At 5, I found myself preferring the company of girls but only one got my attention. I realised quickly that I would rather be with them than boys. People would say because as a little boy, I was quiet, somehow stubborn. I radiated sweet innocence and naivety. It was different from the trait other boys my age had. I was frail and timid. I did everything together with my best friend, C. She was my age, but she was a bit younger by look. She did not have the innocence that would have matched us together. I did not care because we loved each other’s company. It was as if nothing else mattered. We spent most of our time together, frequently visiting the other’s house, sharing toys, gossiping, grooming feelings, and making memories that will last for several years. At times, I ate at her house, she did in mine. She was calm but had a lot to say to my listening ears. Our memories were fuzzy but would never fade.
At 7, we began to drift apart. Perhaps it was because I transferred to a new school. We stopped seeing each other except when we walked past ourselves on the road. Perhaps she had outgrown our childish banter and would not talk to me anymore. We had been best of friends so I could not think of some other guy or girl that could have snagged her attention away from me. We were getting older. It might be because she no longer wanted to be seen around boys, but I was not the societal definition of a boy she should have been wary of. While growing up, my effeminacy became more pronounced. I had a womanly gait. I did not think it was something bad like I would grow up to realise. Was it really bad? I walked, talked, and acted like a girl. I did not know why but what I knew was that my female cousin defiled me at the age of seven. She spread her legs, allowed me to bury my tongue into her. I thought it tasted like a strand of hair. I can tell how it tasted. It was like the last time my mouth dug into someone’s hair. It had a bland taste which I think was somewhat nice and somewhat puke-worthy. The distance between C and me, further widened with time, the bond of our friendship severed.
At 9, I became close to, O, one of my classmates. I was top of my class, behind me were two girls, E and N, struggling but failing to leave their second and third positions. O came after them. I had not always been at the top of the class until I was in primary four when a girl, F, left my school. It was something I appreciated. O was not effeminate. He was masculine but calm. He somehow made me complete. Perhaps he was my friend because I was at the top of the class. I still do not know until today. N got closer to me, older by age and we did not acquaint much. She was older than everyone else in the class. We called her Mama. At 9, I was labelled with derogatory feminine adjectives because I was effeminate. It was not something that bothered. At 9, my manhood strolled into my female playmate, M, who was two years older, and her sister, P was my agemate. We were playing mummy and daddy. I still do not know their whereabouts to date.
At 12, the signs of puberty were obvious. My body began to develop. I was beginning to change. I began to wonder if I was different. Growing up, I had been indoctrinated with heterosexual relationships. Nothing more. We would often discuss how we would study hard, become rich, and get married one day. But before 12, I was in a wrestling turf with a boy, he threw me to the ground, sat on my stomach extending to my groin, pinning me for a few minutes. My manhood rose. It was a life-changing experience. I freed from his grip. He did not notice my standing flesh. He was dark-skinned, his skin glistened. We were the same age, but he was masculine, could pass as an older one. He had been the only ‘young’ boy I have ever found attractive. A weird thing about myself. That day, it looked like the sun sent the moon back into its hiding and my skin shivered, wrinkled. Aftermath, I did not know it was an attraction. I thought it was normal. Is it not normal going by the criminalisation?
At 13, when I became a senior in high school, I began to develop feelings for people of the same sex. I could not walk on the road, without staring at thirty-year-old looking men, appreciating their buff body and rough-looking faces. The ruggedness was like icing. I am attracted to men. I cannot explain it. I did not force myself to find women attractive and they aren’t sexually pleasing. At 13, I was becoming masculine. My gait was less feminine, one could only notice on a closer glance, but I was attracted to men. Maybe I was gay. I did not know what it was called.
Upon being a senior in secondary school, puberty came like a rush of a wave. My whole body became different. No one would notice that I was a queer boy unless I exhibited obvious mannerisms. The frail-looking body had transformed into a manly one but not what society would ascribe masculinity to be. I wish I had grown to become more feminine. While in junior secondary school, my last class for the day ended, I strapped my bag to my back, taking the first step on the long journey home. In between the students chattering, I stopped to pick up my pen that had fallen to the ground, a familiar shrilled voice jolted my attention. I turned. The scorching sun brimmed outside, the illumination seared into the classroom through the window. It made my skin to crawl. A tedious afternoon to ignore everything else, longing for a cool shower and a long nap at home. I was about to disregard him, then walk away but I was caught up by his dashing smile. He made a compliment about my swinging waist. Maybe invisible? He said if I were a woman, he would have had sex with me. I laughed and walked away. I did not find him sexually appealing. Thinking back now, his statement is unsettling. Telling a stranger about how you will have carnal knowledge of them should not be the foremost thing you say on your first encounter. But men are easily controlled by their raging hormone, yelling to everyone they find attractive, “Yes, I’ll love to have sex with you. That is what you represent to me”, without thinking about how it will meet them.
