Chapter Text
Oxtail stew was always Remilekun’s favorite. They didn’t make it the normal way, the way everyone back home did. The pot was tall, instead of stout. You would be able to eat off of it for about a week, if the ingredients don’t go bad. The stew was still thick, and Olúgbémiró would blend up roasted peppers for the stew itself. No one did that, Remilekun would think, no one made it special. The smell of roasted peppers was still strong in the air, giving Remilekun that familiar nose-burning feeling. Remilekun stood on a stool that seemed bound to break under his small weight any minute, making him just tall enough to peer into the tall pot, and his brother was in front of the pot, stirring with a wooden spoon that had been lovingly rubbed with garlic, humming passively with each gentle stir.
“Do you think it’s time for the oxtail, Gbénró?”Remilekun whispered, leaning in that little bit more. He could feel the steam brushing against his face, warming him from the outside in. A soft laugh and ringed fingers push his head away from the steaming broth. “It looks ready, don’t it?” The stew was still a little thin, but Olúgbémiró always said that was the perfect time for the oxtail to soak up the rest—and when was his own brother ever wrong?
“Yes, it’s ready—keep your head away from the pot,” the warning, however stern, was lost in the air as Remilekun hopped his happy way to the pan of cooked oxtails. He carried it over with a skip, a hop, and a beaming smile that seemed to rival the sun. The pan met the marbled counter with a clatter, Remilekun back at a satisfying eye-level with the brim. If he reached just slightly on the tips of his toes, he could see hints of the thick, bubbling broth.
“How much you gonna put in? Lots?” actually getting to put in oxtail was the best part—Gbénró would always say Remilekun was just too young to handle raw meat and a very hot broth, but the smell would only grow, filling the small house for what would be days with a rich, pepper-filled aroma.
Remilekun couldn’t wait until he was older. The idea of older was something sacred—three years away from driving, so close to a freshman year, where hopefully, he can gain some height on him. Not too much height, because then he’d be pressured into basketball more than before.
“All of it, Remilekun.” Olúgbémiró’s hands plucking the first few pieces and dropping them in. “I wouldn’t prep this much if I didn’t want to eat it all.” His work stops for a quick nudge of Remilekun’s cheek with his knuckle. “You gotta grow up strong if you want to protect yourself,”
An odd little sound came from the younger. Not quite a groan, but more of an uncertain sounding whimper. “Ain’t cops s’possed to do the protecting? Like, if we both got in trouble—n’ you were hurt…”
Gbénró looked tense, his wrist slowing that gentle stirring in favor of staring into the stilling stew. “Remilekun,” his voice came softly, yet that overwhelming feeling of shame pooled in Remilekun’s cheeks. His tone was more than familiar, memories of gentle corrections for being too loud or just not thinking before he spoke. “Can you promise me something?” his ringed fingers dug into the spoon, his brother’s gaze staying on the simmering pot, dark, long dreads just barely hiding his gaze from Remilekun’s line of sight.
“Uh—“ a choked laugh, “Yeah—yeah, I can,” Remilekun lifted onto his toes again, an attempt at gaining a glimpse of the rich, orange and red stew. His hands pushed him that bit higher from the counter, getting looks at the various vegetables that swam throughout it. The pepper smell gave that familiar, loving burn and the steam washed over him again.
“Remilekun,” Remilekun’s name is repeated like a mantra, like Remilekun wasn’t paying attention. Or maybe Gbénró knew he was, and just needed the security of knowing the boy would listen for once. “Promise me, that if any cops ever knock on this door,” his hands abandoned the spoon and plucked the cooked oxtail into the rich orange stew, gently pushing his brother’s head away again, the silent warning hanging through the air. “Or if they start asking you about anything, you come get me. Don’t speak a word to them.”
Gbénró hardly spoke like this, with a voice so heavy—it was only saved for when Remilekun was in trouble, or seconds away from getting himself stupidly hurt. It was the sort of tone that made him want to stay quiet and still somehow apologize a million times over, even if he knew this was out of the love in his brother’s heart. “… ‘Kay,” he whispered, lifting up onto his tippy toes to peek into the pot again, another attempt met with Gbénró’s hand, cold rings cutting through the warm, inviting steam.
“I’m serious, Remilekun.” his eyebrows furrowed, yet his eyes never truly met Remilekun’s.
“I know,”
“If you can’t get me, you do what you’re told quietly,” another push to Remilekun’s head with a small sigh, “I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“We’re good people,” he declared quietly as he placed his sloppily peeled carrot slices next to the oxtail pan. “We’ll be okay.” Gbénró was kind—Remilekun knew that better than anyone. Why else would he kiss his wounds better and make him such big warming meals? Kindness was all they are, Gbénró taught him that since he was even littler than he was now, even from before they moved to LA, from before the name Remilekun became a precious thing only for home—kindness was supposed to be all they were. But this promise felt… odd. Like something Remilekun wasn’t supposed to hear—all of his other teachers would be saying the opposite, like a small secret he was supposed to lock up and hide forever.
