Perhaps I was the one who made the mistake of linking my brother to my friend. Not like there had been a lot of options at the time: the family wants the boy to stay in a hostel for his first and second years in school because, according to a common belief by Nigerian parents, the hostel is a saner place for a fresh student and my brother, in a futile bid to convince my mum and our uncles to let him stay off the campus, had missed his shot at getting a hostel room of his own as the portal closed before he finally realised there was no pleading his way to an off-campus apartment.
Chidiuto, for the purpose of anonymity, is the only friend I have in that campus that stays in the hostel.
And so my brother, Dubem (not real name), was going to stay with him.
Chidiuto is gay. Dubem isn’t homophobic, I mean he knows I am gay. I didn’t think there’ll be a problem. It helped that while I was in school, I had accommodated Chidiuto, so it was easy to ask for this favor. One he willingly obliged.
But then it so happened that my brother, being the free-spirit he is, started drifting from the clutches of Chidiuto to cling to some other members of the room (I am guessing Chidiuto had assumed that since Dubem is under his wings, he should as well be a part of it). This caused a serious fight between them, one that was fueled by the fact that Chidiuto doesn’t have a good rapport with those people Dubem had formed some sort of bond with.
In his usual way – which to be honest, prior to this, I had no issues with but have come to realise I shouldn’t have indulged in the first place – Diuto reported my brother to me, claiming the people he befriended in the room are not good influence and that, on his own part, he has tried to snag my brother out of their grip but for his obstinacy. He also bemoaned that the combined efforts of the other roommates to ensure Dubem doesn’t heed his chastisement is exasperating and a slight to him.
In his words, ‘I harbour him. He should give me that regard.’
An understandable sentiment if only humans are that simple to manipulate.
Anyway, things quickly got out of hand. Diuto is not particularly DL with his homosexuality and as such, a handful of people in school know, including the roommates. While he may not be in any danger of being lynched and/or whisked to the nearest Police station, they do not welcome it.
Now, my brother, who had gotten reported to us by Diuto and as a result, had borne the sharp-edged tongue of my mum and myself, was pushed to retaliate.
He, my brother, called my mum the next day while she was at work and told her in distinct terms that she should not pay attention to all Diuto had said about him, that his anger is coming from the fact that the roommates are not on friendly terms with him as a result of his homosexuality and as such, he has been vexed about his rapport with them.
Mum called me several minutes after they both had spoken and the first thing she said, in that tone of one who was still reeling from shock, ‘Dubem just called me o, Delle.’ She made a sound by clamping down on her throat muscles and forcefully pushing air out of her nostrils. It’s an Igbo thing. ‘He said that Diuto is a homosexual! Can you imagine?’
That was when the first wave of surprise, which quickly morphed into anger, hit me. How dare Dubem? I was already mentally planning just how I was going to decimate my brother.
Caught up in my thoughts and not knowing what was expected of me, another flaming homosexual, I simply replied, ‘Okay.’
The silence that followed was loud enough to wake the dead before she said, ‘Is that all you’ll say? Okay?’
Anger at my brother was quickly replaced with a healthy slab of irritation for my mother. ‘Mum, is that why you called me? To tell me Diuto is gay? Are you expecting me to start shouting and cussing at him?’ I paused for breath, weighing the silence, weighing her quiet. When she didn’t speak, I took that as permission to egg on. ‘So now you have quickly forgotten he is the one that took your son in when there was no other option? The roommates that were said to be bad influence do not matter anymore, abi? It’s his homo – ‘
‘I always knew you are one of them,’ her voice was low, yet heavy with poison. ‘Yes, you are one of them!’
I’d never been more shocked at a turn of events.
And just before I could swallow the remaining words that were abruptly cut short to form another, an appropriate set of choice words to reply her accusation with, I heard the unmistakable click to signify that the call had been disconnected.
The minute the call dropped, the bruise from the conversation with mum still fresh and florid, I put another through to my brother to lash him for daring to out someone without his authorisation even though I already knew what card was played and why. Just as I thought, my brother said it wasn’t his intention to out anyone, that all he wanted to do was throw Diuto under the bus to save himself; use the homosexuality card as a shield over himself.
Because he knew mum would be more concerned about her son being in the care of a homosexual as against being friends with some guys of questionable behaviour.
He told me his roommates were the ones that hatched this genius plan and had put him up to it.
That was not an excuse I was going to buy. As a matter of fact, there’s no excuse I’ll have bought. Although he had told me over WhatsApp the night he was reported, after we had tongue-lashed him, that the so-called guys Diuto was pulling him away from are final year students and as such, he hardly even talks to them or goes out with them except when they are in the room, I still expressed my disappointment at what I labelled a crass and childish stunt. I made sure I warned him sternly never to allow himself be steered in such direction again. I shouted and barked and chastised and chided but the damage was done.
