Only Timothy could detangle Rotimi’s knot-ridden heart. His father’s fists, his mother’s curses, his little brother’s cries, all faded into the background of his mind when he was with Timothy. On getting to school every day, he sought Timothy out first. They strolled to the assembly together. And they strolled back to their classrooms. One morning, Timothy grabbed Rotimi’s hand, caressed his thumb, and Rotimi’s heart fluttered. Blood gushed to the limp appendage between his thighs. Flustered, he withdrew his hand and clasped it with the other over his groin. Timothy looked at him amused. He teased that he looked like a boy guilty of what he was being scolded for, with his lowered head and his hidden gaze. Rotimi didn’t say anything. He hurried ahead of Timothy, contemplating this new spring of desire coursing through his veins.
It was Timothy who first got Rotimi a present. He brought it to Rotimi’s house on the eve of his birthday. Rotimi was in the kitchen with his mother learning for the umpteenth time how to make amala without lumps. Then his little brother, Daniel, had dashed in to inform him Brother Timothy was around and that he was carrying a small poly bag. His mother knew Timothy, his only friend apart from Deola, the girl next street. And she had had a celebratory demeanor the first time Timothy visited, because her loner son finally got a new friend. So before Timothy excused himself, she already asked him to go. And he scurried down the passage to the veranda where Timothy was waiting.
“Timothy!” Rotimi squealed.
Timothy smiled. “I know you weren’t expecting me. I didn’t say I would come over at school.”
“Yes. And that’s why I am soooo happy to see you.” If only Timothy knew he was always expecting him these days, the way one anticipated dreams.
“I bought you a birthday gift,” Timothy said and handed him the poly bag.
Rotimi would forever remember the joy he felt that moment, his heart turning to bubbling water in his chest, effervescent, light. He wanted to pull Timothy into a hug but his feet wouldn’t move.
“Thank you so much. Thank you so much!” he spluttered instead.
Timothy grinned at his giddiness. Then he said he had to go.
After waving goodbye at him, Rotimi hurried inside. He unwrapped the gifts. There was a birthday card conveying well wishes and the highlight, a rose flower in a conical case. The case, translucent, had ‘I love you’ inscribed on it. He gasped and leapt into the air. Then he smelled the petals, a fragrance of all things sweet. While he twirled round the sitting room, his mother came in.
“This one that you’re dancing, you don win award ni?” she said regarding him.
And he showed her the presents.
“Ah ah! Eeeh oooo,” she said teasingly. “This your friend try o. Se pe you too can have friend that like you like this? You that don’t go out at all at all.”
Rotimi shrugged and hugged the card to his chest, rocking his shoulders in playful pride. Then he began to sing, Oni l’ọjọ ayọ mi, l’ọjọ ayọ mi, l’ọjọ mi, This is my day of joy, my day of joy, my day of joy. His mother shook her head at his antics, then returned to the kitchen.
On some weekends, Rotimi’s mother allowed him to visit Timothy at his mother’s provision store. Timothy would offer him a chair at a corner and sit on a bench across him. He would serve him a bottle of Fanta or Coke. And he would listen to him rant about everything: the stupid NEPA that made him miss the last Super Story episode, Deola who always disturbed him with her assignments, Daniel’s tantrums when he couldn’t take the bigger piece of meat and the sour smell of the tomatoes his mother sold. All this he shared and Rotimi always left out his father’s terror. He would not allow that man to soil this sparkly moment for him. When Timothy saw him off later in the evening, Rotimi would still be chattering. Until they got to the short wooden gate at the entrance of Rotimi’s house. And as Timothy made to leave, Rotimi held his arm, pulled him back. Timothy looked at his hand, then at him. Just then Daniel came running down the narrow passage.
“Brother Rotimi! Brother Rotimi!” he called. “Daddy call mummy mi now now. He say he is coming home this night.” Daniel grinned after his announcement.
Rotimi released Timothy’s arm, a quiet dread gathering in his mind.
“Brother Timothy!” Daniel said and Timothy smiled at him, pulled his cheek fondly. The little boy beamed.
“Rotimi?” Timothy said. “Are you alright?”
At first, Rotimi raised his brows, clueless, then he flashed a nervous smile.
A door creaked open in the passage and Timothy’s mother peered from behind a brown curtain.
“Timothyyyyy,” she said in that way she stressed the names of those she hadn’t seen for long and had missed. “Only your friend matter, ehn? Every time you come, you don’t say you even want to greet me,” she said.
“No ma. I was going to greet you goodnight before I leave ma,” Timothy lied.
Rotimi’s mother nodded and said she was only joking. Then she noticed Daniel in front of the boys, hands akimbo. “You this boy, where is the bowl I say you should bring from kitchen?”
