SIX

The red pulpy liquid splashed and settled on my groin region. I felt the wet, cool watermelon/coconut smoothie soak my cream-coloured khaki pants and my briefs. A trickle found its way to my ankle. Embarrassment gave way to anger. The man that had bumped into me didn’t offer any apology as he wound his way out of the smoothie shop. I could feel the eyes of the other customers on me. They knew what had happened. A young woman with an empty baby carrier gave the man’s retreating back a disgusted look.

“Hey!” I yelled at his retreating back.

He didn’t stop.

“Excuse me, I’m talking to you!”

He paused to look in my direction and poked his chest with his left thumb by way of confirming if I was talking to him.

“Yes, you,” I affirmed.

I covered the distance between us. Something about him was very familiar. But I was too livid to dwell on it. “You bumped into me and you didn’t even apologise.”

Taking in my appearance, he looked at me like I was insane, and without a word, he turned around and walked out of the outlet. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. My mouth was opened at the sheer incredulous attitude demonstrated by the man. Clutching the half-full cup of smoothie, I went after the stranger.

I know I’m a very rational person – or so I’ve been told. But when push comes to shove, I do the craziest things anyone could ever think of. So without caring what people thought about my appearance, I caught up with him. Luckily for me and unfortunately for him, there was a much larger audience outside the shop. I tapped him on the shoulder, and as soon as he turned to face me, I opened the cup and splashed his face with its remaining content. The collective gasp of my very large audience, who were probably heading home after a hectic day at their respective workplaces, told me I’d done a good job. It had hit him square in the face.

The stranger’s bespoke suit, his starched white shirt, his whole face were all covered. How the pulpy drink got into his left ear is still a mystery to me. His beard was marshy.

Then I brought out my pocket-square from where I’d put it in my jacket and wiped his eyes; they had shut instinctively in the face of my smoothie assault.

When he finally managed to open his eyes with his mouth still hanging open, probably with shock at both my audacity and what he’d just been subjected to, he found a Cheshire cat smile playing on my lips. My face, my core, my stance, my whole being was schooled in what I concluded was pleasing to my existence.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “That’s how it’s done.”

I dropped the cup at his feet, turned and went to my waiting uber.

***

At half past ten that night, I walked into my father’s kitchen, well aware I was late and not caring much. My father was probably either too absorbed with his television show in the other section of the house or already in bed. Maybe I would have a peaceful dinner all by myself.

“You’re late,” I heard him say as I walked into the kitchen. “You were supposed to be around for dinner.” He was looking at me from behind his spectacles as he poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the kitchen counter.

Great! There goes my peace and my dinner.

“I work,” I said shortly as I crossed the tiled floor and detoured around the salt-and-pepper-haired pillar of exasperation that had donated his sperm twenty-something years ago, and went straight to the refrigerator to pour myself a glass of cold water. “That means my job gets first dibs on my time. If you want me here with your new beau, you should have scheduled it for the weekend or something.”

My father had been single for as long as I could remember. My mother walked out on us when I was four years old; soon after, she married another man and never looked back. My father is my world, but I would never tell him that. You see, as an only child, he doted on me. Which was why I had set him up with the woman he wanted us to have dinner with, just so he’d have someone else, a love interest, to get him off my back.

This woman, Ms. Abigail Jaiyeola, was perfect for him. She was a widow. Her daughter, Faramade – who is bisexual by the way – attended the same university as I did, and by sheer luck or coincidence or whatever, we had been posted to the same state for our service year.

Faramade (or Fara, as I liked to call her) and I had come out to each other over a plate of gbegiri, ewedu, goat meat, three wraps of amala and a bottle of Pepsi to wash it down after a pretty lazy day at our PPA. Good friends, both of us. She got married to my friend, Mundi, who is also gay. Her mother and siblings have no idea of her sexuality. Between Fara and myself, we’d hatched the perfect plan to bring our parents together.

