to life. I remember moving out of the way when the blood got to where I was standing. It didn’t want to stop. It just kept spreading out, kept moving, insatiable, like it was searching for something.

I didn’t want to be touched by the blood that was coming out of that person who looked very much like me. He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t even talking. He just took my face, wore my clothes and was lying there motionless, soiling the earth with his blood.

It wasn’t until Dmitri shouted my name in a tone that registered palpable agony, his eyes shooting open as my name left his lips, eyes so wide, I thought his sockets would split, until he lifted his face to the ceiling, his features twisted with such stark pain – that I suddenly knew.

That person was me.

It was a little hard coming to terms with the fact that I was dead. I remember entertaining a second of panic as the thought of the Devil appearing and commanding me in a monstrous baritone to follow him home sliced through me.

But the thought was fleeting. Even in death, Hell seemed a fantasy. Besides, the circumstances surrounding this sudden tragedy boggled my mind so much, there was hardly any time to dwell on the existence of some Bible-inspired demon.

It had happened so fast. This minute, I was dancing on my boyfriend’s neck, the next I was gone, the life snatched out of me, escaping with the currents of blood spreading all over the floor.

I was there, watching as things were unfolding and nobody noticed me. One guest was walking toward me. I thought he would see me and stop and turn to announce to the rest of the party that I was here.

But he walked right past me. Right through me. It was such a startling sensation. I gasped, recoiling from him even as he walked through, moving on away from me. I hadn’t felt him, and he clearly hadn’t felt me either. It was the strangest thing. I was unseen. I had no impact. No hold. No substance.

I didn’t know how to feel about that.

I watched as the ambulance arrived and the paramedics loaded my body in the back of their van. I watched Dmitri watch them. He was no longer crying, but I could feel his dark anger. His immense pain. His throbbing guilt.

Then I started to notice things I shouldn’t. A wall gecko, in the middle of a hunt, slithered across the wall to tell me that I was dead. Its voice was tiny, almost nonexistent. But I heard it.

You are dead.

It was like a confirmation. A stamp on an official document.

Then it nodded its head and continued with its hunt.

You are dead.

The words were reverberating about me as I went to sit by my boyfriend. He was shaking. Seeming catatonic. I wanted to touch him. I did touch him. But my hand simply sank through his body, only staying anchored on his shoulders because of my deliberateness.

He had killed me. accidentally, yes. But he had killed me. I knew the guilt would eat at him for the rest of his life.

Then I stood and left. Just like that. I didn’t disappear, no white light, no illuminated tunnel. I just left.

I have not seen Dmitri since then, and in all honesty, I’m not ready to. What if he now has a replacement for me? I have no idea if ghosts can kill humans, but I’m not sure I want to find out just yet.

But what if he hasn’t moved on? What if he is still wracked with guilt? What if he has turned into a shadow of himself? I wouldn’t be able to console him. I wouldn’t be able to reveal myself to him to tell him it was alright. Njideka tells me this is possible, but I would have to learn how to do it.

Until that happens, I am just going to write about it. I know he reads Kito Diaries. Perhaps he will see this and know it is okay. That he should forgive himself, but not forget me. That he was the best part of my life. That I am looking out for him.

OK, I am done for now. I have to go and find Njideka for more gist on what’s going on in this otherworldly realm.

XOXO earthlings.

Love, Bruno.

Written by Delle