The light sloshes of stirring came to a stop, Gbénró’s rich, brown eyes finally looking into Remilekun’s misty eyes. He was silent, till, oddly so, to the point Remilekun couldn’t hear the soft clicking of the wooden beads Gbénró always wore, the comforting sound of rain they had lost in the moment. His look screamed pity, worry, fear, even—it made his cheeks flush with warmth and his eyes water; the words ‘am I in trouble?’ jumping through his head.
“Sometimes, olufẹ mi[my brother always called me olufẹ mi, I think it means my dear!! Ain't that cool??],” he whispered, cupping Remilekun’s cherubic cheek and gently rubbing away the few tears that fell. “Being kind isn’t enough.” Gently, he pat the back of Remilekun’s hair, his rings catching on a few strands and pulling just slightly before letting go. Gbénró clicked his tongue, his eyes darting over to the pot. “Want a taste, Remilekun? You tell me if it needs anything.” He spooned out a good handful, one hand under the spoon to catch any spillage.
Remilekun wiped the remaining tears from his face, opening his mouth wide as Gbénró gently tipped the spoon into his mouth, letting the warm, slightly spicy taste linger with the weepy boy. “Good?”
“’S good,” a little nod and a weak, littler smile—his mind couldn’t leave his promise. Cops were kind to the good people. Good people? Good people, like Remilekun and his brother. Why would something be repeated at school so much if it weren’t true? They can’t lie, if they lied, then was he really that bright?
“It’ll be even better in a few hours,”
“Hours? Awh…. Gbénró… that’s so long…” He leaned forward again, his hands carefully avoiding the knives and forks scattered about the counter, tilting his head and
“Stop leaning over the counter before you fall into the pot, too.” Gbénró pushes Remilekun’s head back from the pot a final time. His hands locked solidly under Remilekun’s shoulders, hoisting him off of the stool and hooking him under his arm. “Then I’d have no choice but to eat you with the oxtail…”
“No! You can’t do that! I won’t taste good!”
“Remilekun and oxtail soup… I think I’d cry eating it, knowing you tasted so yummy,”
—
Dinner was an affair for the two of them only, Remilekun learned over time. It was some period between the jeering laughter over packed lunches and the awkward excuses from ivory-skinned friends to leave before dinner became too pungent. His dinners, his lunches—they were to be best kept quiet, eaten in bathrooms or passively thrown away for the bland, lifeless school lunches.
He never—He never…. He never exactly told Gbénró what he was doing with his lunches. Days upon days of Gbénró being amazed at just how much Remilekun would eat when his lunchbox would come home emptier than before. Remilekun–Raymond, if he had to be specific, would toss the lunch behind the school. In the bathroom, in the cafeteria—anywhere he could find an out, he would take it. If he was just too hungry, he would find solace in a bathroom stall, feet hiked up to truly hide from prying eyes, slipping away into the soft comforts of food even if for a moment.
It wasn’t long before Olúgbémiró would start noticing something. Bigger portions were put into his lunchbox, a bigger, more despairingly delicious target in his small bag. Soft, comforting concerns of Remilekun being too skinny, looking more frail by the day, passive mumbles of how Remilekun just needed more and more dinner each day.
Similarly enough, the name Remilekun was something to be hidden, too. A few times people have heard the name called across the yard, meeting the few ears of pale-faced peers, met with confused laughter and shoddy attempts at covering up, mumbling about some odd middle name, or being confused for someone else.
“How come you call me Remilekun…” he ripped into a piece of oxtail with his teeth, the rich, almost melted texture bringing a sense of home to him. “But th’other kids gotta call me Ray?”
“Well,” Gbénró hums, slipping a damp cloth over to Remilekun, hardly looking up from his own plate, “Remilekun is a… home name.”
“Why? I like Remilekun more…” His hands found the rag, messily wiping his face from the sauce before his brother reached out, giving that same kind laugh, and tenderly wiping his brother off.
“I know,” he pat Remilekun’s cheek. “But… think of it as having two names. They’re both you, but…” he took his own bite of oxtail, “Remilekun is more… special. Remilekun Ṣoyinka is home, while Raymond Shields is… the boy who has to go to school and get good grades.”
“All the other kids got one name,”
“That makes you more special,”
“You’re the only one that uses Remilekun,” Remilekun took another messy bite, as if his fingers were going to be swallowed with the oxtail. “How come you get to keep your name? I wanna keep Remilekun.”
“’Cause,” a more polite bite from Gbénró, matched with a soft hum. “I wanna remind you of home. And cause I said so,” a smile came across his lips when he finally looked up. “We make some good oxtail soup,”
“Shouldn’t I get a boy's name then, too? Isn’t Remilekun for girls—”
“Remilekun can be whoever you want, olufẹ mi.”
“Then who do I call myself if cops come, like you said?”
