After a very long time of decision of not visiting a friend of mine, I broke my promise by visiting him last week Wednesday, since I had been urging for sex. I said I wasn't going to visit him because I found out he was cheating on his boyfriend, and whenever his boyfriend saw me, he was always biter-faced. My friend and I were fuck buddies, although we've not had a comfortable sex all the while I visited him. It's either I got to his house meeting flood of visitors, or the flood come in after I reached his place. I usually got angry, not because they were around, but because he could avoid me coming over to watch drama with these visitors.
The first time I was going to visit him, I guess I was just matriculated as a student of PEFTI. This day, at his place, he was home with his boyfriend, whom I got to know, but not as his boyfriend. There was no reception to have sex at his place, because his family members would be home soon, so he decided we left for his friends' house, which I later felt uncomfortable with as soon as the arrival and took my leave as soon as I could. I sent a message letting him know that I felt insecured where I was taken, and that place wasn't okay by me. I told him I feared he was planning a rape, because where he took me seemed like a queer empire. He told me he would not do such, and I believed him.
The next I was going to see him was at a conference at Yaba. He saw me, but was so snooty. I greeted him, but his response was nothing to be talked about. I was invited by this guy, Martin, who met me at my mum's bar, followed me to the mallam shop, pretending he was going to buy something so as to ask for my line. I gave Martin my line, and we began to chat. Before Martin told me he was G, in LGBT, it took a while. As he asked if I was queer, I didn't hesitate, I spilled. He told me he was, after about 2 months. His chat with me reads, "I am not gay, I am bisexual." I remember very well. At my end, looking at the message, I laughed and argued a little about his orientation.
At the conference, my friend was busy with other guys whose bodies were easily stricken by the touch of a hand. I was just on my own. I got to talk to a person after the conference, but it wasn't him.
I got home that day and sent him a message, that I saw how he snubbed me at the party. He replied, but I can't figure out his response. We scheduled another rendezvous, which I obliged to, but wasn't satisfied because his house was always having somebody come in. We could be almost penetrating when his brother or sister or boyfriend may appear. And whenever he would complain, he would say I caused it because I was shivering for his dick. It would have been something heart-taking if it was up to 6-inch when it stretches. It is not even close to 5. I told him, "I am afraid of your dick. Yes, I am. I have never taking a dick in before, and I don't want to embarrass myself." I can't tell his inner feeling, but he returned with a smile, the one he always showed whenever he saw me.
The day before the last day I saw him, I think February, I didn't have a misunderstanding with him, but I just cleared the air and told him I wasn't into all the me coming and meeting people kind of thing. He would tell me there was nobody at home with him, but when I got on his Street, some feet from his house, he would say he was sorry, that he didn't call any of them. This day, I got there around 5pm, as I was returning from school. We had discussed that I would be his only guest, and I wouldn't appreciate meeting or having other people around. He assured me, and I believed him. As I got there, there was this guy I met there. He introduced the guy to me as his boyfriend, and I thought, "How many boyfriends does he have? I met Dapo here the last time, now this one?" not still realising that there was a main chick. I wasn't annoyed. I introduced myself to the so-called "boyfriend" and we were friends for that night. The guy eventually left, but by then, his boyfriend, the main chick, whom I had no idea was, came around. He caught us in an erotic period. This time, my friend was already trying to fix himself up before his boyfriend caught us, but he wasn't able to. When the guy came in, I said, "Hi." He replied by nose. I then though something was fishy and waited till the main chick sat outside. After a few minutes that I saw he wasn't coming inside, I asked my friend, "Is that your boyfriend? " He sincerely answered, and then I felt so bad for the side chick, that I was busy cheating with his boo. When he came back inside, I said, "I am so sorry. He was just telling me you are his boyfriend." The guy said it was not a problem, looking gloomy. I later faced my friend and let him know how much I detested cheat, that if it was my boyfriend that tried this with me, he would have suffered for this. I left his house, and then he texted me, asking me when next I was going to come, telling me not to get angry at what I had encountered at his place. I wasn't angry, but I replied him, letting him know I was never going to return to his place, that he had to amend his relationship. Since then, we didn't contact each other, not until last two weeks that his message came in on Facebook, "You can't even chat somebody." I replied it, and we scheduled another meeting for reconciliation. It was supposed to be last two weeks, but it wasn't possible, so we met on Wednesday.
