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Bello sits a few feet away from him, almost situated across the small, dingy room, yet his voice is raucous enough to render the distance meaningless.
“But she really doesn't like me, you know? I don't know what to do about it.” he laments, eyebrows pinched and mouth twisted to a frown. The expression is ill-fitting on him, and Kuso, unbeknownst to himself, starts resenting the girl that has been causing his recent emotional downturns.
He shifts, crossing his legs. The bent plywood chair he has been sitting in is a bit of a punishment on his back, but the janitor neglects to clean this room so he really has no other choice.
He was engrossed in perusing The Old Man and the Sea, a book he pilfered from one of the older boys and planned to return it before he got caught—that is, until Bello showed up, nearly weepy over some girl living next door.
“Listen,” Kuso begins as he shuts the book, his hands folded atop it. “Who cares if she doesn't like you back? There's plenty of other girls around, no? You'll find someone else. Stop bothering her if she's not interested.”
“Easy for you to say! With your handsome face, you could get any girl you want,” Bello harrumphs.
Kuso stares down at him, unimpressed. This effect is augmented by the fact that Bello is sprawled on the dusty floor. Eventually, he wins the staring contest when Bello glances away, muttering something under his breath.
“If you don't wanna listen to what I have to say, go bother somebody else like Obo or Onazi. I said what I said.” With that, he rises out of his stiff seat and stretches his limbs, allowing them to crick and pop like the branches of an ancient yew tree.
Bello hops back to his feet as well. “But do you think it's a complete lost cause? Any chance I can win her over?”
“How would I know?” he tuts. Hopeless, this one. Maybe even more so than Oboabona, which can be counted as an achievement.
“Man, you're no help!” Bello declares and storms out of the room.
Kuso watches him retreat into the backyard, probably to call up some of the other boys nearby and play football until he becomes too tired to fret. Let him do that, then.
Meanwhile, he knows the true owner of his book can return any minute now, so he has no choice but to relinquish it for today.
The room where the oldest boys reside is even more austere than the rest of the building, as if it has been designed to remind them that their time here is running out. There are chests of drawers and duffle bags beside the tiny cots, the only places to store their clothes and other belongings. The walls may have been beige once, but the paint has flaked off so much you can hardly tell anymore.
As Kuso is tucking the book into its rightful drawer, he hears someone clear their throat behind him. Kuso whirls around, heart about to leap out of his chest, but the boy that has suddenly appeared isn't the book’s owner but rather another older boy, one he isn't well-acquainted with. The boy stares at Kuso as if he has caught him red-handed. Kuso calmly maintains eye contact, his expression schooled to be impassive.
“Yes?” he asks.
The boy crosses his arms. “What are you doing here?”
“I'm just here to return this book. I found it lying around, then realised it belonged to one of the guys here,” Kuso answers, shrugging.
His scrutinous gaze lingers on the younger boy for a moment longer, then he turns his back on Kuso and retreats to his own cot.
Kuso lets out a quiet breath of relief. As he's walking out, the boy's flip phone rings. He picks it up and begins talking, and as he does, his cadence transforms, becoming softer and sweeter than Kuso thought he was capable of being.
Must be his girlfriend, Kuso thinks to himself.
It's a bit odd how there has been a sudden rise in dating and rendezvous, in the fascination with the fairer sex. Kuso doesn't particularly care about what other people do in their free time, but when everyone around you is taking part in an activity you can't muster up any interest for, it makes you stick out like a sore thumb. It isn't his fault, nobody has yet to explain what's so compelling about girls.
Kuso wracks his brain, but he finds no answers. All he has is this feeling of wrongness churning in his stomach. Is he the one that's abnormal? A healthy teenage boy should be attracted to girls his age, that's what everyone claims. Yet every time a girl approaches him, tries to woo him, he can't match her enthusiasm. Maybe something is wrong with him—
“Kuso, over here!” Onazi's bubbly voice cuts through his miasma of doubts.
Kuso's gaze darts in his direction, finding the boy seated on a patch of hard-packed soil by the yard's edge. Somehow, his feet have carried him outside without his knowledge. Despite himself, he smiles and moves closer.
“Hey, why aren't you playing?”
“I'm watching Bello.” Onazi flicks his thumb at the boy, who is charging around madly, no rhyme or reason to his movements, like he plans to wage a vendetta against the rest of his teammates.
Kuso pities Bello, but he can't stifle the snort that escapes him.
“Do you know something that I don't?” Onazi asks, casting a sidelong glance at his companion.
The boy flippantly waves his hand in the air. “Bello has his heart twisted over a girl, and the guy has never been good at dealing with his emotions.”
“Oh, so that's what happened.” Onazi's eyes flit about for a moment, watchful. Remaining surreptitious, he inches closer to Kuso and mumbles, “Why is everyone falling in love these days?”
Turning round to meet his gaze, Kuso finds no ridicule in Onazi's countenance. Unlike him, who can't fathom this new phenomenon that seems to have captured everyone's hearts in its grasp except his, Onazi is merely curious. Not that it's surprising, there isn't a single mean bone in his body. He stares at Kuso, expectant, waiting for him to answer the questions that plague him too.
