The Destination Of Me

The Destination Of Me


On my forehead is an inscription that screams Q-U-E-E-R – apparently visible to everyone but me. They say I’m pretty, with the brows and the lashes. I roll my eyes, they say, and my smile is beautiful. Everyone seems to think I’m gay. Some are bold enough to ask me directly, and I tell them I’m not.

But deep inside of me, I don’t know if or not I am.



A chat head pops rudely on my screen. Gabriel. A chat head reminds me of some ten years ago, that night I woke up to his crotch pressed against mine while he vibrated pleasurably. Trauma. The confrontation at dawn. Apologies drawn from humiliation. Years of awkward friendship that followed afterwards. Ten years later, I’m looking at his text on Facebook Messenger and I’m trying to remember if buried deep inside the trauma of waking up to my bunk mate humping me was a pleasure I am forbidden to acknowledge. I respond to his message. There is some small talk. I doubt he remembers. He has gone on to bunk half the girls in his lodge back in the university. Me too. I have had my share of the exotic folds of the vagina.

And yet, I cannot say for sure that I am not queer.



Like others before me, I was raised with the curse of homophobia. I’m glad I broke out early enough. But beyond the acceptance of other people’s sexuality lies a greater challenge – accepting who I am…Or who I might be.



Steve is a nice guy. He’s not very attractive but he has a warm heart and I relate to his vulnerability. Yet I find him so dangerously powerful. He’s subtle in his approach, dissecting my guard bit by bit with his genuine sensitivity. He doesn’t say he likes me, yet he melts at every syllable I speak. I think he’s needy, and I’m helplessly drawn to his beautiful clumsiness. I see in his eyes that he worships me. Calls me “Love”, and yet, when I ask him if he is queer, he says he does not know. That he’s probably not. Why I get disappointed when he says this, I cannot tell.



I have only kissed a boy in my head. First was that sweet Kenyan, in the glory of his glowing melanin. I am straight until he asks me if I am queer. And then I find myself trying to convince myself that I am. I tell him I don’t know. I still don’t know. I have never touched a boy in that manner before but I want to snuggle with my Kenyan while he reads me poetry. And kiss him. Kiss him so deep I can touch his soul with my tongue.



In my cupboard are skeletons and shards of broken hearts. I do not know how to love a girl completely, staying true to her alone. Every girl I meet wants to stay, every guy that comes along wants to be a stop-by. I am fine with stop-bys. So I indulge the boys for just as long as they wish to stay. But now, I have a girl I think I love in every sense of the word. And yet I can’t knock away the feeling that beautiful things don’t last for long. I hope I’m wrong, but if I’m not, then I will take that trip to the other side of the Niger where he awaits me with his magic. And we’ll both explode in the pride of our newly found selves.

Written by Slim

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  1. Mandy
    April 29, 09:23 Reply

    You sound hampered by way too many expectations of your sexuality. It’s a good thing you’re figuring it out. But whether a girlfriend or the Kenyan, for their sake, better find where your place — and heart — is at before you commit to either one of them.

  2. Dubem
    April 29, 09:58 Reply

    Kenyan??? Lol. The sheer long distance of this love that isn’t even confirmed is a wawu.

  3. Malik
    April 29, 10:02 Reply

    Wow. This was beautifully written. I wish you love bro. Whether it’s with her or him, I hope you find what you’re looking for. And I hope it lasts.

    April 29, 21:24 Reply

    Beautiful piece. Very relatable too. Wish you all the best bro

  5. Pankar
    May 02, 11:03 Reply

    You guys quit the plenty analogyanalogy and appreciate the professional writing from Slim jare..analogy much

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