As usual, despite an assurance that he wasn't expecting anyone, I met three people at his house, Dara and Bolaji, including his boyfriend. I didn't bother. We had a good pleasantry, and telling ourselves it was a long time we saw, like we didn't know. He said he had been reading my stories on Facebook, that I was too shouty. He said it was unsafe. I told him about the recent experience with my junior colleagues, and Dara, an average body size guy, was concerned. He asked was school I was going, that I was lucky to be in a private school, although it being private doesn't mean it was safe. He told me about how sisis are being treated in federal schools, talk less of those who out themselves. I thanked him.
In the discussion, whenever I used Gay, my friend told me he preferred T.B for safety. Like when I was talking about the incident at school, I said, "I just told them, 'My name is Seun, and I am gay."
The room was funny. These guys were typical Yoruba mothers. I laughed till I was almost suffocating. The kept my evening so interesting. They were real divas, but when I saw Bolaji walk to the bus stop, he was crazily manly. I was stunned. I was smiling on the street. His character changed. He became the normal the society wanted. I had a crush on him. He was a cute, dark guy, whose voice seemed cracking in the room, but deeper as he walked to the bus stop.
I saw Dara and my friend on Friday, walking. And they were Africanly normal. They walked like an expected African man. My friend told me that it was high time I changed how I walked, that it was better I let my diva manner crawl out of me. I told him I had tried, but it wasn't walking. "I am feeling fine walking this way," I said to him.
Sunday, 18 December 2016
Life Encounter: The Chronicle of a Nigerian Gay Man(part 1)
I didn't know I was a laugh-dust until I had a misunderstanding with one of my lecturers in early October, this year.
She hadn't been my supervisor for my final project, but I heard that there was an official change which could make her my supervisor. The first supervisor I was working with was a young, dark, free man who believed in the ideology of "humanity". This man was daring, so he assigned my topic because it was challenging and knowledge-breaking. He said, before his assertion to my topic, "Are you sure you want to do this?", his eye balls,sceptic. I answered him, not only in words, but through the enthusiastic expression on my face. He smiled. He went on and signed my topic and asked me to bring a more constructive topic for reconsideration. I wasn't able to reconstruct, so he was kind to help me play the puzzle of finding a befitting topic. We discussed a little about the topic; what he was expecting to see, the audience he would love the project to reach-- the discussion was worth it. He gave me the go ahead to bring in my chapter breakdown, but before I gathered my chapter one, I was told my project had been passed on to another supervisor. I wasn't too bothered, but I knew a lot was going to turn wrong. I began the journey.
This day, I think the next day after which my project had been passed on to the new supervisor, I took a step of confronting my initial supervisor, to be sure if it was true, that he would not be taking responsibility of my project. And aye, he did confirm it was true, and he advised me to follow whatever instructions this new supervisor gave. I admitted and left for her office, the new supervisor, Wena.
A Naija-Delta woman, with this endomorph body shape, who spoke broken mostly, who pronounced "Yesterday" as "Yestoday", and whose English most times are not understandable. She often complained she was tired whenever students ran after her or said they should come back because she was feeling sleepy or she was going to call somebody so the student has to come back.
I knocked against her door that noon. She said, "Who dey there? Abeg come inside." I pulled down the door handle and smilingly entered. "Seun, na you?" She met me half way to her desk. "Yes, ma. Good afternoon, ma. I heard you will be in charge of my project now," I gladly replied. "Yes o! I will be in charge of everybody's project now. Who dey inspect you before?"
"Mr. Biodun, ma"
"Okay. I told everybody yestoday that I wee be monitoring everybody's project. So, where you stop?"
I presented my file on her desk, she scanned through it and persistently said "Homophobia." She apparently didn't know what it was, so she told me to move on to bring a clearer chapter one. I said my end pleasantry and darted off, excitingly.
I submitted my file the next morning, with 3 A4 papers between it, ink-filled front and back pages. She wasn't in her office, so I just dropped it on her table and left. I sat in the canteen and later visited Miss Tolu in the staff room. I left the staff room and went back downstairs, to the canteen, and when I got there, she'd dropped a message for me, so I swiftly complied. I took the two storey building stairs with a race, and then hoove and patted my slight-sweaty face at the doorstep of her office. I knocked at her door and she replied hastily.
