I was scrolling through my Instagram timeline when I happened on the post made by Kito Diaries, which narrated the story of a guy who narrowly escaped getting kitoed at the Quincy Lodge in Polytechnic Nekede, because he called his friend when he got to Owerri and was alerted to the danger of going to Quincy Lodge for a hookup. This guy had apparently set out from Enugu after getting acquainted with the potential hookup on Tinder.
Because, you see, that same Tinder profile had tried to get me.
But I outsmarted the kito scum, with a little bonus for myself too.
That day was Tuesday, and it was a slow day at work. I was on Tinder, swiping left and right, hoping to match with someone decent.
It wasn’t very long before someone I’d earlier swiped right on matched with me. When I checked out his profile, it had the photos of a good-looking, middle-aged, dark-skinned man whose username was Henry.
He dropped a message, saying hello.
I responded. And soon, we were chatting away, establishing our interests for a hookup and checking off the usual hookup pleasantries such as regular name, role, age and location. He said his name was the same as his username: Henry. He was forty and a versatile top. And before I even thought to ask, he added that he worked as the head accountant at the ministry of health.
This set off the barest tingle in my mind, even though it wasn’t enough to make me think “kito”. The thing is, and y’all know this: gay guys on dating apps rarely ever freely give information about what they do, not when they are just getting to know the other person, and especially not when that job is a well-paying, high-status job. The default mode is to play down your financial appeal, so the person on the other end of the hookup channel doesn’t immediately think of you as a cash cow.
Kito people however seem to think that leading with the affluence their online character has will capture the interest of their mark. And maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t. But, like I said, Henry telling me he was a head accountant only made me faintly uneasy. The seed of suspicion wasn’t even planted. I was still interested in meeting him.
Then he mentioned that he lived in Owerri, and I felt more than a little deflated. I was in Port Harcourt and was looking for nearby runs. When I expressed my disappointment, he said, “Well, you can come over. I wish you will come so I can host you.”
I reminded him that it was a weekday and that I was at work. But for some reason, he seemed to disregard that and kept on saying I should come over, that he would host me well, emphasizing how brief the journey from Port Harcourt to Owerri was.
Well, it was a slow day at work and I could have taken off, but I couldn’t just make that kind of commitment to someone I only knew on Tinder. Please, I’m too KDian for that.
So, I asked for us to move the conversation to WhatsApp. And his response was what finally set off the alarm in my head.
He said, “I’m not on WhatsApp, but you can check me out on Facebook.”
He wasn’t on WhatsApp?!!!
Who isn’t on WhatsApp? Everybody who is on a dating app is also on WhatsApp! So again, who isn’t on WhatsApp?
The person who doesn’t want to enable the risk of getting asked to do a video call, that’s who!
As I sat there, trying to calm my wildly beating heart over the thought about how valid my suspicion may be, he asked for my number, said he wanted to call me. I gave it to him and he called immediately after.
“Hello, baby, it’s Henry,” the voice on the other end greeted the moment I answered the call. “I really want you to come, baby. Please try and come. I want to host you and spoil you.”
If I had any doubts, those words erased them completely. This guy was definitely kito!
But instead of flying into an indignant rage and cussing him out, I curbed that urge with great effort, deciding instead to have a bit of fun at the expense of this idiot.
So, in my best sugar baby voice, I cooed at him, “Sure, baby. I’ve decided that I will come. But it can’t be now. When I close from work, I’ll have to go home and pick up clothes for work tomorrow, so I can spend the night with you and come straight to work from there.”
I could imagine him calculating how worthwhile I had potentially become to him. If I planned on spending the night to set off for work the next day, then I must be coming to his place fully loaded with my phones, chargers, maybe a laptop, and a wallet of cash and ATM cards. I presented too good a mark for him to pass up.
And this was evident in the excitement that coloured his voice when he said, “OK good, so what time should I expect you, baby?”
“I’ll leave the office early because of you. I’ll leave by 2, so I can go home, prepare and start leaving PH by, latest, 3:30.”
“OK, good. That’s good.”
“But, baby, the thing is,” I turned my voice into ajebutter softness, “I’m coming with my Mac Book, and I can’t travel with it in a bus, especially that late in the day.”
There. I’d supplied another delicious morsel of how good a mark I was. A Mac Book? I was sure he’d be positively salivating by now. I was sure I now had him where I wanted him.
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” he said. “It will be safe. Just come with it.”
“No,” I said, my pout evident in my voice. “I can’t risk it. I’m thinking I will book a ride on Bolt, and then we can both split the cost of the ride to Owerri.”
“Oh, that’s alright, baby,” he said. “Just pay for the ride, and I’ll give you the entire money when you come.”
“No, no, no,” I objected, still on sugar baby mode. “I can’t do that. You have to send me half the money for the ride. That way, I’ll know you are for real and that I’ll be safe with you.”
“Okay…” He paused for several beats, either to quickly consult with his partners or to debate to himself if a Mac Book-carrying mark was worth it. Finally, he responded, “So, how much is the ride?”
“I already checked, and it’s 14k. So, your share will be 7k,” I said, smiling to myself.
“OK. Send me your account details.”
My smile broadened as I typed out the information of one of my bank accounts that had no money in it and sent it in a text to him.
About thirty minutes later, I got an alert: my account had been credited with 7 thousand naira.
I was out of the office in a flash to the nearest ATM to withdraw it.
I was sauntering back to my workplace when he called.
“Baby, have you seen it?”
Sugar baby was gone, and so was Ajebutter softness. The voice that responded was every bit the Port Harcourt wiseass that I am. “So you want to kito me, abi? Idiot! Your father will die a miserable death. You think you are smart. Muthafucker!”
His fury exploded in my ear. “Fucking homo! I must catch you, you useless homo! You will die of AIDS! Just watch it, because I must deal with you and your kind! Useless ho–”
I hung up on him mid-tirade. Then I blocked his number and went back on Tinder to unmatch him. And for the rest of the day, I was in such a good mood.
Written by Gabi