Kuso heaves a long, weary sigh. “Good thing I'm not the only one questioning that. It's a bit ludicrous, isn't it?”
Onazi frowns, the downward curl of his lips marking his disapproval. “I don't see it like that, exactly. It's quite sweet to me.” He pauses, then asks, lowering his voice further, “Do you think I'll also like a girl soon? Do any girls like me?”
“I'm sure they do.” Kuso smiles, ruffling his hair. “You're the sweetest boy around. I can't tell you much about the first part, though. That's up to you.”
Onazi giggles and playfully slaps Kuso's hand away. “You're too nice.”
“I wasn't lying.”
“Shut up,” Onazi mumbles, his smile beaming with the splendour of the sun.
The sight of it is emollient for Kuso's soul. Love, girls—who cares about all that? As long as he has Onazi and his family, he'll be content. These simple joys are all that he needs as sustenance.
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A week passes and within that timeframe, Bello recovers from being lovesick and returns to his usual jubilant self. That small burst of insecurity Kuso was pained by slowly evaporates, until his past concerns become inexplicable even to himself. After another week, these thoughts flee his mind entirely, Kuso and his coterie going back to the activities they love best: football and mayhem.
One day, the four are loitering in the garden, playing a round of Go Fish when Oboabona, tossing his cards down, mutters in a frustrated voice, “The heat is killing me! I wanna go out and get some ice-cream.”
Bello perks up right away. “Man, you read my mind. I was just about to say this.”
Kuso's eyes flit between the two, sensing the coalesce of a dangerous plan. If Kuso and Onazi strengthened each other's sensibilities, Oboabona and Bello leagued with each other to cause small disasters. The sun is just about to set, and the orphanage doesn't permit the boys to go out in the evenings. He knows what the two are about to suggest, and as he prepares to dissuade them from the idea, Onazi beats him to it.
“Guys, remember what happened the last time we tried sneaking out?” Onazi reminds him, tiny shivers wracking his body. “Ice-cream can wait tomorrow. It isn't worth the trouble today.”
Bello huffs. “We only got caught cause some asshole snitched on us to the matron.”
Oboabona nods sagely. “This time, we keep it to ourselves.”
“You two cut it out,” Kuso says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Onazi is being reasonable. Can't you two wait a few more hours?”
“Well what's the point of getting it later when I want it now?” The boy replies, his voice taking on a note of utmost seriousness.
Bello gives a vehement nod of his head. Onazi sighs and exchanges a knowing glance with Kuso that seems to convey the message: Can you believe these guys?
“You know what? Fine.” The bespectacled boy raises his hands in surrender. “You two can do whatever you think is best, just make sure not to get caught.”
“No way that's gonna happen again!” Bello chuckles. “I believe in Onazi, he won't let us get caught.”
“Wait, when did I—”
“Onazi did not say yes to this,” Kuso replies in his stead, albeit more gruffly than the situation warrants. Still. Bello and Oboabona are natural troublemakers; Onazi's highest transgression so far is stealing a strip of gum from somebody's hands while the guy wasn't looking.
“Chill out, man. You act like we're planning a robbery,” Bello replies, though his words are no longer that airy. He's girding up his loins for a proper argument.
“Can't you two just wait till morning?” Onazi sighs. “Listen…”
A small detail goes unnoticed. As he speaks (gentle, precise and upbeat), his hand extends across the small space between him and Kuso. The hand first brushes over his knuckles, then envelopes his own fully. Kuso's posture relaxes by a fraction. This small act of affection, of reassurance, happens in a manner so casual it shouldn't make him feel tingles all throughout his body, but it does.
“... but in the end, it's all up to you guys,” he says with a beguiling expression, yet to release Kuso's hand.
Oboabona hums, thoughtful. “Maybe it would be better if we wake up early and sneak out.”
Bello slaps the ground triumphantly. “Then it's settled! Kuso, do you wanna join us?”
Kuso lifts his worried gaze to the boy's face. “Do I have to?”
“Why not? Come on, don't be such a killjoy.”
He wants to refuse, but the request is made with the heartfelt sincerity of a younger sibling demanding something, knowing he would earn it by dint of youth. In the end, what is Kuso if not weak for his family?
“Only because Onazi is too nice to handle y’all,” Kuso grouches, though his face struggles not to display even the faintest hint of mirth.
Seeing him fail to hide his smile, Bello erupts into hearty laughter at that, prompting Oboabona to chuckle as well, while Onazi swaps another meaningful look with Kuso, this one sharing the love that overflows his own heart too. A love so large it's the glue that fastens them together, lets them fall under the trappings of a unit stronger than any biological family.
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For them, going anywhere beyond the perimeters of the orphanage is ceremonious, even if their destination is a twenty-four-hour convenience store down the streetcorner. In preparation, they all tuck themselves into bed early. Bello and Oboabona try to keep their excited chatter quiet, but eventually they yield to sleep. Kuso traces his eyes along the cracks on the ceiling, trying to coax his mind to rest as well.