"Na you. You no tell me say na gay film you dey try do. Homosexuality is never, has never, and will never be accepted in Nigeria. For this reason, you can't do this project." I laughed the kind of laugh that holds rage within. I replied her, "Ma, I don't have another topic, this is all I have."
"Bring another topic. Or make I pick for you?"
I said no and left her office gently but angrily. I went back to the canteen to meet my colleagues that Wena had cancelled my topic, asking me to bring another one. As I was talking, someone cut me, "It is not only you. She wants everybody to do her topic, which is not possible. We are waiting for the M.D to return from her cruising." When I heard this, my rage became more fierce. I was annoyed and shaky that nobody, not even my mother, would hold me from bursting out the words from my mouth.
I walked through the stairs shakily and swiftly. I wasn't bothered about how draining those steps were, I just wanted to burst out. With my file on my sweaty right hand, I respectfully hit the door. "Who be that? You na no get door for una house?" She reacted. I didn't wait for her to tell me to hit the door open, I just slid in. "Seun, na you. Have you thought of another topic?"
"No, ma. I returned this for reconsideration."
She began to shout at me. She said they arrest gay people and all, and the school could not promote gayism. She opened the upper drawer of her desk, by her right, and brought a folded A4 paper that looked like a letter sent to from somebody, to her. It was in there that she had written in the topics she would want students accomplish. She called the topics out to my ears, but I wasn't interested. I did cut her off when I got tired of talking and said I was going to report her to the M.D if she wasn't competent enough. I touched that point in heart. She was almost going to flush in tears. "Leave my office, idiot! Leave here! When she comes, make you tell am say I cancel your project. I go stand tell am say I cancel am! Leave my office and don't come back again! Give Biola your project make she supervise!" It hurt her that she offered me an exit by opening her door, and I angrily, with my diva attitude, swept myself out. I got downstairs and gisted my colleagues, what other students would do if they had such encounter.
At closing, Kareem, one of my friends, asked me what I had done to Wena, that she was gisting him about my sexuality, that one of the Waptv presenters, the one with the teeth of an empty skull, whose shortness was scary to a dwarf, and hair like train rails, tinted in a curry-like gold, had discussed it with her. This same idiot had invited me to his office, thinking he had a job for me, not knowing he wanted his other colleagues to laugh at me, watching me through their control room or so. This same idiot told me he liked my swag and how I was girly.
Kareem told me how Wena was cursing me, and in details, how she was talking about my sexuality and how police would arrest me. I just laughed. Not quite long, as I was sitting on one of the uncomfortable white, four-legged, plastic chairs at the school's car park, she appeared, with her fanciful, leather handbag across her left shoulder, and another clothed one, containing some things that looked like an important set of files, carried by a student. She got out of the pedestrian gate, when Dammy said, "That's Wena. Go and apologise." I just laughed, with this self-assurance, beating my chest that I would never apologise. Wena turned back as she was exiting the second pedestrian gate, she saw me and headed to me, with some nasty, angry words flowing out from her mouth. "See, I no be your mama mate. Gimme some respect. What you can't do to your parents, don't come here and do it for me, " She said, as she got close, her index finger pointed at me. It seems she was going to slap me. I simply threw my face off and did some talk back, because I did know how painful talk backs were. She shouted, talked till she walked out of where my ears sensitivity could reach. Great!
She hadn't been my supervisor for my final project, but I heard that there was an official change which could make her my supervisor. The first supervisor I was working with was a young, dark, free man who believed in the ideology of "humanity". This man was daring, so he assigned my topic because it was challenging and knowledge-breaking. He said, before his assertion to my topic, "Are you sure you want to do this?", his eye balls,sceptic. I answered him, not only in words, but through the enthusiastic expression on my face. He smiled. He went on and signed my topic and asked me to bring a more constructive topic for reconsideration. I wasn't able to reconstruct, so he was kind to help me play the puzzle of finding a befitting topic. We discussed a little about the topic; what he was expecting to see, the audience he would love the project to reach-- the discussion was worth it. He gave me the go ahead to bring in my chapter breakdown, but before I gathered my chapter one, I was told my project had been passed on to another supervisor. I wasn't too bothered, but I knew a lot was going to turn wrong. I began the journey.
