The street fascinates Dera. It bustles with the energy of a teenage boy. Davido’s Chioma my lover booms from a roadside bar. Beneath a Coca-Cola awning, Dera raises his camera, capturing a woman balancing a tray of oranges on her head.
As he frames another shot, he sees a boy across the road. Slim, dark-skinned, in white cassock that reminds him of his ex, Kamsi. The boy’s eyes are glued to his phone, his hand outstretched to hail a moving keke. Dera knows the risk of admiring the boy openly, the scornful glares from vendors across the road, so he shifts his gaze sideways, feigning interest in a girl in blue palazzos alighting from a cab. When he glances back, the boy is gone. “Fuck,” he mutters, and by impulse, he takes photos of the empty space where the boy had stood. He buys suya from a vendor beside a tilted pole and trudges home—the street’s noise fading behind him.
*****
In his dim room, he slumps onto the bed, the thoughts of the boy—and Kamsi—keep him awake. He scrolls through his camera roll and sees a selfie of Kamsi and him by the lakeside. Dera remembered taking this photo of them on the evening he’d proposed marriage to Kamsi. They’d laughed at how silly, how unrealistic it had been even though it had been something they’d wanted badly—to hold hands in front of their families and exchange vows. “You want make dem stone us?” Kamsi chuckled, and they both laughed. Even though he was unsure of the possibility of being together: Kamsi’s seminary in Uromi, his mother’s voice on the phone, Biko, let him serve God in peace, he doesn’t need your distraction.
He dials Kamsi, but the call rings unanswered. The silence in the room is heavy. He buries his face in the bedsheet. It smells of Kamsi’s Nivea. He inhales it, unzips his jeans, and strokes his dick, streaking his stomach with cum. He sits up, pulls on his shorts, and reaches for his phone on the bed. He texts Kamsi on WhatsApp: We could make things work, u know. I’m ready to stay low. The message sits, unanswered.
Trying to find a distraction, he flips the phone face-down and opens his laptop. He skims through hookup posts on Facebook: Top in Ozorro? DM lets fuck. I need a manly bottom around Udu. But the posts feel hollow. He slams the laptop shut, staring at the kitchen passage.
The last time Kamsi visited, they’d stayed in the passage and had had supper—after they’d made love. Without his clothes on, Kamsi stood up, took the plate to the kitchen sink and rinsed it with the tap on. “Babe, I think you should stop telling people we are dating.”
“What?”
Dera tried to remain calm.
“I don’t want any scandal as a seminarian, at least for the sake of my family.” He turned off the tap and curled beside Dera on the tiles. “Babe, I can’t let this destroy everything I’ve worked for.” It was impossible for Dera to say no, to ruin this moment of tenderness and grace.
“Okay,”
It is only when his phone buzzes that he looks away. He picks his phone up. A new message from Badoo, Ken-Ekpan:
—Hey handsome. Saw your profile. You’re into Fela?
Dera unwraps the suya, takes a bite and checks Ken’s profile. Ken’s bio reads: Here to date. Obsessed with Afrobeat and Naruto.
Intriguing. Wary of fleeting hookups: Meet, fuck and move on. Dera hesitates, but something in Ken pulls him in.
—Wetin be ur role? he types.
—Guy, relax. Let’s get to know each other.
Dera steps to the window. Below, the street pulses, clogged with the evening traffic, the cries of okada riders, Express Road, Ubeji, a couple’s laughter rising from the sidewalk. Amid the clamor, he is a shadow, caught between the city’s heartbeat and his own emptiness. He blames Kamsi. Kamsi had promised to call often, only to grow distant.
Ken messages again:
—Still figuring shit out. You?
The suya’s spice lingers on his tongue. Dera wipes his fingers, his eyes drifting back to Ken’s message. He types:
—I feel trapped n alone but at the same time i don’t wanna talk to anyone or be around anyone i just wanna fuck and at the same time i don’t know how I am feeling rn.
Ken’s reply is quick:
—Bro, that’s real shit. Wanna talk?
Dera stares at the screen. He types, deletes, then tries again:
—Maybe. Free tomorrow?
He hits send, unsure if he’s ready to move on. But he deletes Kamsi’s photos from his phone and steps out to the balcony. Outside, Fela’s Zombie echoesfrom a nearby bar.
*****
Image: Nils Schirmer on Unsplash cropped