FINDING DIMEJI

“I don’t know where Dimeji is, sir,” I said in a low tone. It was a lie.

“What do you mean by that? Are you not his boyfriend?” Mr. Adeleke snarled.

“No sir. We are just friends.”

“Just friends? You must think I am a fool.”

“Sir, I am telling you the truth –”

“No, you are not telling me the truth, Seun,” he thundered. “My wife showed me your sex chats with Dimeji. I have evidence of you planning to sodomize with my son.” His voice gathered momentum. “Do you know that what you are doing is against the laws of this country?! I could have you jailed for fourteen years!”

“Sir, please I can explain –”

“I don’t want any bloody explanation! Just tell me where my son is!”

“Honestly sir, I don’t know where he is –”

“That is a lie, Seun!” he barked. “Uber sent me a notification this morning that Dimeji took a trip from home to your estate around 2 am. So, you have no excuse. Dimeji came to your house!”

Those words rattled me; I was not aware of this particular development. Dimeji assured me that no one would ever suspect my involvement if I helped him escape. Now here comes his father with implicating evidence linking me as his accomplice. Shit!

“Sir, I…”

“Look here, Seun,” he cut me off before I could muster a protest. “I am taking this matter up to the highest level. I have already called the DPO at the police station and some of my top-ranking friends in the army, and they have promised to look into this matter. If you don’t want any trouble for you and your family, tell me where Dimeji is. I give you until 12 pm or else, expect the police at your house today!” he roared as he disconnected the call.

I slowly removed the phone from my ear and dropped my head into my hands in defeat, overwhelmed with a mixture of regret and fear.

“Oh no, not again,” I groaned.

Things weren’t always so bleak with Dimeji Adeleke in the beginning. In fact, there was a time we flirted with the idea becoming a romantic pair. Dimeji and I shared a very giddy rapport for over a month following the day I slipped into his Direct Message on Qwitter (Queer Twitter) to shoot my shot. He was coy at first, but I soon discovered he possessed a highly intelligent and mature head on his young shoulders. He was rather calm, composed and articulate for a man in his early twenties. I instantly got turned on by his impeccable written and oral diction, an admirable yet scarce quality in the virtual queer scene. Our conversations were dynamic and exciting, and we talked about the whole kit and caboodle. Away from the occasional philandering, we also exchanged childhood tales and compared dreams and aspirations. I met Dimeji when he was finally coming to terms with his sexuality after a long but successful battle with internalized homophobia. On his journey to acceptance, Dimeji faced stiff opposition from of his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Adeleke, who were extremely religious and deeply homophobic – a stark contrast to their super gay, atheist son. The constant conflicts with his parents over his sexuality and lack of faith drove Dimeji into depression, a condition he openly shared with me. The Adelekes’ condemnation of Dimeji’s same-sex attraction forced their son to look for comfort and solace away from home. To a considerable extent, I provided a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on for Dimeji, a situation which I sadly misinterpreted to be a token of his affection towards me.

Dimeji and I became bosom friends and all remained rosy between us until that day his mum barged in on us while we were on a video call. I had convinced Dimeji to video-call me with his shirt off as I wanted to admire his torso, and his mother took offense with him for talking to me, a fellow man, while being topless. She eventually left us to continue our conversation and we didn’t make much of the incident.

A few days later however, that shit hit the fan.

Since our initial introductions, Dimeji and I had moved most of our tête-à-têtes from Twitter to WhatsApp, so it was a surprise for me to receive the notification of a DM from him on the app.

“Hey, please don’t text me on WhatsApp,” the first line of his message read. “My mom took my phone last night, read all our chats and forwarded our conversation to her phone. She also collected your number. I think she might call or text you. I am so sorry.”

I stared at his message on the screen of my phone. What The Actual Fuck! The message left me deflated, numb and speechless. As I collected my thoughts, I received a ping on WhatsApp from an unsaved number.

“Hello Seun.”

In a state of shock but already aware of who was texting me, I replied, “Hello, Good morning.”

“This is Oladimeji’s mother,” she typed.

“I know, ma,” I responded. “I am terribly sorry for everything that happened,” I quickly added, already remorseful and apologetic.

As she composed her response, I was very nervous and whispered a prayer to whichever deity on duty to come to my aid. An instant passed before her next message entered.

“I take it you are Dimeji’s partner?” she finally asked.

Ehn? Dimeji’s partner bawo?

“No ma, we are just friends,” I replied.

“Okay Seun. Can I call you?” she pressed further.

Uhm… Hell to the fuck no!

“Oh I’m sorry, ma. I am at work at the moment,” I lied.