The ‘genius’ plan had worked.
That evening my mum got back from work and while there was no talk about the call, one could feel the tension in the air. You could literally jump and put a hand through a thick cloud of it.
We didn’t make small talks as we used to, she only spoke to me when she absolutely needed to and even my attempts at starting a conversation were met with monosyllabic responses until I stopped trying.
She retired to bed very early that day.
I pretended not to be bothered but the Rainbow gods know my heart raced, for every single minute that passed in the remaining hours of that day, I was disturbed. We had to talk about this, I knew. And we were going to.
My mum and I are alike. Until we confront an issue, it doesn’t get settled. It hangs over our heads like dark clouds, threatening acid rain.
The next day when she got back from work, she was seated on her customised sofa, munching idly on her usual dessert delicacy of cucumber, groundnuts and dried tiger nuts. The air was thick with tension as we still weren’t speaking to each other.
While she was eating, I, seated on a sofa diagonal to hers, was thoughtfully pressingly away on my phone. Waiting. Holding my breath and releasing mechanically. My heart was racing. I just knew, somehow, instinctively, that the confrontation of yesterday’s event was near.
Fear nagged. It was like the moment I had always known would come was finally here and I suddenly didn’t want it. I wanted it all to just disappear. I saw my transparent closet get opened and I wanted to bang it shut, nail all sides and cover it with tarpaulin. I could have risen from the chair and stalked out of the living room, but to what end?
‘DI, what’s the name of your girlfriend?’ Somehow, the question had taken away the ghen-ghen in the moment. The fear I was feeling iced over and cracked. She had asked this very coolly, very casually. Like you’ll ask someone for chocolate or what channel on DSTV shows sports. Annoyance brewed inside me.
I looked up from my phone that was black and blank, to catch a glimpse of her. I was feeling annoyance. Anger. Irritation. Anything but fear.
She hadn’t even paused what she was doing. She didn’t look at me either. But I knew she was waiting for a response.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘What don’t you understand?’ This time around, she looked at me briefly. I saw her eyes in that instant: sad and angry at the same time. She quickly chewed off a large chunk of her cucumber as though that was what was helping hold her wits. ‘What’s the name of your girlfriend, DI?’
A glass of anger broke right inside me, its splinters piercing my heart all over so that the blood that sipped turned into acid and dripped on my words. ‘Shouldn’t I have a girlfriend for there to be a name?’
She dropped the cucumber and turned with her whole body to take a proper look at me. With the glare she gave, I could have as well been a Boko Haram recruit. ‘So you don’t have a girlfriend?’
Tired and exasperated at her uncanny craftiness, I rolled my eyes and threw my hands in the air. ‘Mummy, why don’t you go ahead and ask what you really want to ask?’
‘Eh, I just need to know why you don’t have a girlfriend at this age?’
She was still stalling and my impatience was growing. Because I hate it when people are not blunt with me, I decided to go low. As long as this was her tactic, I was going to enjoy it. ‘Why didn’t you have a boyfriend when you were my age?’
I saw her hesitate and would have smirked but for the graveness of the moment. ‘Things were different then,’ when she finally found her tongue she continued, ‘and I was a girl,’ her voice was beginning to thicken as she found her points, or what I believe she thought are points. ‘But you are a guy. Most guys your age have girlfriends.’
Seeing an opening, I latched on. ‘Most, mum. Most. Permit me to be a part of the exception.’
Then the anger started to build again when I remembered what all this was about. ‘So because I didn’t outrightly castigate Diuto when you called yesterday, then I have to be a homosexual? Hence, all these questions?’
She didn’t hesitate this time. ‘Yes!’ As if the cucumber she had in her mouth would obstruct her display of homophobia, she spat it out and barreled on. ‘Yes, DIl0. You are one of them!’
I almost laughed at the way she had said it like it was more a condemnation than an accusation. Like she was recently appointed Personal Assistant to God and all Matters Spiritual and her first assignment was to throw me, her son, into the Lake of Fire.
‘Don’t be ridiculous mummy.’ I said, gathering myself. Weighing my next words. Despite all of this, I did not want to outrightly say the words I knew she was expecting. For all of her cattiness and feistiness and display of strength and hate for homosexuality, I know she loves me. And this maternal love won’t allow her react well to such a declaration especially one said in the worst of moments. So I chose my words carefully but the anger in me was still fresh, could not be subdued. ‘You know I am a feminist, how come you don’t call me a woman?’
‘People call you a woman or have you forgotten?’ As the words stung, she stood up. ‘Back then in Asaba, I would have done something when Mama Adaobi brought this to my attention.’
Asaba, 2011.
