Imaginary work. Purely fictional.
He had a feminine look. It was not about the application of the makeup. It was his figure. It was the eccentric mannerism that exuded a character that was marked by a natural thing to its origin – something we all did not understand. It went beyond that even.
It was the way he danced too : twerking and rolling his waist and licking his lips and slapping his butt and licking his lips. He passed excellently for a hot stripper. He cat-walked too. He had an accent – one typical of Nigerian literate Slay Queens. It was weird.
Then there was the artificial aspect. The make-up and his fashion sense. Girly jeans, crop tops, low girly hair-cut, lipstick… It was weird I tell you.
People in my class called him gay. They said he was a fag: a tag he denied vehemently stating that he wouldn’t mind being a fag if indeed he was a fag. But he wasn’t fucking men, he said. He wasn’t even Bi. He found it really unintelligent and stupid that people judged him based on how he dressed and looked; something he swore he couldn’t help. It was just who he was. He would always mention Denrele Edun and how feminine he looked but he wasn’t gay, although he really wasn’t sure. He would also mention my name and say; “I’ve never in my life seen a more stupid and dumb set of people who are shrouded in the blatantly false illusion of wokeness, intelligence, i-too-know, oshomafefe and… I mean c’mon! Look at Kevwe!” Then he would break off his dramatic female display of pretty gesticulations and barbie-like eye-flapping, and look at me. Very briefly. Then he would face his audience again and say in pidgin mixed with very correct British English: “Seriously, make una look Kevwe. She is not just a tomboy. Tomboyish means you still have a little girlishness to your look, to your being. But Kevwe… She… she looks like a man. A man with a vagina!!! Does that make her a lesbian? Lesbians are females who do other females right? Or is it because I am a guy? When it comes to things like this, you oppress men!”
He exaggerated my looks. I look like a guy alright, but not as acute as he made it look. My breasts were round and pronounced.
The class would roar in laughter afterwards. They would laugh and look at me and laugh and laugh and laugh and say he had many carry-overs because he was gay and because the lecturers did not like him. I think they tolerated him because he never validated their suspicions.
I never said a word. Not one word. I was attracted to him; his confidence, his outspokenness, his strong will. I felt he could pull through anything. I knew.
Yesterday I woke up to his picture on our whatsapp group chat. He had committed suicide. He used rat poison.
I couldn’t breathe. I was suffocated by the flood of RIPS and eulogies that rolled in that morning. They spoke nothing of the hate that these people once dished out to him. They said nothing of the ridicule and brutish lampoon that they had thrown at him. Somehow under the weight, he had cracked. I couldn’t breathe.
He wasn’t gay. I knew. I fucked him.
© Fortune Agb