This day, I think the next day after which my project had been passed on to the new supervisor, I took a step of confronting my initial supervisor, to be sure if it was true, that he would not be taking responsibility of my project. And aye, he did confirm it was true, and he advised me to follow whatever instructions this new supervisor gave. I admitted and left for her office, the new supervisor, Wena.
A Naija-Delta woman, with this endomorph body shape, who spoke broken mostly, who pronounced "Yesterday" as "Yestoday", and whose English most times are not understandable. She often complained she was tired whenever students ran after her or said they should come back because she was feeling sleepy or she was going to call somebody so the student has to come back.
I knocked against her door that noon. She said, "Who dey there? Abeg come inside." I pulled down the door handle and smilingly entered. "Seun, na you?" She met me half way to her desk. "Yes, ma. Good afternoon, ma. I heard you will be in charge of my project now," I gladly replied. "Yes o! I will be in charge of everybody's project now. Who dey inspect you before?"
"Mr. Biodun, ma"
"Okay. I told everybody yestoday that I wee be monitoring everybody's project. So, where you stop?"
I presented my file on her desk, she scanned through it and persistently said "Homophobia." She apparently didn't know what it was, so she told me to move on to bring a clearer chapter one. I said my end pleasantry and darted off, excitingly.
I submitted my file the next morning, with 3 A4 papers between it, ink-filled front and back pages. She wasn't in her office, so I just dropped it on her table and left. I sat in the canteen and later visited Miss Tolu in the staff room. I left the staff room and went back downstairs, to the canteen, and when I got there, she'd dropped a message for me, so I swiftly complied. I took the two storey building stairs with a race, and then hoove and patted my slight-sweaty face at the doorstep of her office. I knocked at her door and she replied hastily.
"Na you. You no tell me say na gay film you dey try do. Homosexuality is never, has never, and will never be accepted in Nigeria. For this reason, you can't do this project." I laughed the kind of laugh that holds rage within. I replied her, "Ma, I don't have another topic, this is all I have."
"Bring another topic. Or make I pick for you?"
I said no and left her office gently but angrily. I went back to the canteen to meet my colleagues that Wena had cancelled my topic, asking me to bring another one. As I was talking, someone cut me, "It is not only you. She wants everybody to do her topic, which is not possible. We are waiting for the M.D to return from her cruising." When I heard this, my rage became more fierce. I was annoyed and shaky that nobody, not even my mother, would hold me from bursting out the words from my mouth.
I walked through the stairs shakily and swiftly. I wasn't bothered about how draining those steps were, I just wanted to burst out. With my file on my sweaty right hand, I respectfully hit the door. "Who be that? You na no get door for una house?" She reacted. I didn't wait for her to tell me to hit the door open, I just slid in. "Seun, na you. Have you thought of another topic?"
"No, ma. I returned this for reconsideration."
She began to shout at me. She said they arrest gay people and all, and the school could not promote gayism. She opened the upper drawer of her desk, by her right, and brought a folded A4 paper that looked like a letter sent to from somebody, to her. It was in there that she had written in the topics she would want students accomplish. She called the topics out to my ears, but I wasn't interested. I did cut her off when I got tired of talking and said I was going to report her to the M.D if she wasn't competent enough. I touched that point in heart. She was almost going to flush in tears. "Leave my office, idiot! Leave here! When she comes, make you tell am say I cancel your project. I go stand tell am say I cancel am! Leave my office and don't come back again! Give Biola your project make she supervise!" It hurt her that she offered me an exit by opening her door, and I angrily, with my diva attitude, swept myself out. I got downstairs and gisted my colleagues, what other students would do if they had such encounter.
At closing, Kareem, one of my friends, asked me what I had done to Wena, that she was gisting him about my sexuality, that one of the Waptv presenters, the one with the teeth of an empty skull, whose shortness was scary to a dwarf, and hair like train rails, tinted in a curry-like gold, had discussed it with her. This same idiot had invited me to his office, thinking he had a job for me, not knowing he wanted his other colleagues to laugh at me, watching me through their control room or so. This same idiot told me he liked my swag and how I was girly.