Daniel’s eyes widened. He wasn’t holding any bowl.
Rotimi’s mother asked Daniel to come closer. And knowing he would be knocked or pinched, the little boy ran off.
“I’ll be on my way now ma,” Timothy said.
“Okay, goodnight oko mi. Greet your mummy and pastor for me o.”
“Yes ma.” Timothy turned to leave.
“Won’t you see him off?” Rotimi’s mother said.
Before Timothy could say there was no need, Rotimi was already nudging him forward, out to the veranda.
It was the tail end of twilight now. Fireflies floated on the patches of bush by the roadside and crickets had begun to chirp their mating songs. Rotimi and Timothy were walking towards Rotimi’s house again. Rotimi had almost reached Timothy’s house, unwilling for their togetherness to be terminated. And Timothy had decided to walk him back a bit. But of course, he was carried away by Rotimi’s animated third retelling of Nagini. By the time Rotimi was done, his house was within eyeshot again. He paused and said he had to go back right there. But Rotimi was not done.
“Will you be my friend forever?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’m afraid something will separate us.”
“We won’t be separated, Rotimi. We are like two sides of a coin. Forever together.”
Rotimi had always wanted to hear something like this from Timothy, butterflies-summoning things, flower-blooming things. But Timothy was a taciturn creature.
“Really? Forever together?”
“Yes.”
“What if I become very ill and I’m going to die?”
Silence.
“Timothy?”
“I will do everything possible to make you live. I can’t be without you.”
Rotimi giggled.
“It’s getting late, Rotimi. We have to part now,” Timothy said.
“You know I’ve been thinking, your name can be shortened to Tim and there is Tim in my name too.”
“True.”
“It means we are in each other. We should start calling each other Tim now.”
“Alright Tim. I really have to go now.
Rotimi chuckled. He gazed into Timothy’s eyes. There was a glow that wasn’t of the moonlight, an orange glint from a bulb far behind.
“Good night, Tim,” Rotimi said.
“Good night, Tim,” Timothy said and fled before he could be tied down with something else.
Heading home, his fingers caressing one another and his gaze upon the depth of the night sky –the fathom of his love for his Tim– Rotimi stubbed his left toe. His mother had told him that this was a bad omen. He was not sure if he believed it or not but a mote of fear speckled his mind.
Rotimi’s father was lounging on a sofa in the sitting room when he got home. His mother was packing the dishes on the stool in front of him.
“Where are you coming from?’ His father’s voice crackled like fire gnawing wood.
“I saw Timothy off sir,” Rotimi said, his fingers frantically fiddling with one another. His father’s presence always twisted his insides.
“And you are coming back this late.” His eyes glanced at the wall clock “9 pm?”
“I… I…”
“Come here.” He beckoned at him. Rotimi drew closer to him and a stunning slap landed on his face. “You do not hang around late ever again! Ever!”
Rotimi could smell his breath, a mixture of ewedu soup and alcohol. He staggered back.
“Actually…” his mother started and he cut in.
“And woman, you are letting this young boy wander this late?”
His mother froze for a moment, a pile of dishes in her hand. “He just saw Timothy off,” she said.
“And who is this Timothy you are all talking about!”
“When you don’t stay home, how will you know anything?”
His father’s brawny figure sprang up and he slapped his mother. The dishes flew out her hand and her slender frame fell to the ground.
“You don’t talk to me like that! You this illiterate nonentity!” he said, his bloodshot eyes pressing down on her.
Rotimi’s father’s countenance brought to his mind the tyranny of Pharaoh of the biblical stories. Rotimi imagined this was what Pharaoh would have looked like, cold, harsh and unfeeling. His father was their pharaoh.
After his father stormed off to the adjoining room, Rotimi rushed to his mother’s aid. She gestured that he shouldn’t bother. She packed the broken dishes on the floor and asked him to find a rag to mop the spilled water. Then she left for the kitchen. Rotimi fetched a rag from behind the door and dabbed the water. He dabbed his tears too, with the collar of his shirt. It took his mother about ten minutes to return. He knew she was doing her crying in solitude. He knew she would come back acting as if nothing had happened. And indeed, she returned clear-eyed, picked up Daniel from the three-seater sofa and left the sitting room without saying a word. Rotimi laid on a sofa and gazed at the orange incandescent bulb. The tears lacing his eyes blurred the light. He didn’t think to switch on the television and watch a late night movie on the local channel. He was angry. He hated his father. And like Pharaoh’s demise came, he wished some sort of waves would clap him into inexistence. If he prayed hard enough, would God grant his wish? Thoughts of Timothy trickled into his mind. Thoughts of his talc powdered face, his skin the colour and consistency of caramel, his ever creaseless uniform with edges as sharp as a knife. He thought of his aphrodisiac smile and a shy smile unfurled on his own face, bliss to his raging heart. And there was an awakening in his groin. Rotimi found it all perplexing, how the thought of someone could bring so much ache and so much pleasure.