His fifteenth birthday is five months away, while the rest aren't far off either. Soon they'll all be old enough to participate in the tryouts for Enyimba’s youth team. Of course he has crafted contingency plans, because he can't afford to put all his eggs in one basket, but still. He doesn't want to be too stressed by thoughts of their future, but his musings have always been more inclined towards tragedies, so his mind's eye keeps conjuring up the most terrible scenarios for him to worry about.
Someone touches his shoulder. Kuso starts and glances around, locking eyes with Onazi. “Onazi? Why are you still awake?”
The boy scoots closer, his smile visible in the dark. “I was asleep, but I got woken up because I could hear you think too hard.”
“That's not possible,” he replies with a wry chuckle. (Though he won't be too astonished if he learns he's somehow telepathically linked to Onazi.)
A giggle bubbles out of Onazi. “Well, I did wake up to find you staring at the ceiling really intensely. Whatchu thinking about?”
“Oh, you know.” Kuso does a nonsensical gesture, waving both hands. “We're getting older, and once the time comes we'll have to leave this orphanage. I know we'll take part in various tryouts, but what if we get rejected? What if—”
“Kuso,” Onazi says his name like it's precious, like it belongs to someone greater than he actually is. “You worry too much for your own good. Everything will be alright, I'm here. As long as we have each other, we can surmount any challenge!”
The sparkly emerald of his eyes hold such incandescent hope that Kuso's dread shrinks back in the face of it. He nods once, sliding his fingers over Onazi's cheek. “What would I do without you, hm?”
Onazi's skin warms under his touch. “For now, go to sleep,” he mumbles, but before he rolls away, he leans forward and pecks Kuso on the forehead.
Kuso stares at the back of Onazi's head as the boy sinks into sleep again, dumbstruck. He runs his fingers across the spot Onazi's lips touched. That small, schoolboyish kiss shouldn't have stirred him so arduously.
Some time, somehow, he falls asleep. This slumber seems to last for mere seconds, because already, someone is whisper-shouting into his ear. He jumps up, rubbing his drowsy eyes.
“There you are!” Bello grins at him. He's already dressed to go out.
Kuso releases an unintelligible grumble and stands up.
Oboabona is also awake and ready. The only person that remains sleeping is Onazi. When Kuso tosses an inquisitive glance in his direction, Oboabona is the one to pipe up: “He looks so peaceful sleeping, we felt bad about waking him up.”
“Why did you guys wake me up then?”
“Because you're the oldest,” Bello answers, like it's the most ironclad reasoning in the world.
Kuso feels a twinge of annoyance, but he isn't good at holding grudges, so without gracing them with a reply, he grabs his own clothes and heads off to freshen up and change.
The hour is so early that the morning still lies shrouded in silence, only broken by birdsong echoing through the treetops. The sky has taken on a vivid hue of blue, no clouds present to obstruct the sun's brilliant, golden rays.
Using one hand to shield his eyes, Kuso says, “Make it quick, I want to get back before the matron wakes up.”
“On it, boss!” Bello replies with a mocking salute.
The journey takes a grand total of five minutes to be completed. When the trio arrives, Kuso is a little surprised to find that the old store is gone, and a bigger, more lavish one has been erected in its stead, with sharper planes and a fresh coat of paint. Oboabona and Bello are enamoured with it the moment they set foot. The two are about to rush off when Kuso clears his throat and safely steers them towards one of the freezers, leaving them to bicker over which ice-cream flavour is superior.
He browses the aisles for a pack of his beloved HARIBO gummies, but resists the urge to buy any after recounting his money.
“We're done,” Oboabona says, holding up his choice of ice-cream, while Bello has already begun to lick his own popsicle.
Huffing a sigh, he drags them both to the counter. The cashier is a middle-aged man with tired eyes and a 5 o'clock shadow, who spares the three of them nothing more than a cursory look as he rings up the purchases. Thankfully, Bello and Oboabona were sensible enough to not choose anything too pricey so that even after paying, some oddments of money remain.
“Kuso, you're the best!” Bello cheers, accompanied by a nod from the other boy.
“You two drive me crazy,” Kuso replies, though his words are intoned with a hint of affection.
As they're about to leave, someone catches Kuso's eye: a young girl slowly walking up to the cashier. He rings up her meagre amount of groceries, then, when she pays, he shakes his head and points at the cash register, muttering something. The boy stops in his tracks, watching the scene unfold.
“Eh? Kuso?” Oboabona prods his shoulder. “Why'd you stop walking?”
Kuso shushes him, his gaze still stitched to the girl. The cashier continues to speak, his expression cold and dismissive. Finally, the girl gives up and starts to walk away, her eyes trained on the ground.
“Hello,” Kuso says, barging in. “I can pay for you, miss.”
