Page 9

T imi had gone through some embarrassing shits in his life.

Once, while having a Descriptive Geometry class at B.U, Uncle Jude had stormed in, politely requested permission from Prof. Madu, then dragged Timi by his ear out of the hall full of crowing students.

His reason: Timi had deliberately stayed incommunicado for over a week.

Timi's defence: he had lost his phone.

Outside the hall, as he listened to his father go on about the grave, non-negotiable importance of frequent communication with family, he'd suffered a turmoil of being exhilarated and embarrassed all at once.

He suffered that turmoil now, wading through hordes of excited people at the airport lounge, who had their phone cameras aimed at him.

The identity he'd taken great pains to hide underneath his Ray-Ban aviator and beanie exposed by a single announcement.

No one asked for a selfie, which would have been strange if he wasn't trending for the worst crime ever.

He was grateful though. The last time he was mobbed in Eko hotel's reception, he'd found a precious dreadlock hanging lifeless from his shirt collar.

The speakers trilled again, followed by an electronic voice. Timi Lawson, please report to the security immediately. Thank you .

He knew who and what awaited him. If only international flights settled for morning hours instead of the 10 p.m. take off.

He'd left home early to avoid any staff stubborn enough to show up, and broken his sim cards so no one could reach him.

Nejeere must have invaded his house, discovered his letter, and screamed murder.

However, when he stepped into the brightly lit security room, a teary Nejeere warning him of an incoming hug accosted him.

“I'm so sorry,” she whispered into his chest, arms tightening around him. “You couldn't have seen this coming. You're leaving, but I know you. You'd have wanted to hear about this.”

He held her close, awkwardly stroking her hair. He hadn't considered how badly his disappearance may have affected her. “I'm so sorry, Nej. I probably should have told you, but I…I just —”

Nejeere pulled out of his arms, glaring now through wet eyes.

“Wait. You think you leaving without a goodbye is why I spent the whole day calling everyone who has done so much as stand a few feet away from you demanding for your whereabouts like a raving lunatic, until Gozie filled me in? I read your letter, Timi. I see clearly where I stand in your life.” She pulled out her phone from the inner pocket of her cream coat, scrolled through, and slapped it on his chest. “This. This is why I'm here, Timi.”

Mouth dry and strangely disappointed, Timi picked it up.

He saw the picture first. He and Uncle Jude in matching grey joggers and black t-shirts, standing side by side, his head bent low to bump the shorter man's.

Same one he had put up on his personal account to mourn his demise.

However, instead of the beautiful words he'd spent many nights crafting following it, a bold caption glared beneath.

Father or Lover; The Shocking Truth about Timi Lawson .

The First of Him

The boy was sixteen when he bought the medicine for the first time.

He entered the recently-opened clinic in Ewekoro–a container painted white by hands that had never held a brush prior to painting.

Behind a wooden counter, a young lady in blue scrubs and hairnet watched him warily as he approached.

He couldn’t blame her, there had been recent reports of minor thieveries going on, and he’d been told he looked too hungry to not be a thief.

An irony, as his father had once been tasked with hunting down people who looked like him.

Gingerly, he stretched out a paper to her, saying nothing as he’d been instructed.

The lady read through silently, then raised widened eyes.

“Are you buying for someone?” she asked.

He hesitated, before slowly shaking his head. He was the one sick, not them.

“Sit.” She ushered him to a long, wooden bench underneath a louvered window. Then, disappeared through a blue curtain, separating the rest of the container. From beyond, he heard the woman exclaim. “Doctor, he looks twelve!”

Few minutes later, he sat on a plastic chair in a room smelling of Dettol and methylated spirit, facing a smallish man clad in a white coat as pure as his eyes.

He had a different face. Open, kind, clean.

But the boy remained alert, because faces could change.

Around them, anatomy posters hung from curtain hooks.

The man held up the paper. “Is this for you?”

The boy nodded.

“How many times have you used it? ”

The boy shifted and crossed his legs, hoping the slight friction would relieve him of the burning itch.

“I’ve not used it before,” he said softly.

The man’s eyes fell on the boy’s clenched fists resting on his lap. “Tell me how it is.”

“It...it is scratching me.”

“Where?”

As if triggered by the word, a powerful urge to scratch descended, and the boy, unable to bear it, scraped his fingers furiously around his crotch area. “Everywhere,” he said through the pain. “Up, under, inside. It’s paining me.”