Kareem told me how Wena was cursing me, and in details, how she was talking about my sexuality and how police would arrest me. I just laughed. Not quite long, as I was sitting on one of the uncomfortable white, four-legged, plastic chairs at the school's car park, she appeared, with her fanciful, leather handbag across her left shoulder, and another clothed one, containing some things that looked like an important set of files, carried by a student. She got out of the pedestrian gate, when Dammy said, "That's Wena. Go and apologise." I just laughed, with this self-assurance, beating my chest that I would never apologise. Wena turned back as she was exiting the second pedestrian gate, she saw me and headed to me, with some nasty, angry words flowing out from her mouth. "See, I no be your mama mate. Gimme some respect. What you can't do to your parents, don't come here and do it for me, " She said, as she got close, her index finger pointed at me. It seems she was going to slap me. I simply threw my face off and did some talk back, because I did know how painful talk backs were. She shouted, talked till she walked out of where my ears sensitivity could reach. Great!
Tuesday, 13 December 2016
Encountering Age Consent: Story of the Ill-educated Non-smokers
A discussion on age consent, responsibility, smoking, and drinking between my mother, brother, his friend, and myself.
I was supposed to be at school this morning for my final project, but I couldn't go. So, as I woke, I left to have my bath, the only thing I do when I have somewhere to go. I waited for my mum because she went to drop my sisters off at school. She eventually came back and told me to wait behind, that she didn't have money. She farther told me to go on and prepare white rice for breakfast. I swiftly complied because one of my hobbies is cooking. I went on to boil water. This time, while I was boiling water, my brother came to ask me if I'd like to follow him to get my mother's phone from my sister at her school, because she forgot it with her while she(my sister) was playing game. I agreed because we didn't sleep with light and everywhere was hot, so the car's a/c would give me some body revival. So I got my black-net-armless shirt and walked outside happily. As I got outside, my mum said we shouldn't bother, that she could wait till my sis returned. I was just angry, so I went back inside. I got inside, washed the rice in the boiling water, added some salt, and covered the pot well. I went to sit outside, and my brother's friend was already around. My mum was already admiring me as I walked towards them, no idea why. I noticed and started my stupidity; laughing and speaking phoné(phonetics) and praising her OYINBOISTICALLY. She laughed and said, "Kenny said she will be taking you guys out for a night out party, but you don't mix." I laughed hard. I returned, "I mix more than any other person in our family. I greet total strangers at school." Like it was an achievement, she laughed, replying, "I said it! I was doubting it myself. I told Kenny that you guys mix easily when we are not with you." I laughed and said, "Exactly," like I was already planning for her response.
My brother's friend began a conversation of drinking, asking if I could drink alcohol, that I was going to misbehave at just a swig. I told him I had taken some alcohol in the past, including magic moment, although it was just little, moderate not excessive. Then I thought, what does drinking alcohol mean to Africans? Taking more than your gauge daily? Getting home and puking around? I still thought of what achievements it could offer if I drank alcohol at all. I told him, " Of course, I drink! Why am I 20? The age consent of having an alcohol is 18, and I am 2 years older. I do take alcohol, and I darn follow the caution 'drink responsibly', it is alright by me." They all laughed. My mum told them that if I got drunk, I was going to slap all of them till we got home. I now thought about smoking and asked, "Would you say smoking is bad?" They all answered "yes!" I told them about my views on smoking. I said, "To me, smoking is not bad when you have to take it once in a while. Probably having a stick in seven days. Africans abuse cigarette even after reading the pack that says, 'smokers are liable to die young'. Everybody smokes in Nigeria, and mostly youth, and they abuse it. An average Nigerian youth could combust 18 pieces of cigarette a day, which is tantamount to a pack. Why won't they have cancer? Although, I think some who exhaust a pack daily are depressed, and others do it out of influence." My mum looked at me and was skeptical. She asked if I now smoked, and I pulled her legs, "Yes, I do. And I will be smoking cannabis when I am 22." We laughed, and she said, "You dare not," with the assurance I didn't get. She then asked, "Is anybody depressed? What is depression?" I think she didn't know how chronical depression was, that people just live their lives and think, nothing more. I couldn't answer her question on depression, but I still moved on about our smoking discussion, because I knew Nigerians are not deep in knowledge. They basically hear and leave it the way it is. I asked them, "Have any of you heard of second-hand smoking? Did you know the smoky air that the smoker exhales is more dangerous than the smoky air the smoker takes in himself? That is to say, you are prone to cancer or whatever disease contacted by smokers than the smokers." My mother looked in awe. She said I had gotten another lie from the Internet, and I believed it. I just turned deaf ears and went on to check what I was cooking.