The girl looks up, startled. From up close, her resplendency can't be denied. She has dewy russet skin and long black hair that cascades down her back in thick curls, partially covered by the threadbare shawl wrapped around her.
“No,” she murmurs, “please don't trouble yourself with me. It's alright.”
“I have no ulterior motives, believe me. We won't even see each other again.”
Perhaps she would have refused him anyway, had poverty not forced her hand. With a reluctant nod, she steps aside and lets him deposit the last of his money. Maybe he would regret it later, but right now, he's happy that he's able to help someone in need.
“Thank you so much, you really didn't have to,” she replies, her countenance expressing shyness.
Kuso gives a small wave of his hand. “I'm just happy to help. Good day to you, miss.” He turns around, ready to rejoin his friends.
“Excuse me?”
He halts again, throwing a look over his shoulder. “Yes?”
“May I ask for your name? If you don't mind?”
“Godwin Kuso.” He smiles. “What's yours?”
“Ayofemi,” comes the tentative answer.
Kuso nods. “Have a good day, Ayofemi.”
When he returns, his friends, who have been appraising the tableau with utmost interest, descend upon Kuso with an array of teasing remarks and insinuations.
“Our Kuso is a real gentleman, eh?” Bello says, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.
“Don't be vulgar, I just wanted to help her,” he reprimands. “We hardly exchanged more than a few sentences.”
“She's so pretty,” Oboabona adds with a dreamy sigh.
“You know, the way she kept looking at you—I think she likes you!”
Kuso scoffs at Bello's inane suggestion. “That's not how it works. We just met.”
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Onazi remains sullen for a day or two, unable to accept that he wasn't excluded on purpose. But by the third day, his jovial demeanor returns, like the sun coming out of hiding once the grey clouds have been blown away by strong gales. Kuso is very happy to be forgiven, and he barely remembers what Ayofemi looks like.
As the weeks go by, the summer heat continues to intensify, rendering outdoor activities impossible. They have to stay in most of the time, which makes a lot of the boys restless. Kuso doesn't mind; he has his books, his films, and his friends. Even rock-paper-scissors is entertaining if he's with them.
One morning, Kuso wakes up to discover that the weather has turned cool and pleasant. The rickety clock hanging from the wall has no numerals or any other symbols, but from the way its hands are positioned, Kuso can tell it's 6 AM. The atmosphere is tranquil, which is propitious for him. He can read in peace.
Beside him, Onazi twists in his bed, peeling one eye open. “Kuso? You're up already?”
“Yeah. I'm just gonna go out to the garden and read.” And because nobody else is watching, he crouches down and presses a kiss to Onazi's temple, gently carding his fingers through the boy's unbound hair. “Go back to sleep, I won't take long.”
Onazi smiles before he closes his eyes, nodding off again.
The garden has transformed in the sunrise, the trees, bushes, and flowerbeds lost in a strange hush of communion. There is some everpresent harmony, between the trill of birds and the circulation of bees, between the dewdrops that catch on velvety flower petals and the moss blooming on tree trunks. A grand sense of kinship presides over this small plot of land, and despite man's attempts to disrupt it, it survives, steadfast and indefatigable. And as Kuso sits under the leafy bower at the end of the garden, he too feels like another instrument being plucked by nature to fashion this wholesome melody.
When I buy a house, he muses to himself, I'll have a large garden where I'll grow all sorts of plants. The prettiest of plants.
Afterwards, he becomes absorbed in his book, a large tome of Nigerian poetry he thrifted from a bookstore some time ago. So attentively does he study the words, their arrangement, their rhythm, that he doesn't hear the first time his name is called.
The third call is loud enough to reach him, prompting him to lift his gaze from the yellowed, thin pages of his book. Behind the fence stands a familiar girl.
“Ayofemi?” Kuso says, closing his book.
A small smile plays on her lips. “I almost thought I was mistaken, but it is you.”
He stands and moves closer, a smile forming on his own face. “It's good to see you again. Do you live nearby?”
She gestures to the left. “Four houses down the next street. You live…?”
“At this orphanage here, yes.”
He loathes to say this about himself, because it always inspires a needless pity within others. He sees a brief flash of that same pity in Ayofemi’s eyes.
“I'm sorry, it must be difficult—” she begins, but Kuso raises a hand, interrupting her.
“None of that, please. I don't need anyone's pity. Life here isn't the best, but it isn't the worst either.”
“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you,” she replies, appearing contrite.
“Don’t worry, I've taken no offense.”
An awkward silence blankets their dwindling conversation. Kuso wants to bid her farewell and bury his nose in his book again, but from the crease between her brows and the way she chews on her bottom lip, he can divine that Ayofemi wants to prolong their chat. Subtly, he opens his book by a crack to find the last page he read and mark it by folding its corner. The movement doesn't go unnoticed, and when her eyes fall to the book, they twinkle with interest.
“What book is that?”
“Oh, this?” He offers the book to her. With careful fingers, she accepts it and brushes her fingertips over the front cover, the spine. “This is a compilation of poems by various Nigerian authors. So far, I've enjoyed it.”
