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.