I was supposed to be at school this morning for my final project, but I couldn't go. So, as I woke, I left to have my bath, the only thing I do when I have somewhere to go. I waited for my mum because she went to drop my sisters off at school. She eventually came back and told me to wait behind, that she didn't have money. She farther told me to go on and prepare white rice for breakfast. I swiftly complied because one of my hobbies is cooking. I went on to boil water. This time, while I was boiling water, my brother came to ask me if I'd like to follow him to get my mother's phone from my sister at her school, because she forgot it with her while she(my sister) was playing game. I agreed because we didn't sleep with light and everywhere was hot, so the car's a/c would give me some body revival. So I got my black-net-armless shirt and walked outside happily. As I got outside, my mum said we shouldn't bother, that she could wait till my sis returned. I was just angry, so I went back inside. I got inside, washed the rice in the boiling water, added some salt, and covered the pot well. I went to sit outside, and my brother's friend was already around. My mum was already admiring me as I walked towards them, no idea why. I noticed and started my stupidity; laughing and speaking phoné(phonetics) and praising her OYINBOISTICALLY. She laughed and said, "Kenny said she will be taking you guys out for a night out party, but you don't mix." I laughed hard. I returned, "I mix more than any other person in our family. I greet total strangers at school." Like it was an achievement, she laughed, replying, "I said it! I was doubting it myself. I told Kenny that you guys mix easily when we are not with you." I laughed and said, "Exactly," like I was already planning for her response.
My brother's friend began a conversation of drinking, asking if I could drink alcohol, that I was going to misbehave at just a swig. I told him I had taken some alcohol in the past, including magic moment, although it was just little, moderate not excessive. Then I thought, what does drinking alcohol mean to Africans? Taking more than your gauge daily? Getting home and puking around? I still thought of what achievements it could offer if I drank alcohol at all. I told him, " Of course, I drink! Why am I 20? The age consent of having an alcohol is 18, and I am 2 years older. I do take alcohol, and I darn follow the caution 'drink responsibly', it is alright by me." They all laughed. My mum told them that if I got drunk, I was going to slap all of them till we got home. I now thought about smoking and asked, "Would you say smoking is bad?" They all answered "yes!" I told them about my views on smoking. I said, "To me, smoking is not bad when you have to take it once in a while. Probably having a stick in seven days. Africans abuse cigarette even after reading the pack that says, 'smokers are liable to die young'. Everybody smokes in Nigeria, and mostly youth, and they abuse it. An average Nigerian youth could combust 18 pieces of cigarette a day, which is tantamount to a pack. Why won't they have cancer? Although, I think some who exhaust a pack daily are depressed, and others do it out of influence." My mum looked at me and was skeptical. She asked if I now smoked, and I pulled her legs, "Yes, I do. And I will be smoking cannabis when I am 22." We laughed, and she said, "You dare not," with the assurance I didn't get. She then asked, "Is anybody depressed? What is depression?" I think she didn't know how chronical depression was, that people just live their lives and think, nothing more. I couldn't answer her question on depression, but I still moved on about our smoking discussion, because I knew Nigerians are not deep in knowledge. They basically hear and leave it the way it is. I asked them, "Have any of you heard of second-hand smoking? Did you know the smoky air that the smoker exhales is more dangerous than the smoky air the smoker takes in himself? That is to say, you are prone to cancer or whatever disease contacted by smokers than the smokers." My mother looked in awe. She said I had gotten another lie from the Internet, and I believed it. I just turned deaf ears and went on to check what I was cooking.
Monday, 12 December 2016
Mental Illness: Misconception of Mental Health
How is it possible to be crazy by talking with yourself? I mean, Africans! You are that blind? I see this as a process of self-realization and self-actualisation. By talking with yourself, you build your confidence of expression and comfortability. Things scare you a little less than they should because, your reflection seems like an audience of a billion. It stares at you like the audience, but corrects you for a better physical interaction than physical.