“Such a lovely hobby,” she whispers, and Kuso is sure that remark isn't meant for his ears. The compliment definitely strokes his ego a bit. “Um, I read poems too. I have several books of English poetry at home. They originally belonged to my father, but I've adored them just as much growing up.”
They talk about the heroic couplets of Lord Byron, the spiritual speculation of William Wordsworth, the brooding despair of Shelley—the strangers now united by a common love for English Romanticism. This common ground is what paves the way. Bit by bit, their words gain vigour, the conversation flourishes, and soon the two cease to treat each other like strangers. Their friendship unfurls slowly, mundane yet promising. The more candidly Ayofemi speaks, the more he realises that they share a certain profundity Kuso rarely encounters in others. Kuso talks about his life at the orphanage, how it's adequate in its amenities but still would never truly compensate for the parents stolen from him by disease. Ayofemi divulges about her own imbalanced family, the way her father's untimely death left them penniless. They achieve a rapid understanding of each other, both children whose minds aged quicker than their bodies.
Kuso would have loved to keep talking, but time seems to have flown by in the meantime for he can hear the rest of the orphanage bestir themselves to start the day.
“I should head inside now,” Kuso says, stepping back. “It was very nice chatting with you. I hope to see you again soon.”
“Me as well.” She flashes him a final shy smile, then slips away before any of the other boys can see her.
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They don't meet each other everyday, but their meetings are frequent enough that no matter how surreptitiously she comes to greet him, some of the other boys catch sight of her anyway. Her pretty, benign face, coupled with the timidity and grace of her demeanor, augments the curiosity surrounding her, presenting her as a great attraction.
In the third week, the interrogations begin.
Kuso is rewatching Night On Earth because revisiting this one film never gets boring and it always makes him laugh. The only other audience in the homeroom beside him is Onazi, whose head rests against Kuso's shoulder. The space is silent except for the tinny sounds produced by the television and Onazi's voice every time he asks him a question about the film.
Then, two boys enter the room. They sit a distance away from him and Onazi, chatting loudly. Kuso scrunches his nose at the intrusion, but his mind has become an expert at filtering out unnecessary noise, so he ignores them. Onazi gives them a brief wave, before returning his concentration to the movie.
However, Kuso is aware that the boys keep sneaking looks at him. Their gazes feel physical, crawling up and down his body. It's unnerving.
He isn't unpopular of course, some of the guys here venerate him for being so good at football, but he holds no special interest to them beyond that. He's completely satisfied, even happy, with the arrangement—fame has never enticed him. So, this newfound attention serves to make him nervous. The boys are obdurate in their spying.
Kuso taps Onazi's wrist, whispering, “Why do those two keep looking at me? Is there something on my face?”
“Huh? No, not at all.” He flicks his eyes towards them, and they're too slow to avert their own. Onazi sits upright, now staring at them directly. “You guys wanna say something to us or what?” he asks, his voice loud and immediate to shatter the serene atmosphere.
“No! We were just … trying to see the movie,” one of them hastens to reply.
“Actually, I do gotta ask something.” The other says, his tone smug. “That girl coming regularly to meet Kuso, we wanted to know who she is.”
“She's my friend,” he answers curtly.
He wants to watch his film again, because the New York segment is playing and it's his favourite part, but the second boy snickers aloud, spoiling Kuso's mood entirely. The laughter is so abrasive a strong wave of contempt surges through him. He'll never like that boy again.
“Boys and girls can't be friends, man! Just admit she's your girlfriend. What are you, gay?” He spits out the final word like it's too filthy to remain on his tongue.
“You say that because you're a pervert!” Onazi cuts in before Kuso can even begin to process the insult. “Kuso isn't, so quit being a jackass to him.”
The boy stands, glaring at Onazi. He cracks his knuckles. “You looking to pick a fight, Onazi?”
Kuso grabs him by the arm and pulls the boy behind himself, partially shielding him. “Don't start trouble now, are you itching to get slapped by the matron? Because I can call her right now, you know.”
The boy tries to advance anyway, but his friend yanks him backwards, exasperated. He shoots them an apologetic grin. “Sorry about him you guys, he's just an idiot.”
Finally, he ushers his trigger-happy buddy out of the room.
Onazi slouches down, a frown marring his features. “What's the matter with him? Calling you names for no reason…”
“It's okay, Onazi.” Kuso says as he turns round. “I don't care what nonsense other people are saying about me.”
But the mellow reassurance doesn't ease his dour mood. Leaning forward, the boy cups Onazi's face, his chubby cheeks squished from the pressure exerted by Kuso's palms. “It's fine, really! Look, I'm not upset at all, see? Come on, give me a smile already.”
“I hate it when people make fun of you.” he mutters, his lips curving upwards in a small, reluctant smile. “You're so … kind to everyone. Nobody should be saying anything mean to you, you don't deserve it!”
