Short Story

“I am going to tell everyone that you are a FAG!" He shouts. Even though he’s pointing his finger right in my face, there is no denying it. I’m gay. I've known it since I was 12. But now, I'm terrified. It was just a kiss on his cheek... and yes, I did try touching his pants. I saw that we were both excited. He was and I was. Now, he is in my kitchen screaming that I raped him!

I'd been wanting to be with Kwame for years. We would jokingly compare our manhoods in the school's gym shower. Now, I regret it all.

"I’m sorry,” I say. "Please don't tell anyone". But, I see him ball up his fist.

Hoping I can find a way to stop him from exposing my most precious and hidden secret, I blurt out…

"I can pay you!"

He narrows his eyes and snaps, "How much?!"

I leave him sitting on the bed and run upstairs past my parent's and sister's bedrooms into my room. I rush to my closet and open the envelope with almost 400,000 Naira inside. I take 50,000 of my Nigerian dollars and run back downstairs. He’s standing at the front door.

I hand it to him.

"Ok?... Is it okay now?" I plead.

He takes the money and opens the door.

"No. It is not okay. I am still going to tell… You faggot!" He says and walks out. My body shakes as I lean my back against the wall and sink to the floor.

My mind races. My vision turns black from fear and distress. I suddenly feel powerless, as if some other person now has more control over my future than I do—and he does. All from one careless little step. A stupid mistake. Every day, year after year, I have calculated everything so perfectly in my life. But today, I miscalculated.

It was another blistering day in Lagos. 35°C yesterday and it should hit that or more this afternoon. My mother and sister went to the market and my father is working. So, I had the house to myself when I asked Kwame to come over. How could I be so dumb?

I think of my parents and start to cry. They will be so ashamed if this gets back to them.

Kwame lives in the neighborhood and knows a lot of people I know. People my parents know too. He just changed suddenly and was letting me rub his pants for more than a minute. In those moments, I was scared but immensely happy. I was surprised when he laid back and allowed me to kiss his cheek… his neck… his ear.  It was like a dream—a short dream.

But then he suddenly stood up and started screaming about me raping him. If he lies about it and tells his friends, they could come to my house and beat me. What if my family is home when they come? His was no idle threat. He’s the type of guy who loves to gossip. He will surely play the victim to whomever he tells. And what if my sister hears about it? What will she think?

People like me in my country risk so many things… just being gay. What IS gay? I just know love. I just know I felt happy each time I saw Kwame. Happier than anyone I’d ever seen before or since I met him. But here we can not feel that kind of happiness, and 14 years in jail is a frightening price to pay to feel happy with someone.

My back is against the wall as I try to think of what to do. My family will not come visit me for this. They will want nothing to do with me. They’ll think it is my punishment and my father might even be the one to call the police. Ever since I can remember, he has never hidden his hostility towards homosexuals and how we will all burn in Hell.

I have seen many people’s faces in The Lagos Chronicle. The words “CONVICTED HOMOSEXUALS” written above their photographs. What’s worse is that their first and last names are printed under their mugshots. Their expressions are like staring into a hollow cave.

It’s horrifying… and now I could be next.

I tremble and slap my hands against my forehead. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! And I start crying again, as I think of people who have had their houses burned down. Boys who’ve been stripped naked and whipped publicly in the street. People who’ve gotten laughed at, ridiculed, insulted, pushed, and spat on. Men who’ve been hanged. Honor killings. And so many people who have been charged with Debauchery. I live in a system famished for victims.

I get up and run to my room. Next to my bed are a pile of travel magazines; London, New York, Amsterdam, and Paris. My favorite one has many photographs of Tahiti. It’s helped me dream of leaving Nigeria. Alone in this house, I feel more and more that I am left with two choices—either stay and hope Kwame won’t tell anyone about what happened or use the little money I have saved to escape.

I decide to escape. If I stayed, I would never again know a moment’s peace… or, at best, deal with blackmail and extortion for the rest of my life.

I have heard of men who smuggle Nigerians to Europe. But, there’s a heavy black market price to pay. So, I say goodbye to this empty house – to my room and my collection of books and magazines. I leave a note for my family. It says, “Goodbye, Mother. Goodbye, Father. Goodbye, Chinara. I love you, Obi”.

I quickly pack a bag full of clothes, my identity papers, and a few things to comb my hair and wash. I get my money and hide it deep in my socks. The small cleaning jobs I’ve been doing for our neighbors as well as my job cooking in a popular snack bar will have to be left behind too. Kwame often came to the little snack bar I worked at on the weekends. He’d always find extra chicken on his sandwich. And on hot days, I’d give him a free can of ice-cold Coca-Cola. When I handed him his bag, he knew it was there, what had been done, and that it was me who did it. When I handed him his lunch, he would smile and wink at me. Flirting, I thought. I would smile and wink back. It was our little secret… but it’s all so disgusting now.

I know where one of the well-known smugglers lives in Lagos. So, I go across the city to his gated villa. He has three security guards outside and I have to pay each of them to let me in to speak to him. They’ll assume if I’m there that I must have money.