As I was growing, my mum would beat me while I was having house chores, talking and laughing with myself. She would say, "Wérè lo n ma da soro," (translation: only a mad person talks to himself.) I honestly was scared. I thought I was GROWING mad. I thought when I grew, I was going to be wearing torn clothes, car tyres slanting over my shoulders, with muddy, flaky hair, wandering the streets. But it never happened, as I was still talking to myself. I got to realise that talking alone was a therapy, and every human should apply it into their daily activities. That it would reduce the extent at which people go mad. Truth be told, I think that 98% of those who are mad were going through some hard time, and they always waited for people to come around before they talked, or they didn't at all. That is to say, majority of mad people were introverted, and most of the talking they do while they wander could have been what they could have said to themselves positively and move on. But they didn't. I am not holding them at fault for what happens to them, but I feel self-therapy could have saved them.
On a daily basis, if I align the hectic horror I pass through, I could have made the choice of running mad, but I am able to help myself. I talk to myself. I think it's a reflection of myself that I see. The beautiful reflection that I can lie to and feel comfortable with. I find solitude with it. It knows everything anyone doesn't, and that is an achievement for me.
My mental health matters, and I can do everything at my reach to make it normal. If I walk on your street, laughing and talking alone, know this, it is not that I am mad, it is just that I am trying to refine myself from my problems and move on. Thank you.
As I was growing, my mum would beat me while I was having house chores, talking and laughing with myself. She would say, "Wérè lo n ma da soro," (translation: only a mad person talks to himself.) I honestly was scared. I thought I was GROWING mad. I thought when I grew, I was going to be wearing torn clothes, car tyres slanting over my shoulders, with muddy, flaky hair, wandering the streets. But it never happened, as I was still talking to myself. I got to realise that talking alone was a therapy, and every human should apply it into their daily activities. That it would reduce the extent at which people go mad. Truth be told, I think that 98% of those who are mad were going through some hard time, and they always waited for people to come around before they talked, or they didn't at all. That is to say, majority of mad people were introverted, and most of the talking they do while they wander could have been what they could have said to themselves positively and move on. But they didn't. I am not holding them at fault for what happens to them, but I feel self-therapy could have saved them.
On a daily basis, if I align the hectic horror I pass through, I could have made the choice of running mad, but I am able to help myself. I talk to myself. I think it's a reflection of myself that I see. The beautiful reflection that I can lie to and feel comfortable with. I find solitude with it. It knows everything anyone doesn't, and that is an achievement for me.
My mental health matters, and I can do everything at my reach to make it normal. If I walk on your street, laughing and talking alone, know this, it is not that I am mad, it is just that I am trying to refine myself from my problems and move on. Thank you.
A Hearty Tribute to Toheeb
Toheeb, my first physical male lover who died last year. I remember you.
Just three days ago, in preparation for my uncle's wedding, I drove in my parents car, with my uncle and my two younger sisters, to collect the bride price from one of our Aunts at Ijesha. Before we got to Ijesha, my uncle drove to Aguda, where he once stayed with another aunt of ours who relocated to the UK in 2010, to drop his heavy bag of clothes and pick his fiancé for the short journey. We were on this street, adjacent to the street where my uncle stayed. This Street, very narrow, rough and under construction, reminded me of this first time I walked it alone, in search for the house where Toheeb stayed, because he said he was sick, and he would not be able to come out to pick me at the bus stop, only if I reached outside, where he stayed.
I was wandering on the street, with my phone, dialing Toheeb's number for direction. "Where are you? Just walk down the street and look right. I am standing at the foyer," He gently spoke. "Okay," I replied.