You're so sweet and naive, Kuso muses to himself, endeared by the sentiment. Never change, my shining hope. Outwardly, he replies: “Some people are unreasonable, and they'll go out of their way to hurt you even when you did nothing wrong and played by all the rules. The best thing you can do is not let it get you down and keep going.”
“That's terrible.”
“It's just how it is. You can't let these things mess with you. How are you gonna manage when you're out of this orphanage and have to survive in the wider world?”
“I'll be fine, because you'll be with me!” Like their future being intertwined is a foregone conclusion. His optimism is infectious.
“Well, when you put it that way…”
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Of course, when you live inside a closed ecosystem like an orphanage, assuming drama like this will abate swiftly is wishful thinking. That brief altercation must have reached many ears, because seemingly overnight, Kuso’s relevance to the other boys has skyrocketed.
At breakfast, scarcely has he sat down and brought a spoonful of egusi soup to his lips when someone comes up behind and slaps him on the shoulder, congratulating Kuso with a vulgar smirk. “How did you nab that lepa babe so fast, eh?”
As if on cue, the rest of the boys, excluding his family (because they can see that his mouth has flattened to a hard line) all burst into laughter. Their braying voices grate on his nerves. Scoffing, Kuso shoves out of his chair and moves somewhere else to eat.
In the evening, he's finishing one of the worksheets the matron gave them during class when one boy sidles up to him and starts bemoaning his broken heart, how it was wrecked by a wicked girl. Kuso listens, pitying him. After he finishes his soliloquy, he looks at Kuso expectantly. Kuso glues his eyes back to his notebook and says, “I've never been in love, what am I supposed to tell you?”
At night, while he's preparing his bed, he notices Bello and Oboabona approaching him, wearing a cautious look on their faces. Kuso puts one hand up in the air. “I'm not gonna answer whatever dumb questions you guys have about Ayofemi.”
That sends them both scurrying back to bed.
The fiasco goes on for a few more interminable days until it loses its novelty and the boys’ attention wanders off somewhere else. Kuso couldn't be happier.
Throughout this, the only person who never doubts his proclamations is Onazi. He never brings up Ayofemi unless Kuso does it first, and when he does the boy patiently listens without passing unnecessary remarks. Talking to Onazi is always refreshing.
But no matter how strong-willed he is, Kuso is a young boy possessing a mind more sensitive than that of his peers. Thoughts he once turned out now reclaim their old places in his psyche with more ardour. In his waking hours, he begins to vigorously enquire within himself, and though it's an exercise in futility, he can't stop. He examines the finer details of this newfound friendship, hoping to shed some light on it, trying to see whether any part of this affair invokes any new emotions inside him.
Ayofemi is exceedingly beautiful, and above all, she is humble. It's a trait he admires in her. Yet beyond that, he feels nothing. His heart doesn't beat faster when she directs a smile at him, he doesn't grow flustered when their hands brush, and he has never thought about kissing her, on the lips or anywhere else.
As he battles these dilemmas by himself, rain arrives, both forgiving and vicious. For long hours of the day, rain continues to pelt against the earth, while the wind howls loud and fierce, scattering everything in different directions. The garden behind the orphanage bursts into all manners of colourful blooms, while the trees lining the street regain their fresh, glossy leaves that wilted away all those weeks ago.
Once the rain stops and the grey clouds disperse, Onazi convinces Kuso to go on walks with him, and together, they enjoy the untainted, soothing breeze that washes over the entire town, smelling of petrichor.
On one such walk, something very extraordinary happens.
The sun is on the cusp of setting, its orange rays permeating the entire sky, painting the modest houses, shops and ramshackle streets. The boys are strolling along a quiet road, the only sounds in the air being the susurration of leaves swaying on their study branches.
Slowly, Onazi strikes up a conversation about the most recent football match they watched. One moment the two are immersed in the discussion, then the next Onazi breaks away from him to jog a few paces ahead. Stopping, he bends down and plucks a small clump of tiny flowers growing in someone's front yard. He whirls around, presenting them to Kuso. From the florets’ brilliant white tone and voluminous, cloud-like texture, he recognizes them as gypsophila.
“Oh? What's this for?”
“They're, um—they’re for you,” Onazi murmurs, like they're trading a secret. “It’s my favourite, you know?”
With a tilt of his head, Kuso accepts the gift. “Really? I didn't know that. Any specific reason why?”
Onazi stares at him in silence, and it's terrible for his nerves. Then, sucking in a deep breath, he speaks: “The colour reminds me of your eyes. I mean, your eyes are way prettier, though.”
Maybe it's just a needless compliment, another pleasantry Onazi likes saying due to his effusive disposition. They shouldn't mean anything more, but the thought of Onazi studying his eyes enough to notice a similar shade out in nature, and then holding it dear to him pierces Kuso's heart like an arrow. His gaze flits between the flowers and Onazi's face and—has his face always been this breathtaking?
Sunshine streaks through the trees and haloes his soft, earnest face, gilding the warm umber of his skin. His own eyes, like precious emeralds exhumed from deep within the womb of mother nature, are locked with his, and he waits, always waiting for Kuso, so patient, so loving. So tempting.