Inside, I explain to Mr. Achebe I need to go to Europe urgently. I lie and say I have a sick sister in Paris. He tells me he can take me in one week. I tell him no – I have to leave today. We negotiate a much higher price for me to leave tomorrow. He wanted more, even after getting almost all my savings.

I tried sleeping in the woods near his home. But I couldn’t. I kept thinking that Kwame had told the police and that they were looking for me. If I was sleeping when they found me, then I would have paid all that money for nothing… and I’d still be in jail.

So, by 7 o’clock the next morning, I started my long journey—and my first time ever out of Nigeria – exhausted. But there is no going back now. Not for me.

I meet the driver and the other two passengers I will be travelling with. The driver is unsmiling. The passengers are a reserved middle-aged man who I think is Swahili and a young Yoruba woman who has colorfully printed scarves tied up on her head. She is very talkative, but I think it’s to hide her nerves. None of us know where we’re going. All we know is that it is out of Nigeria, directly through Niger, and then through the desert to The Mediterranean Sea.

It rained all through Niger. We drove all day and all night. We only stopped to drink, quickly eat, and get gas. The driver knew the way. He was hurrying us to get back in the car if we needed to use the bathroom. It seems that the Niger police are on high alert for smugglers.

When we get to the Libyan border, it’s blistering hot. 42°C. There is a jeep waiting for us at the edge of a desert. We all have to load ourselves and our bags onto it. I’m scared. We’re going on a 3-day trek through an ocean of sand. The young woman has trouble straddling herself to the metal bar welded onto the back of the jeep. We’re then told to cover our faces with headscarves. When we do, the jeep takes off into the scorching dunes.

When the truck bounces up or down a sandhill, we get thrown from side to side. Dunes are never flat. The Swahili man has thrown up twice and the Yoruba woman looks ill. It is a wild ride and I feel dizzy. I hold onto the metal bar between my legs for dear life, parched with thirst as I breathe sand dust. I can’t even drink the water I brought. If I did, I would not be able to hold the bottle to my lips or I’d get thrown off. More than that, I don’t think the driver would stop to let me back on.

The Libyan desert is a vast, beige, blanket of sand. There is only it and the Sun. Sometimes the scene is broken by distant stone hills, cacti, or a dead body. As the truck tussles me in the back, I wonder how many others have tried to cross this desert of dunes. The truck passes another dead body and I wonder who he was. Someone’s brother. Someone’s son. Someone’s wife.

In a strange way, I feel safe. Safe from Kwame’s gossip and that stupid kiss I gave him. They can’t find me here, I think.They can’t kill me here. So, I just hold onto my metal bar… and pray.

The first night, we slept on the desert floor. The driver had blankets for us. They were not thick…but better than nothing. Desert nights are freezing. I heard the Yorubian woman crying, and we were all covered with dust.

As I tried to sleep, but could only think of my family and what they must be going through. Surely calling the Police. Asking the neighbors. Worried probably. I cried as I realized how much I missed them. Then I tried to dream of France… Paris… London… anywhere but here and how I got here. Then I remember Tahiti and the article I read about the tropical islands of France. If I can get my papers then I will visit each one.Maybe I can study or open a Nigerian snack bar in Paris?

The second day of our journey was terrible. No breakfast and we ran over a broken bottle and had to repair a flat tire. Then under the Sun, the engine overheated and we had to stop until it cooled. These both depleted our water supply, as we drank while we waited.

But the final straw was the sudden sandstorm. It was unbelievable, like God’s hands were creating a huge dust cloud, crashing through the desert. Clouds of sand raged directly toward us like a speeding train. When the winds finally hit, it flipped the jeep upside down and hurled it to the side like a plastic toy. The dust and sand turned everything black. And as I covered my mouth with my shirt, I could not see the sky. I could not see the dunes. I could not see the truck. The last thing I remember is getting blown back, hitting the ground hard, and waiting for the winds to blow over.

After the storm blew past, I woke and saw that the driver, the woman, and Swahili man were all dead. Everything was eerily quiet. No voices. No truck engine. And no sounds of vultures.

My throat was dust dry and I found myself shoulder-deep in sand. I was parched and felt that the Sun would be quickly coming back to its full blistering blaze. So, I wearily dug myself out. I wriggled my body out of the sand and, with great effort, used my weakened arms to help lift myself up onto the desert floor. I felt beyond exhausted and weak. I wanted my parents. My mother. I yearned for them and wondered if a jail cell in Lagos wasn’t better than this. Then as I finally pulled myself out of the deep, hot, dry Earth, the desert swallowed one of my shoes.

The jeep’s cabin got filled with sand. I don’t see any of the last bottles of water and my bags are missing. They must have been tossed out when the jeep was flipping over. Buried. But where? The driver is motionless and blood oozes from his head. I only see the Yorubian woman’s feet. Her elaborate anklets and henna tattoos tell me it’s her. The rest of her is buried. The Swahili man’s eyes are open, but he’s unconscious. I never asked why any of them came on this trip. And they never asked me either.

