CAUGHT IN THE ACT

Some days ago, my thirteen-year-old sister caught me having sex.

It was the first time I’d leave my door unlocked when I had someone over. She wanted to take something from my room, had knocked and in her usual fashion of not waiting for a response, pushed the door open. I was already calling for her to not come in, but it is difficult to quickly assert your authority when a part of you is buried some inches deep inside another human being.

There was shock. There was confusion. There was mortification.

There was a scramble for cover in the moment before she fled from the room, closing the door with an urgency that spoke of her consternation.

But I wasn’t alarmed. My siblings know I am gay. In fact, they do not just know this; they have grown to become the liberal minds I am proud to show off at any time. In spite of this, I have been careful not to flaunt my sex life in their faces. And just so we are clear, I would do the same thing if I were heterosexual. For some reason, it is important to me, as the most senior, to lead with a certain decency. And shielding them from a life of used condoms and lubricant wrappers is a huge part of it.

So, while they may be aware of sexual identities and very possibly have been exposed to sex through media representation (at least I know how firm I have always been with them on not throwing their faces away when a sex scene starts to play in a movie. There is an absolute falsehood that is perpetuated when a child closes their eyes the moment two actors start to go at it), I do not want them to think of me as the older brother that brings his hookups home and has sex without a care in the world. They need to know that sex is not something you do in front of people who are not partaking in it, especially not in front of persons you are older than.

In light of this, while my sexual orientation is no news, my sexual escapades have been discreet.

Until five days ago, that is.

I was mortified that she had caught me in such wanton position. Uncertain about how she was going to react to such a crude scene. And I was confused about whether or not I should confront her about it.

My best friend, Uche, whom I told about what happened when he called that evening, was of the opinion that I confront her. According to him, seeing as I have groomed my siblings to not reason like the average Nigerian with sentimental and warped ideals, it’s only sensible I treat this with the same energy; sit my teenage sister down and talk to her in the way I would an adult.

I resolved that I would. But we didn’t sit to talk as it would have been too clinical, too formal.

The following day, while I was stirring the sauce I had just made on the cooker and she was washing off the items we’d used to prepare the sauce, I mentally prepared myself for what was very likely going to be one of the most uncomfortable discussions I’d ever had. I was pensive and hesitant. But it had to be done. I had to deal with this maturely and correct some impressions I wouldn’t want to fester in her mind.

So, after I had taken a taste of my sauce to calm my dancing nerves, I asked in the most casual tone I could muster, “Amy, I want you to be honest with me. What did you see when you opened the door to my room yesterday?”

I heard plates clatter and knew she was agitated. When she gets like that, she tends to lie. I braced myself for it.

“Nothing o, Brother… I didn’t –”

“I need you to not lie, Amy,” I chided and turned to her so that she would see that I was not angry. So that she would see that I only wanted us to have a conversation devoid of objurgation and blame.

She dropped the sponge she was holding and bent her head slightly. I could feel the waves of embarrassment threatening to drown her and it was all I could do to put a stop to the conversation right there and then.

I turned back to my cooking as that was the only way I could continue without chickening out. “Listen, I need you to know that what you saw is perfectly normal – but only for two consenting adults.” I faced her. “Okay?”

I emphasized the word ‘consenting’ because I needed to be sure she understood the importance. She nodded.

“And it doesn’t matter who is having it. Two boys, two girls or a boy and a girl,” I said emphatically.

“I know, Brother.” She was still finding her voice, her balance. “It’s really not a problem.”

I wanted to roll my eyes. Instead, I stirred my sauce.

“I get that this is an awkward conversation, Amy, but sooner or later, you will have to face the reality that is sex. You’re already menstruating and I am pretty sure those teachers in your school are doing nothing to educate you guys on sex.”

She shrugged. “Those ones that even fumble whenever they teach human reproductive class… they just copy notes, no lecture.”

I nodded in understanding. Nigeria’s abhorrence of sex reaches even as far as the educators who should know better. “Well, there really isn’t so much I want to tell you, but know it that in this family now, the only people allowed to have sex are mummy, Kosi and me. You and Obi have not reached the age of consent.”

“What is the age of consent?” she asked.

“Eighteen.”

I could see her stifle a chuckle. She and her immediate older brother are always in this constant tussle that makes no sense to me, and it was obvious that him being seventeen in two months – still a whole year away from this age of consent – and as such, in the same boat as her, gladdened her heart.

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Yeah. So, if any boy comes to you now, you kick his ass. Remember all that you have to accomplish. And when you do reach the age of consent, it doesn’t mean you get to sleep around. Also, there are safe methods –”

“Like condoms!” she supplied promptly, cleanly cutting me off.

I smiled. “Listen,” I was looking at her again, more confident and more relieved now, “I need you to know that you can tell me anything. You know I am not one of those elder brothers with local mindsets, right?”

She smiled and nodded.

“Good. Now finish up.”

“Phew! Well, that was some conversation we just had. Glad it’s over, Brother.” She heaved a sigh.

I almost poured the hot sauce on her.

***

My sister caught me having sex. And what does it matter really? When we take away prejudice, you realise that sex, irrespective of whoever is having it, is just that: Sex.

And it is important that we teach this to our younger ones, no matter how uncomfortable the discourse might be.

I have learned this firsthand.

Written by Delle