Kuso's body, despite the cool air blowing over him, warms up, eager for something his mind can't comprehend yet. His heart jackhammers against his ribcage, threatening to burst out of his chest. So many new sensations overwhelm him, all while he stands dumbly in front of Onazi, on whom an apprehensive look is beginning to form.
“Is that … a weird thing to say? I'm sorry, I didn't think—”
“What? No, no, no, I'm … I'm grateful. Thank you, Onazi,” he replies, and his voice somehow doesn't waver.
“Of course!” He steps closer, prodding Kuso's cheek. “The rest of your face is really nice too. I like looking at you a lot.”
His head has gone light. This giddiness is unlike anything he has ever experienced before. He has known Onazi for almost all of his life, yet nothing akin to this has assailed him until now. There has been pure joy, incredible sadness, suffocating anger, but no emotion such as this. No matter how much he tries, his heart can't calm down. He wants, wants, wants—
Onazi.
It's bizarre how your entire world can crumble and rearrange within seconds. The vague thrill that was coursing through his veins mere moments ago crystallizes into dread. For so long, he questioned why girls never enticed him unlike every other boy, and now he has ascertained the frightful reason.
It's Onazi. God, I'm in love with him. I'm in love with my best friend. Everyone will despise me if they find out. I'll be thrown in jail, or killed. My life is over. Everything's been ruined.
Kuso staggers back, his hand flying upwards to seal his mouth.
“Kuso!? Are you okay?” Onazi moves closer to touch him, but the boy keeps shaking his head until he's forced to take a step backwards, seeming utterly befuddled.
“I'm alright, don't worry. I'm alright,” he repeats, more to placate himself than to convince Onazi. “I just feel a bit dizzy, maybe I need to lie down. Let's head back. Thank you for the flowers, I really do appreciate them.”
Onazi, tossing him a final gander, says nothing further. Only when they reach their destination does Kuso notice that his gift lies crushed and crumpled in his fist.
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On the outside, he continues to work, play, eat and talk like a normal person, but on the inside, everything has shattered. Trepidation has permanently settled in his guts, impossible to dislodge. The same thoughts keep churning inside his mind, aiding in his slow descent to madness.
He loves Onazi, but the most damning fact is that he loves a boy. The epiphany is as painful as being forced to swallow a thousand needles. He has nowhere to escape, nobody to confide in. The food that goes down his throat is tasteless, the voices that address him sound faraway while Onazi—God, he can hardly look at Onazi without feeling a pang of heartache claw at him.
Kuso's love—so different from Onazi's innocent and childish adoration—has driven an invisible wedge between them. The younger boy acts as he normally does: feeding him sweet remarks, snuggling up to him, talking about their shared dreams, but each and every one of those now sets his heart ablaze. The boy who once looked forward to the times he could converse with Onazi undisturbed now loathes a single second they have to be alone together, because it always, without fail, stokes his greed.
He throws himself into his books, his movies, anything that can bring him respite. He circles around the concept of devotion, of soulmatism, and his own love doesn't seem that far off. In this pursuit, he discovers a new world of art he has yet to explore, a world where the joys and sorrows of people like him find a home. He reads Akwaeke Emezi, Chinelo Okparanta, Jude Dibia—authors who went against their restrictive society and wrote about the lives deemed abominable from birth. It's a balm for his spirit, but he’s still left rather disconsolate.
No matter what elders or the Scripture says, Kuso knows, without the shadow of a doubt, that there is nothing inherently wrong with him, no sin infused into his feelings for Onazi. Yet, he'd be punished for it forever. Never again can he face the world having no need to fear its execration, never have his love be welcomed warmly, never have it be blessed by a priest.
Home, which means a home with two people who have the right to love each other and not be separated by the church or state, will never belong to him.
All these worries percolate in Kuso's mind, night after torturous night, and he tries not to let the tears slip past his lashes.
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“...on whose trysting floor waited my proud vibrant life,” Kuso finishes, a note of melodrama colouring his voice. He closes the book, swivelling his head to look at Ayofemi and gauge her reaction. “Well? What do you think?”
Ayofemi claps, a pleased smile crossing her face. “It's a wonderful poem about personal liberation.”
“Right? I especially admire the way the poet employs enjambment and imagery to show the aftereffects of colonialism.”
The two are seated under the shade of a tall, broad ear-pod wattle tree. Some yellowish-orange spiked clusters still remain on it, though most have withered and fallen off. The spot is relatively secluded, so the two can chat without shame, far away from prying eyes. Kuso is very glad he can spend some time away from the complications that have taken root in his other relationships.
“Even after so many years, not much has changed,” she says, sighing.
Kuso nods, imagining just what could've been. “Do you want me to read another one?”
“Yes, please.”
So, he thumbs through the book until he finds another poem of his liking, then begins its recitation. Ayofemi listens with rapt attention, emitting only the sounds of her soft breaths.