“Alright. When can I call you?”

Ei God! Please ma, don’t call me!

“I close by 5pm. I will call you when I return home, ma.”

“Alright, when you close from work, let me know. I will call you.”

“Okay ma,” I acquiesced.

Before concluding our exchange that morning, Mrs. Adeleke left me with a few thoughts to ponder on. She was adamant that our meeting was a divine orchestration by the Almighty and insisted that everything was part of a bigger picture to show forth God’s glory.

Huh?

She further informed me that her family was consecrated to the Lord and that it was in my best interest to stay far away. Her husband, Dimeji’s father, was a reputable pastor in the church, her kids were faithful servants of Christ, while she was a vision-seeing prophetess who – in her words – had seen, wrestled with and defeated demons. Lastly, she warned me to flee from Dimeji as he was ‘marked’ from birth and anyone who attempted to disrupt God’s plan for his future would be met with an untimely death.

Wawu!

The day went by in a frenzy, and soon it was time to return from my pretend-work. After preparing a sensible defense for what I presumed would be a verbal assault, I texted Mrs. Adeleke to inform her that I was now ready for her call. One painstaking, impossible and gruesome hour passed before she ultimately called, some minutes past 6pm. To my chagrin, she didn’t sound vexed or hostile on the phone; she was relatively serene for the entirety of the hour-long conversation. Mrs. Adeleke didn’t rebuke me or threaten to out me as I had anticipated; instead, and to my relief, she approached the matter from a religious angle through counselling and prayers. The dialogue started off as a religious sermon but concluded as a scolding from a concerned mother to her naughty son. She was stern with me, but the impact of her severity was softened with her words of encouragement and a promise to not inform her husband of the ugly incident. I thanked her for her candor and grace in the handling of the matter and per her insistence, vowed to keep in touch.

When the call was over, I took some time to muse over her kind words. I would have listened to Mrs. Adeleke, accepted Jesus as my lord and personal savior and fled from Dimeji if only I wasn’t a militant atheist already planning to engage in unholy homosexual coitus with her son.

I took Mr. Adeleke’s threat seriously. His son was missing and as far as he knew, I was the only person alive who knew his whereabouts. From my assessment, he was well connected with law enforcement, which meant he could make my already difficult life grimmer.

Fuck!

I lived in a fairly nosy estate; the police pulling up at my gate and bundling me into their van in handcuffs was sure to make headlines in the community gossip. News of my alleged crimes would spread like wild fire and become a juicy debate for rumor-mongers. I could not afford such ignoble publicity as it would become detrimental to my family’s long-standing proud and respectable image. This was no small matter at all; if Mr. Adeleke followed through on his plan, I could potentially be spending many nights on the cold, hard floors of a prison cell. At the back of my mind, I knew I had ‘technically’ not committed any crime and I could prove my innocence in a court of law, but at the same time, there was no assurance that my case would even make it to court. I had to ask myself some serious questions. Was risking my life for Dimeji worth it? Would my folks apply for bail if they knew the true story? Could my reputation in the society survive such a huge scandal? The time was only a few minutes past 7 am but I was exhausted and desperately wanted the day to come to an end.

Around 8 am, my eyes were visibly swollen and my head ached from lack of sleep. I looked forlorn as I paced around my room in a state of gradually mounting alarm. Out of panic, I frantically began to place a series of phone calls to my potential rescuers. I called Dimeji first, but his number was switched off.

Shit.

I then phoned a representative of The Initiative for Equal Rights (TIERs), who advised me to come out clean by giving up Dimeji’s location to his parents. Still indecisive, I rung a few of my close friends and explained my predicament to them. Their response was unanimous as they reiterated what the TIERS rep had recommended. I ruminated over the wise counsel I had received and finally resolved to ‘save’ myself. As I was unable to reach him on phone, I sent Dimeji a text, informing him that the jig was up and that I was going to confess everything I knew to his parents. I didn’t wait till the 12pm deadline before I dialed Mr. Adeleke.

“Hello sir, good morning. This is Seun,” I said when he picked up.

“Yes, I know. Go on, I am listening,” Mr. Adeleke said impatiently.

“Is your wife also listening?” I asked.

“Yes Seun, I am here. Please continue,” Mrs. Adeleke responded, making me realize that I was on speakerphone.

“Okay ma. I am going to tell you everything I know. Please, I don’t want any more trouble.”

The anxiety on the other end of the call was palpable as I took in one mighty deep breath before uttering the words that put an end to their misery.

“I know where Dimeji is,” I confessed. “He is on a bus headed to the North as we speak.”

TO BE CONTINUED

Written by Orobo Hunter