“Sorry,” said the man. “I’ll give you something soon to ease the itching, but you have to answer some questions. Okay?”

The boy nodded, temporarily relieved.

“Who gave you the paper?”

“Somebody.”

“Your girlfriend?”

The boy hesitated. “I...I don’t know.”

The man wrote something on a jotter. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

The man’s lips pursed, but he left his answer at that.

“For my next questions, you don’t have to say anything. You can simply nod if yes, or shake your head for no. I’m doing this to help. Can you do that?”

The boy nodded.

“Did your girlfriend give you the paper?”

He started to shake his head but stopped and nodded.

“Did she ask you to lie?”

He nodded.

“Is she older?”

He nodded.

“You lied about your age, didn’t you?”

Another hesitation before nodding.

A sigh. “Is she the only one you’ve been with? ”

The boy remained with his head bowed, then, slowly shook his head.

At the man’s harshly indrawn breath, he folded more into himself.

“How many of them so far?”

The boy stayed silent.

“Okay. Has it been only this one for...let’s say two months?”

He raised his eyes to the ceiling, then nodded slowly.

“When was the last time you did something with her?”

The boy knew how it must look. It wasn’t even afternoon yet. “T...today.”

The man’s face twisted. “In this state?”

“I...I did not enter. I used…mouth.”

The man got up, forcefully exhaling. His anger didn’t make much sense to the boy. It looked like he was angry for him, not at him.

“Shouldn’t you be in school? What class are you in? Where are your parents? Who’s your father here?”

The boy began trembling. Curling further into his seat, his hands resumed actively scratching, a droning sound engulfing his eardrums.

As if from within a well, he heard the man saying to him.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, I’m sorry I startled you. You won’t get into trouble. I want to help. Okay?”

Hands reached out and the boy flinted sideways.

“I’m sorry,” the man repeated. “But you must stop what you’re doing. And you must bring your partner here too.”

The boy raised a panicked face, and the man instinctively reached out again. This time, he jerked back so violently, the wobbly plastic chair tumbled backwards, taking the boy with it.

“Oh my God! Are you alright?” The man darted to his side, but he kept his hands to himself. Watching instead with concern as the boy got up, dusting his faded khaki shorts.

“I’m sorry I startled you,” the man said. “But it is for her own good. One of you must have given it to the other. It is my job to make sure it doesn’t spread.”

Once the boy settled, the man continued. “I’ll give you something for the painful itching, but you need a proper hospital. I must take care of something first. Can you come back in three hours, so I can take you to Ayanfe?”

The boy stood, eyeing the red wristbands inscribed with red moon, cross and diamond symbols in a plastic sieve. So like the one wrapped around a particular wrist he'd held so many times. A time sunrise and happiness meant the same thing.

The man followed his gaze. “You want one?” He pulled off the one on his wrist. It was brown and the symbols had started to fade.

“My father gave it to me when I first got my licence. You can have it.” He pointed at the boy’s left wrist. “Can I?” At the boy’s hesitant nod, he smiled and slid the band through.

“He believed in me, just as I believe you'll return. Wear it as a reminder to do everything I will tell you to.”

The boy stared at his wrist for a while. Then, as if coming out of a trance, hastily dug through his pockets and brought out squeezed cash.

The man smiled, not taking the offer. “Have you eaten?”

The boy shook his head.

“Buy some food with it, before taking two of this, and one of this.” He packaged the medicine in a plastic wrap. “Three hours, don’t forget.”

When he got to the wooden door, the man called out. “By the way, I'm Dr Jude Lawson. And you are?”

”Eyi,” the boy mumbled.

Decisions came pregnant with possibilities and sometimes birthed unexpected consequences.

Every shit pile he'd imagined his decisions unveiling had had only him within it. Wallowing, wading through or sinking, it had been him. As Timi Lawson or as the boy he escaped. Him. Him, for fuck's sake.

So, how the hell was his father sinking with him in pig waste ?

In the Airport security room, after hearing the news, he'd suffered the moral dilemma of fight or flight.

Uncle Jude was dead, he was disappearing.

The gossip would eventually die. Then, he'd imagined himself in his beach house, basking in the sun, the waves, and the fact that he may have killed his father again. Leaving him with not even a good name to be remembered by. And he’d immediately cancelled his flight.