I took the street down, with my face looking right, and my heart pounding against my chest. I eventually walked down, almost over the house. The house, a large, brown coated, face-me-I-face-you building, with an exaggerated occupant of 10 different families. His whistle awakened me. I looked well to be sure it was him, the average-heighted guy, 21 years old, whose face was a domicile for pimples. As I confirmed it, I smiled towards him, but he didn't reciprocate. I walked towards him and followed him in the dark aisle of rooms after he turned at his confirmation of me approaching. We got inside and talked. I was in a hurry because I didn't leave a note as to where I was going at home, I didn't have the freedom to leave the house, and I knew my mother would be calling me just as soon as we were talking. I told him about this, so we hastily talked. He asked if I had ever had sex, that what role was I, and if we could have sex, although he was having pile. I told him, without a lie, how desperate I was to disvirgin, and how painful I heard playing bottom was, although I felt bottom-ish. We then demonstrated, starting with a moisty smooch, not wanting to leave his French lips. He kissed as though he had a certificate in romance. He then moved on by letting me thrust him, and by then, my mother's call rang on my phone. He made sure I cum before he let me answer the call. It was relieving -- the soothe you feel after you have a good shower. I swiftly grabbed my trousers and shirt, ran in them, and told him we were going to talk later. He said he was going to see me to the bus-stop, which he did and paid for my lift.
Later, when I chatted him and said we should be in a relationship, he left my messages unreplied. He wasn't picking my calls anymore. I think he deleted my number, because he later picked and asked, "Who is speaking?" I felt bad.
Late last year, he messaged me. He said he wanted my number, but I didn't know he was sick, very sick that he was in bed. I didn't know it was going to be our last day chatting. I didn't know the next I was going to hear was a death news of him. I was shocked, but I couldn't cry.
Just three days ago, after more than two years that I reached there last, tears filled my eyes, flashing back to the memory of Toheeb. I hope he is resting in peace.
Just three days ago, in preparation for my uncle's wedding, I drove in my parents car, with my uncle and my two younger sisters, to collect the bride price from one of our Aunts at Ijesha. Before we got to Ijesha, my uncle drove to Aguda, where he once stayed with another aunt of ours who relocated to the UK in 2010, to drop his heavy bag of clothes and pick his fiancé for the short journey. We were on this street, adjacent to the street where my uncle stayed. This Street, very narrow, rough and under construction, reminded me of this first time I walked it alone, in search for the house where Toheeb stayed, because he said he was sick, and he would not be able to come out to pick me at the bus stop, only if I reached outside, where he stayed.
I was wandering on the street, with my phone, dialing Toheeb's number for direction. "Where are you? Just walk down the street and look right. I am standing at the foyer," He gently spoke. "Okay," I replied.
I took the street down, with my face looking right, and my heart pounding against my chest. I eventually walked down, almost over the house. The house, a large, brown coated, face-me-I-face-you building, with an exaggerated occupant of 10 different families. His whistle awakened me. I looked well to be sure it was him, the average-heighted guy, 21 years old, whose face was a domicile for pimples. As I confirmed it, I smiled towards him, but he didn't reciprocate. I walked towards him and followed him in the dark aisle of rooms after he turned at his confirmation of me approaching. We got inside and talked. I was in a hurry because I didn't leave a note as to where I was going at home, I didn't have the freedom to leave the house, and I knew my mother would be calling me just as soon as we were talking. I told him about this, so we hastily talked. He asked if I had ever had sex, that what role was I, and if we could have sex, although he was having pile. I told him, without a lie, how desperate I was to disvirgin, and how painful I heard playing bottom was, although I felt bottom-ish. We then demonstrated, starting with a moisty smooch, not wanting to leave his French lips. He kissed as though he had a certificate in romance. He then moved on by letting me thrust him, and by then, my mother's call rang on my phone. He made sure I cum before he let me answer the call. It was relieving -- the soothe you feel after you have a good shower. I swiftly grabbed my trousers and shirt, ran in them, and told him we were going to talk later. He said he was going to see me to the bus-stop, which he did and paid for my lift.
Later, when I chatted him and said we should be in a relationship, he left my messages unreplied. He wasn't picking my calls anymore. I think he deleted my number, because he later picked and asked, "Who is speaking?" I felt bad.
Late last year, he messaged me. He said he wanted my number, but I didn't know he was sick, very sick that he was in bed. I didn't know it was going to be our last day chatting. I didn't know the next I was going to hear was a death news of him. I was shocked, but I couldn't cry.
Just three days ago, after more than two years that I reached there last, tears filled my eyes, flashing back to the memory of Toheeb. I hope he is resting in peace.
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