In senior secondary school, I tried to be likeable amongst my peers. It was short-lived. I was trying too hard to relate like a heterosexual man who found girls sexually appealing. But also, there is something about girls that is intriguing, they are facially attractive when compared to the boys. I could stare at a girl for a long time, completely hooked by her beauty but no sort of attraction unlike for boys. Strolling through my street, older men would get my constant glares.
I finished secondary school with no sexual experience. I concluded that I was bisexual. But when got a phone that afforded the luxury of internet access during my final paper in secondary school, I spent hours surfing porn sites. I navigated through the search engine staring at women’s nude. There was no reaction to their nudity, even when I tried to force myself. Women had beautiful faces. It was the end. I would not want to touch their faces, having a sharp sexual feeling steamed inside me, but would rather touch them, with a soft tenderness of humanness raging.
I came across my first queer friend online and confided in him about my sexuality. I would tell him about the first instinct about myself on how I was a bisexual man. He believed but after months of self-discovery on my sexuality, I told him who I was. A gay man. Before that, I knew I was a gay man, I only tried to live in a delusion that I was bisexual. Our friendship lasted quite long. We did not have sexual feelings for each other. We met on a few occasions, immersed in conversations until after years, our friendship, took a rock. It was before I met the first man I dined in a bed. It was in 2017, my journey of self-realisation and an experience I regret. He was an older man. A roughneck. His breath was unsettling — a mixture of alcohol and stale breath of dirtiness. I gritted between my teeth in disgust as he shoved his manhood into my mouth. It had a bitter taste. I accumulated spittle in my mouth during the romp. He did not wear protection. I tried so much to prevent him from penetrating. He penetrated. I pushed him away, ran into the toilet, and spat out. I washed off his maleness. On returning home, I deleted his number, washed my teeth vigorously for some minutes until I was convinced his stench was no longer in me. He had tried to kiss me in his bed with his bad breath. I began despising being a homosexual but the desire for men remained. I told my friend about it. It was in my second year at university. I wished to be a heterosexual man. The “gay” feeling remained.
In my third year at university, I met two men. The experiences with them were mediocre but, my sex life with them reassured it was okay to be a gay man. The reassurance that I would attain sexual pleasures that would be pleasing as a gay man. It hurt during romps, I shoved them aside in less than five minutes, unable to cope. It was a transitioning period, coming in acceptance of my whole.
Scouring through the internet, I had seen queers. Unfortunately, the friendly relationships had not been rosy as expected. I fell short of expectations with cordial relationships. It was about sex for them. I got a few of them close, staying in an arm-length for aesthetic purpose. I have tried to build a friendship with a few outside virtual spaces. There had been a few that value friendship.
The queer dating apps are ineffectual, marred with kitos. For me, I do not want those who only care for their sexual fantasies. When I lay on their bed, we enjoy a few minutes of carnal knowledge with each other, it ends. It might not end in a relationship, anyway. Facebook became a safe space but not entirely. It did not calm my soul. It was littered with those who acted on heteronormative standards. Nothing else. They only had sex. They set a heteronormative standard, slut-shamed, and called each other names to entertain those they call ‘top’. It was amusing watching them, so I avoided their caucus, allowed my page to be for everyone irrespective of their sexuality.
Twitter was the safest place where I could be vocal. A place I had been subtle about my sexuality. Some of my coursemates follow me. One of my cousins does. Sometimes I wonder if she sees my tweets. Close people are aware of my handle, yet I don’t mince words. I do not claim to be an LGBT ally. I claim to be what I am. I infiltrate my timeline with queer tweets and retweets. My cousin had never barged into my direct message to criticize or ask. These past few years had been refreshing. I had transitioned to a man. I had not been opened to my family. What is left is to find my safe place, love who I want, and who in turn finds me alluring. It is not a crime to be different. The crime is that my feelings do not align with a societal toxic culture. It also does not align with the heteronormative idea of what a man should be because any man who was seen acting like a woman or lowering like a woman to have sex breaks the ceramic ego of masculinity. It hurts it. Masculinity must be a fickle child. Nothing else. I wish people knew that masculinity is not a monolith but diverse. We are different and should love who we want.
*Kito is a Nigerian gay slang used to describe the act of queer folk meeting individuals online who end up blackmailing and extorting them.
Obinna Tony-Francis Ochem writes from the comfort of his tranquillity, exploring the theme of gender, class, sexuality, climate change and shape-shifting monsters. His works are published in Moskedapages, Kalahari Review, Punocracy Longlist ’19 & 20, Tush Magazine essay finalist and The WorkBooth magazine. He was a finalist for 2019 Quramo Writers’ Prize for his manuscripts, Deep Ocean, and one other finalist. He blogs at www.obynofranc.wordpress.com. He tweets, @obynofranc. His article, How to be a Nigerian Gay Man, was longlisted for Punocracy Prize for Satire.