15 year old me was caught trying to fondle the penis of one of the uncles in the house while he slept. It was a rare moment of carelessness for me. I had allowed my warring hormones get the better of me and had paid substantially for it.
The events that followed are not so coherent in my mind but I remember getting a spectacular slap from my mum and a handful of objurgations, more like insults and demeaning words, from her friend, Mama Adaobi.
The second my mum mentioned Asaba, it was as though someone poured a bottle of methylated spirit on a deep gash on my skin. I fought the pain of that statement, looked for anger and found a large strip of it. This time, I didn’t care about choosing words.
‘You would have done what? Taken me for deliverance? Thrown me out?’
I knew I was shouting now, but I couldn’t help it. I rarely shout, I almost never shout at people because I don’t know how to but I had not only been pushed to the wall, I was being pushed through it and my mum was doing a very good job at that. It is only natural she bares the brunt of it.
It would be the second time that night I’ll see her lose the words to say. She stepped back from me, but only momentarily. If I ever had any doubts that she is my mother, that day, they all vaporised. She’s every inch as bitchy as me. ‘Biko mechionu i ji eri ji ebe ahu! I would have done something. I don’t know what, but amam na m ga-eme something.’
‘Tell me, what would you have done? You forget everything: logic, reason, who I am to you and what I am because Dubem said my friend is gay? How are you sure the same people you’re suddenly unbothered by aren’t gay?’ Then I decided to play the victim card. ‘I have never done anything that would earn me the title of bad son but suddenly, homosexuality comes up and I am the worst person on earth? Mummy please, I’m not doing this with you.’
I picked up my phone and although nothing was of any interest to me, I buried my head in it. She went back to her sofa and sat on it with the effort of an old woman, as though the spat we just had had aged her considerably.
The seconds stretched into minutes so that to me, it seemed like years had passed before I heard her words slice through the fog of the tranquility that had settled.
‘The society frowns at homosexuals,’ her voice was calmer. Tired. ‘No wonder you always defend Bobrisky. If they bring up any homosexuality issue, you never see issues with that. You support them.’
‘Because there is no issue with anyone who is homosexual.’ I don’t know why, but I still felt the need to cover my tracks; play to the last whims of damage control. ‘And supporting them doesn’t make anyone gay. I will never condemn people because society does. You already know I do not follow the crowd so just let things be. After all, your Bible was against a lot but I do not see you condemning those things.’
‘Nkogheri!’ She shot up from her seat again, her strength back. It would seem she was only recharging depleted cells and I had, stupidly, taken that for fatigue. ‘Sodom and Gomorrah nko? Homosexuality will never be accepted by me, DI! And anyone who is engaged in it should not even expect me to associate with them.’
It was yet another horrible sting hearing those words from a woman I love. I knew what she was doing. Even as she said those last words, her voice had wavered. As though she didn’t believe what her mouth was producing but had to say them nonetheless because society expects her to.
Exasperation swelled like a bubble inside me and popped. ‘Well good for you. I won’t condemn because you condemn. Don’t expect me to do stuff because you do. I will not!’
‘Because you are a gay! I know.’
‘Okay.’ I was tired and fagged out, it was all I could manage.
She paused on her tracks and stared at me. I didn’t know why. Maybe she was stunned I had given up the fight unexpectedly or a part of her understood in a way that a human being would – but not what a Nigerian mother wants to – what my response implied.
When she saw I wasn’t going to say more, she turned and stalked to the kitchen, the remnants of her cucumber, groundnuts and Aki Awusa in her hands. Then she strolled out again in the direction of her room, murmuring something about me shouting at her like we are mates, growing wings and all that.
We didn’t speak to each other for two consecutive days save for my cordial greetings and it was just as well. I wasn’t going to apologise for doing nothing other than set things straight. I may not have broken out of my closet in that moment a lot would say was a close shave, but at least, she knows how unapologetic I am about the LGBT community and all it represents.
However, I can’t help but hope that it gives me an edge when I finally brace up to say those three words, ‘I am gay’, in clear and crisp terms.
I also understand that a lot of us will conclude she already knows (I should also mention here that she has at one time read a journal of mine about homosexuality and had only said, in a casual manner of speaking, ‘You and gay. Everytime gay’). So you won’t be wrong to draw that conclusion.
Everything is back to normal. We gist and laugh and fight over flimsy stuff like we usually do. Just our regular stuff. It’s like a hex was placed on her, as though that event was somehow scooped out of her memory box.
Or she is just one hell of an actress.
It’s this that bothers me. Her denial of my reality; a state I can’t totally fault her for assuming as I never really came out in clear terms.
And until I do, I fear she will keep hanging on to the very thin thread of hope that one day I just might tell her the name of my girlfriend.