Kuso's eyes are focused on the words, but even whilst he reads, a strange premonition creeps into him. He dismisses the tingle in his gut at first, chalking it up to his recent emotional instability. But the feeling is persistent and gnaws on him, refusing to be ignored. Abruptly, he stops reading and glances up, meeting Ayofemi's eyes. Eyes that are now boring into his, unflinching.
“Ayofemi?” he asks, seized by a subtle terror. “Is everything alright?”
“Kuso,” she says, then trails off, her gaze darting at her own hands, which are tightly clutched together on her lap. “Kuso, there's something you need to know.”
“What is it? You're giving me quite the scare,” he replies with a titter that is entirely unlike him. He knows where this is going, he wasn't born yesterday.
But she doesn't say anything at all. Instead, she leans in so close he can count the individual lashes framing her eyes. She lets her lips ghost over his. The touch is so featherlight that when she pulls away, he almost thinks he hasn't been kissed at all. That was my first kiss. It belonged to Onazi. These thoughts rouse contempt inside him. It has already been mounting, but that kiss, stolen from him so casually, is the final drop to break the dam.
He stands, scowling. “Why did you do that?”
“Huh?” She jumps to her feet as well, tears welling up in the corner of her eyes.
“You didn't even think to ask whether I would be okay with the kiss.” He crosses his arms and stares at her reproachfully. “That was my first kiss, what if I was saving it for someone special? How inconsiderate can you be?”
“I—I thought you liked me,” she mumbles, and the sight of her—shoulders angled inwards, arms wrapping around herself to shrink away—is pitiable enough to cut through his anger-induced haze. “I'm sorry, I didn't realise, I'm so sorry—”
“No, I apologize.” He heaves a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I shouldn't have reacted like that. But I don't like you that way, Ayofemi. I've never seen you as anything more than a sister.”
Tears silently stream down her face. A shadow has dimmed her eyes, turning their vivid brown murky.
After a long minute of stormy silence, she says, “I'm sorry for bothering you, Kuso.”
Before the words can even reach him, she turns around and leaves. No farewells are exchanged between them. There is nothing more left to say. He has dug the grave of their friendship and he knows it.
Kuso returns to the orphanage, utterly depleted and dejected. He may have known Ayofemi for a short time, but her warm, tender-hearted self adorned his days with a new kind of joy. Now he would be deprived of that too.
Without even realising it, Kuso's feet carry him to the communal bedroom he sleeps in. The rest of the gaggle are still outside, taking advantage of the enjoyable weather. That's good. Wounded as he is, he can't endure any kind of socializing at the moment. He wants to lie down on his cot and sleep for as long as it takes to forget this anguish.
One obstacle stands in his way: Onazi, seated on Kuso's bed, swinging his legs back and forth as he stares at something out the window. Hearing Kuso's footsteps, his eyes snap upwards and he hops to his feet. “Kuso, there you are!” Onazi exclaims, bridging the distance between them in a few quick steps. “I've been looking for you.”
Kuso's eyes rest on a spot somewhere behind Onazi's shoulder. “Do you need something?” he inquires, his tone gaining a cool, impersonal inflection. Instantly, shame, sharper than any blade, stabs him, hollowing him out further. Onazi, who is so steadfast and loyal to Kuso, doesn't deserve to bear the brunt of his turmoil.
He opens his mouth again to correct himself, to apologize, to ask if he can collapse in the boy's arms and have a good cry, but Onazi begins talking first.
“Need something? I need you! You've been avoiding me these past few weeks, acting so cold and distant. I keep thinking to myself: did I do something wrong? Are you angry at me? But no matter how much I think about it, I can't figure it out.” His ardent and untiring body is trembling. His eyes have a wet sheen to them, yet he does nothing to conceal it. He remains rooted to the spot, staring at Kuso fearfully. For a moment, he sees his own suffering reflected back at him.
“Of course I'm not angry at you.” Despite his inhibitions, Kuso beckons him with open arms. Onazi rushes into his embrace, and perhaps it's the closest he'll ever get to salvation. “I could never be angry at you.”
“I'm—I’m sorry if I did anything wrong,” he sniffles between hiccups. “Please stop ignoring me. I miss you so much, Kuso.”
“No, I'm sorry, you did nothing wrong, I'm the one to blame.” He holds Onazi so close that he's sure the boy can hear his erratic heartbeat.
Onazi snuggles his head onto Kuso's shoulder, as if trying to fuse with him. “You promise you're not mad at me? Because I hate spending time away from you. I want to fix my mistakes.”
“You made no mistake, this is all on me, okay? I'm sorry, I won't ignore you anymore. I was just preoccupied with some other things—but they don't matter. You're here, and that's enough. I'll be okay, we'll both be okay.”
They stay like that for what could have been minutes or hours or an eternity. Kuso doesn't care. Because God has already stolen so much from him, he'll hold on to this one miracle like a lifeline.
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"Sometimes I miss you the way someone drowning remembers the air."
-Coco Mingolelli, Peccatum in Carne: Sins of the Flesh