So why was I not present at dinner? I simply didn’t want to allow myself be subjected to the sparks of puppy love that was bound to fly at the table, something that would remind me of my lonely loveless life. I’d rather pull my hair out from its roots instead. Besides, Faramade had learnt the hard way when my father was over at her mother’s house a few weeks before, and being the good friend that she was, had warned me beforehand.

“Olupeka Oluwafeyisetemi-Bernard,” my father said sternly, “that is the kind of attitude that will not get you a man.”

Did I fail to mention he knows I’m queer?

I stopped gulping my water, left the cup on the kitchen counter and whirled around to leave the room, “Good night, dad.”

“I’m not done with you, young man.”

“Well, I am. This conversation is getting old and I had a long day and –”

“Long day? How come? Did you have sex with your boss in his office?”

“What? No!” The look I gave him when I turned to face him was a mixture of shock and what-the-flying-fuck-dad. “Where’d come from?”

“So what happened that made your day long?” he asked, ignoring my question.

I’d really had a long day. I was tired to the bone. And so to get him off my back, I tried a different tactic.

“You know what your problem is? Sex! You need to get laid, dad. And fast.”

“I had sex this evening,” he said matter-of-factly.

Ha! Apostle must hear this.

“Why do you think I needed to know that?”

“You brought it up,” he pointed out. “I only thought it was appropriate to let you know it isn’t a problem for me as it is for you. You need to have sex, my son.”

“I have sex every now and then. It doesn’t –”

“With who?”

“Don’t be silly, dad. It’s none of your business.”

“It is.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Stop getting defensive. We both know you’re not having sex. You’re married to your work. And then those briefs you wear. Wherever did you get them from?”

Reflexively, I looked down at my crotch, as though somehow, I was standing there in the kitchen, before my father, wearing nothing but the indicted briefs. “I have no idea,” I said, looking back up at him. Of course I was still in my work clothes. “Why?” I paused, and then narrowed my eyes. “Wait? Did you ransack my room? Did you go through my stuff again?”

No response.

“You did, didn’t you?”

“This is my house.”

“And those are my things.”

“White briefs? Really?” He gave a small chuckle. “Honestly, Peka,” – short for Olupeka, by the way – “plain-coloured briefs are like plain ice cream –”

“I love plain ice-cream –”

“There’s no excitement there at all.”

I blinked. “I work every day of the week. There’s never time for excitement.”

“See?” the man pounced with a gleam in his eye of one who had had his point made. “You don’t have sex. You’re getting old, and you’re wearing plain coloured briefs. Take me for example, I freeball almost always. Or wear these boxer shorts that are easy to pull off when it’s time for a quickie.”

I instantly felt scarred for life knowing that.

“Whatever,” I said dismissively, wondering fleetingly what reverse universe I was occupying where my father had more game than me. “I work always.”

“It shouldn’t matter. Didn’t you say you’re the…um, what was it you called it again?” He snapped his fingers as if trying to remember something. “Ah, yes, the bottom. You’re basically the lady in this situation.”

“The what now?” I stared, aghast.

Which of the immortal gods did I offend today?

“The lady,” he reiterated, like he hadn’t just stereotyped me, something I had explained to him before. “And if you’re wearing plain briefs, you’ll feel plain and you’ll act plain and plain briefs will never ever get you sex, nor will it let you get called back for another round should you somehow get sex the first time. Learn to keep it fun and classy. You’re not tacky. God knows I didn’t raise you to be tacky. You’re a fine young man. Let your aura ooze poise and class. Okay?”

“Ha!”

Just shoot me. SHOOT ME!

He turned to leave the room.

In spite of the situation, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “You’d make a nice pimp.”

He stopped to take his phone from the kitchen counter. “You’re right. I must have missed my calling. That advice was free by the way. Next time, it won’t be.” He left the room and laughter consumed me. But then, he poked his head back in. “And please, trim down there when you eventually decide to have sex. Not all men like it bushy or in locks.”

“How would you know what men like or don’t like? Is there something I should know? Are you coming out to your dear son?” I folded my arms over my chest and smirked.

“Straight people don’t come out.” With that, he turned off the light switch, plunging me into the dark as more laughter consumed me.

Written by Vhar