Rotimi would dream of Timothy tonight. Of him hugging his body so tight he thought he’d disappear into him. Of his lips drinking his. He would feel a urinary urge and shoot up thinking he’d just bed-wetted. He would find his mother kneeling in front of a chair, her head shaking right to left and back as she prayed. She would turn to look at him and he’d try to cover the sticky wetness on his trousers. Then she would ask him to go and wash himself with an air of indifference. Rotimi wondered if his mother knew the nature of the dream he just had. If she thought it was about Deola who everyone in the neighbourhood called his wife. Deola who took him into the bathroom at the backyard the last time she came and placed his hand on her chest. Rotimi had folded his hand into a punch. Then Deola pressed her lips to his. Rotimi didn’t pull back. He was curious. He sucked her lips just the way he thought it was done in the movies. But he didn’t feel the excitement or sweetness he supposed were milked only from lips. It was Daniel’s knock on the door that tore them apart.
When Rotimi returned from the bathroom, his mother was still praying. Her eyes were closed and beads of sweat dotted the part of her back her wrapper didn’t cover. He found a new pair of shorts on the sofa which he changed into. And he knelt beside her like she loved him to do whenever he met her praying. He muttered ‘amen’ as she sent thunder to whoever looked at their family with evil eyes, as she commanded the blood of Jesus to break the bondage of the devil in their family.
Rotimi’s mother hadn’t always been a prayer warrior. She used not to care so much about Jesus. Then, she wasn’t resigned to his father’s abuse. She would spit fire whenever he came home late, reeking of alcohol. She would tug at his shirt and trousers whenever he bragged about his other mistress. Rotimi’s mother had changed because of that one fight that sent her packing to Grandma’s place. That evening, Rotimi was in the kitchen, peering into a pot of beans every now and then to check if the water level had reduced, because all his previous attempts at cooking beans had been a watery disaster. He was fanning the charcoal pot, the embers flaring, when he heard a scream from the passage. The woman they shared the kitchen with, Mama Alice, dashed out and he followed. In the passage, his mother was wriggling around his father. She was shouting, “you will kill me today ni o, you foolish man, oloriburuku oshi, you waste money on ogogoro and that evil woman you are carrying up and down.” His father had pounced on his mother, rained punches on her. While Rotimi was rooted to a spot, the neighbours tried in vain to pull his father off. That night, with a sierra of lumps on her face, his mother had left with him and Daniel.
Grandma made it clear on their arrival that it was a taboo for a woman to return to her parents’ home after marriage. His mother only cried and cried inconsolably. When grandma later dabbed the lumps on her face with a hot wet towel, his mother cried more. Rotimi couldn’t bear watching her, so he ran outside and sat under the hibiscus tree in front of the house. The moon was out, full. Rotimi thought of the pot of beans he left on the fire. He thought of how his home had always stunk with chaos. He started sobbing. Then a palm on his shoulder. He looked up and there was Timothy, that quiet boy who didn’t talk to anyone in school. He sat beside Rotimi and told him he lived in the neighbourhood. He asked Rotimi not to cry anymore, that everything would be fine. He patted his shoulder as he did this, then pulled him closer and hugged him. And Rotimi felt like staying right there, in his arms, forever. This was how their friendship started, the beginning of their smouldering romance. The following morning, Timothy would come with his father, the pastor his Grandma had invited to console his mother. The pastor would quote a dozen bible verses to soften his mother’s heart, to assure her that Jesus had all the answers to her problem. The pastor would tell his mother how patience was a virtue of blessed women and that she needed to go back to his father for her children’s sake. All the while, Rotimi and Timothy stole glances at each other and shared a smile or two. By the end of the pastor’s sermon, his mother was ready to return to her Pharaoh, now a believer in the virtue of endurance.
Timothy was Rotimi’s escape, the ethereal place where there was only beauty and delight, where his thoughts could dwell without bitterness. So Rotimi looked forward to school, started ironing his uniform too, and when his mother wasn’t looking, he would apply her brown powder on his face. He wanted to look as beautiful as Timothy, to look beautiful to Timothy. After receiving that birthday present from him, Rotimi was now certain that they were in love with each other. Because only lovers exchanged red roses in the movies he watched. It didn’t matter to him then that he’d only seen opposite sexes do the exchange. And he couldn’t imagine anyone would perceive this happiness swirling within him as abnormal.
The first time Rotimi learned of the word ‘homosexuality’, he was shocked. He didn’t know there were types of love. He didn’t know two boys desiring one another was a sin in the Bible. Timothy’s father was parading the podium that Sunday, bitterly condemning ‘gayism’. He said the media was now filled with satanic messages promoting sins. He warned parents to monitor what their kids watched on television so that they would not be touched by Satan.