“You’re Raymond Shields to them, bud.” He passed the rag back again with a soft, aimless smile. “If they try to check your papers, that’ll be the name they see. But that’s all it is, okay? Papers. You’ll always be Remilekun at home, dear.”
Some vague noise of agreement left Remilekun, muffled behind all the food he seemed set on swallowing whole.
Raymond Shields felt all flavors of wrong, how was a name supposed to be his if it felt so pale? On the unaccented tongue, Raymond Shields was so straight, so boring and nothing like the boy he wanted to be. Teachers said it with a sort of drawl that made Remilekun dread saying yes to a big move to america. Remilekun Ṣoyinka was a name that was soft on the tongue, rich in the mouth and something that was all the flavors of life. To him, at least.
“... Everyone says your name wrong,” Remilekun whispered. “How are you happy with that?”
Olúgbémiró hesitated. Remilekun could see the sudden pause in his hands, how he breathed weakly before placing his food back into his bowl. His eyes, they avoided Remilekun’s judging gaze, “We can’t have everything the way we want it, Omo mi.” he gives a small shrug. “They won’t learn it—some people are mean, Remilekun. I want you to love your name, just as much as I do, if not more.”
“Then why do I have to hide it?”
“It’s not—You’re not hiding, Remilekun. People are mean to those like us, Remilekun. You’ll understand when you’re older.”
“Older.” Remilekun’s frustrated whisper wasn’t given a response except for the small, defeated sigh from his brother. How many more lunches was he supposed to throw away until he was old enough? How many more rushed meals in bathroom stalls was he supposed to endure until his own brother would see him as big enough to see it?
Gbénró gave a light cough, shifting his food around with a soft disinterest, pushing the topic on. Remilekun’s eyes glanced up, barely tilting his head with a soft, simmering anger.
“Now, enough of that, Remilekun. How was school today?”
“It was okay,” Remilekun mused, fiddling with the food on his plate with his small fingers. “Heard your class had parent-teacher conferences… did any of the parents yell at you till you cried?”
“No, no parents yelled at me,” Gbénró gently poured some extra food on Remilekun’s plate. “There’s this one boy in my class though… Miles,” he pushed a loc behind his shoulder. “His father’s talking about needing a babysitter. I offered to watch over him sometimes.”
“Am I gonna havta room with a four-year-old?” a little shimmy in his spot matched with a groan.
“No, no—it won’t be for long, just for an hour or two after school while he has his trials. You might have to walk home by yourself, Remilek—”
“Lawyer? Like a real one that puts people in jail?”
“Eh, no, not that kind, Remilekun. The kind that tries to keep people out of jail… speaking of,” Gbénró leaned back to shuffle through his pockets, mumbling to himself before he pulled out a small card, stark white against his warm brown fingers. “If anything ever happens to me,” he gently placed the card in front of Remilekun. “You go to him. He’ll help us. Don’t worry about money or anything silly like that.”
Remilekun thumbed the card, spinning it over in one hand, reading the name Gregory Edgeworth in a thin, golden foil, followed by an address and phone number. “… Are you sure he wasn’t trying to give you his number, Gbénró?”
“Remilekun,”
“Sorry—sorry!! But like….” He fidgets. “I won’t… nothing’s gonna happen, right?”
“Yes, Remilekun. Nothing’s going to happen to me. I won’t let anyone take me from you.”
Remilekun shifted in his seat, large, naïve eyes watching his brother. “Promise?”
“I promise, you can’t get rid of me so quickly, olufẹ mi.” his smile was soft, but as long as Remilekun could see it, nothing else mattered. “Besides,” he gave a shrug. “He’s a nice man—very capable. He’d love you. He even, and get this.” his brother had that vague, self-satisfied smirk of his, the one that just gave away that Gbénró thought he was proving some great point. He sat a little taller, leaning in over the table.“He even grilled me on how to pronounce my name. All of it—he wouldn’t let me talk until he got it right.”
Remilekun’s eyes darted from the card to the man in front of him, a vague squint in his eyes peeking through. “I think he was flirting with you, Gbénró.”
“Stop that.”
“I’m just saying—”
“Remilekun, just promise me. If anything happens, and I can’t—and I can’t be there,” the words were almost forced out, “You just… go to him. He will understand, and he will help.”
The golden foil glinted under the light as he looked down, fiddling with the card, the unfamiliar name standing out more than ever. It was clean, a rich sounding name that probably held more of a history in the states than two little African boys clutching to dreams.“Gbénró, I—”
“Promise,” it’s whispered this time, barely a shuddering breath of air.
“Yeah—I… I promise.” The card creased, pressed between his forefinger and thumb with each second of growing tension. “I’ll—I’ll go see him, then. If something happens, which,” a little, shaky laugh. “It won’t. You said it won’t, so I don’t… I don’t need to worry.”
“Of course, Remilekun…. But being safe is important, you know?”
“Yeah,” Remilekun would whisper. “Sure,”