Now… I don’t know what to do.

I look out at a distant thunderstorm. Lightning is striking over the faraway land there and the crackling of thunder echoes like the remote sounds of wildebeest on the tundra. I see one of the woman’s scarves lying under the Swahili man’s arm and wrap my shoeless foot with it. Then I aimlessly start walking towards the storm.

Every step hurts. But before night falls, grey thunderclouds come my way and it rains for a few minutes. As it does, I cup my hands to collect as much water as I can to drink. But, too soon, the thunder stops and the sky clears. My feet ache with pain walking the scorched Earth.

Again, I sleep under the stars. I tried to walk so I could be seen, but did not see another jeep all day. When night fell, I was starving and it was freezing cold. No blanket this time, but strangely that helped relieve some of my pain.

The next day started out cool, then hot, and stayed that way. Red blisters covered my cracked soles. Walking hurts. Like a million needles poking into my feet. The sand’s heat seeps through my shoe and the scarf wrapping. I feel like I’m limping away from a big accident. But which one… Kwame or The Hurricane?

I just know I have to keep going, feeling that with every step I’m getting closer to Europe.

“Caw! Caw!” I hear and look above and see birds circling. Vultures? I get scared. Up ahead there’s a huge, lop-sided cactus in the distance and tell myself if I can make it there then I will stop for a rest. With every painful step, I am drenched in my own sweat. My heart is pounding and my breathing is heavy. Yet, I inch closer to the cactus. It’s arduous, but I finally make it and then fall face down.

Sand sticks to my sweaty face and I wonder if Europe is far from here. Maybe if I just keep going I will make it. I’ll find water there and I’ll be okay.I’ll be safe.

I think of how I will finally see Paris. Maybe Amsterdam is just over the next dune? After I rest a while, I will just make it over the next sand dune and I will be there.

“Caw! Caw!” I hear again. I can’t stay here, I think. Paris is so close! So, I lift my head and am surprised to see palm trees. There is a green patch of grass not far in front of me. How could I have missed seeing that a few minutes ago?There must be water there!

So, I get up and run to it. It’s beautiful!! There are lush coconut trees and papaya plants. I drink the juice of oranges and pineapples. I taste the nectar of hibiscus flowers. The fragrant smell of jasmine fills the air.

I run around this little paradise. God must have sent it to me, I think. It has rivers, a lake, and a waterfall. They are all crystal blue—like in the travel magazines. It looks like Tahiti or Martinique. I hear a cascade and run to it.

The cascade is loud and thunderous. The waters are rushing over a cliff and down into a turquoise pool. I go there to refresh. To feel its coolness flow over my body. It is sensual. Reinvigorating. I close my eyes and feel revived. The water streams over my head and across my shoulders. I’m revived!

When I open my eyes, I look down into the pool. Several naked black and brown men are swimming there. They are happily playing in the aqua blue water like 20 beautiful Mermen. They smile at me, beaming like lights, and invite me to come join them.

I come out from under the waterfall and stand on the ledge of a boulder. The brown and black Mermen look up at me. One reaches for my hand. I look at him for a moment and then dive. The pool’s waves envelop my body. It is so refreshing. So cool!

The Mermen all follow me deep into the water. They play around me, swimming and dancing. I am the center of attention and feel happy with them. Happier than I’ve ever felt in my life. There is no fear. No pain. Just pure joy. Pure intense joy as they welcome me into their group.

Under the water, they swim closer. They smile at me for a moment… but then their smiles turn dark and sinister. Angry. Why? There is distain on their faces. The same hate I saw on Kwame’s face. Expressions I’ve sometimes seen in Lagos. The Mermen grab hold of my arms and start pulling me down.  More of them come and push my shoulders down, making us all plunge deeper and deeper into the pool.

It’s getting harder to breathe, as some of The Mermen swarm around my legs. Holding them, so that I cannot swim to the surface. I start coughing. I start choking. I try my best to fight back, but there are too many of them and I am drowning as they pull me all the way to the bottom.

Water starts filling my lungs and I cough hard. I reach for the surface as I desperately gasp for air. But, I’m quickly running out of oxygen. I think I’m going to die. I cough hysterically and gag so hard that it wakes me up.

I look around… and the green, Tropical patch of coconut and palm trees is gone. Where’s the waterfall? Where are The Mermen? Where did the hibiscus flowers go? I look up and see blood and vomit sink into the hot sand beside my mouth. The only reminder of the dream I just had.

I look over and see the huge, lop-sided cactus next to me. I have barely moved an inch since laying down here a few minutes ago.

The desert is still wide and vast… and my blurred vision sees shifting sand dunes on the horizon.

“Caw-Caw!”

Perhaps London is just on the other side of them? Maybe Amsterdam… or Paris? I just need to get there and everything will be okay.

Then, as the hot Libyan winds blow sand over my burnt body, I close my eyes one last time… and think, maybe I will never see Tahiti.