“It is clearly stated in the Holy Scripture. The bible says in Leviticus 18:22, ‘Thou shall not lie with mankind, as with womankind.’ The western world is intent on contaminating Africa with their demonic vices. Imagine them telling us to legalize gay marriage. Two men together? God forbid! We have to be alert. Very alert. I hereby cast out any demonic essence in your lives in Jesus name!”
‘Amen’ thundered through the cathedral.
Rotimi shrank. He wanted to lie with Timothy.
The Pastor continued, his words shards Rotimi’s mind was forced to run on. After the service, Rotimi didn’t look out for Timothy as usual. He felt ashamed of his feelings and he was scared too. But Timothy came to meet him by the rows of flowers in front of the church where Rotimi waited for his mother.
“Tim, I’ve been looking for you,” Timothy said. He was in a blue checkered shirt and black trousers, creaseless.
“Here I am.” Rotimi forced a smile.
“Are you okay?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Just ignore it, Tim. That’s what I do. Ignore it.”
“Okay, Tim.”
“Well, I want to tell you something.”
Rotimi’s eyes flicked towards Timothy, searching.
“My father has decided that I will do my senior secondary studies in a seminary school. I will not be returning from my vacation to Lagos this time.”
Rotimi didn’t know whether to be sad that he was leaving or be excited that he wasn’t saying he’d finally realized the ‘evil’ of their forbidden romance. He chose the former, his eyes searching his.
“I am going to miss you,” Rotimi said.
“Me too. Don’t worry, we still have our exam period before I leave,” Timothy said with a dim smile.
Rotimi nodded.
“And we will find a way to talk through the phone.”
“Yes, we will be calling each other. My mother said she will get a phone soon.”
Just then, Daniel came and said their mother needed his attention. Rotimi said a hasty goodbye and followed Daniel. He glanced back a few times. And each time, Timothy’s eyes were on him.
Rotimi was always the one to desire more. He wanted Timothy to kiss him. He wanted him to fondle him. He wanted his body. Especially since he would be leaving indefinitely for Lagos soon. So Rotimi made a habit of talking about erotic scenes from the movies he’d seen. He and Timothy often stayed back in class to read in preparation for the coming exam, rather than go out for break. They were supposed to be discussing a drama text recommended for their literature. But Rotimi found a way to insert the film he recently watched on NDTV. He focused on the moment James Bond tore open a lady’s clothing, pinned her to a wall and planted kisses all over her body. He highlighted how the couple moaned and muttered obscenities. Rotimi knew he would be aroused by his detailed descriptions so he had erstwhile put his bag on his lap. Timothy did seem fascinated. He said he had seen a similar clip on his uncle’s phone. And that was it. No talks about wanting to experience something similar. No uneasiness because of arousal. Rotimi was disappointed.
The night Timothy finally kissed Rotimi, he had come to say goodbye. Earlier, they were sitting on the pavement outside Rotimi’s house, chatting about their last paper; how Junior was caught cheating, how Demola had disturbed the class with his intermittent coughs, how Mr. Ajayi’s questions were so confusing. Suddenly, Timothy had said they should go to the alley beside the house. Of course, Rotimi agreed. There, shaded by the dark, Timothy held his head and kissed him. He kissed him. He kissed him and every part of him tingled. Rotimi kissed him back, holding his lower lips between his, sucking it, realizing that evasive sweetness. They kissed until shuffling sounds from a window made them break apart. For a while, they froze, panting. Then Timothy said he should leave, with a demeanor that spoke nothing of what just happened between them. Rotimi motioned to accompany him but he firmly declined. A familiar stench trailed his cadence, the type Rotimi had been nurturing since the pastor’s sermon. He watched Timothy walk away. He watched him till the night swallowed his figure in the distance.
It took Rotimi almost a year to finally get the right number to call in order to speak with Timothy. And while on the call, Rotimi felt he was talking to a different person. Timothy didn’t say he missed him back when he said he missed him. And his speech had become mechanical, sprinkled with ‘Heavenly Father’, ‘Holy Spirit’ and ‘Jesus’.
After Rotimi hung up, he picked the rose he had hoped to tell Timothy he still kept and flung it away. His heart knotted in new painful ways. He curled up on his bed and cried. Why did he call? Why did Timothy’s voice still sound so lovely? Why did he still get aroused thinking about the kiss in the dark alley? Why was this love a sin?
His mother’s scream broke in from the sitting room. His father was home tonight and his mother had retreated back to fighting him. Perhaps she was tired of pleasing Jesus. Perhaps he too should not care about pleasing Jesus. He covered his ears and rocked to his whimpers.
