Copyright
Call Me Naeto © 2023 by Timi Waters
The right of Timi Waters to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under copyright laws.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced, or transmitted without the copyright holder’s written permission, except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Art: NelsonXP
Cover Design: Adesina Tobi
Formatting & Interior: Margaret Adetimehin
For more information, kindly visit https://timiwaters.co
First Edition: March 2023
ONE
Costner Academy, Abuja
Naeto
See. Here’s the thing about ballet.
It’s French!
The swift demi pointe rise to the balls of your feet, standing tiptoes en pointe, holding your back and pelvis erect while making small and deep knee-bends in demi/grande plié, and leaping across a room in a grand jeté, all screams French and pretty girls in tutus.
Here’s another thing, I’m a guy, an Igbo guy.
Bums me out ‘cause my parents put a lot of effort into bringing me into this side of life and expect me to live up to it.
For one, my dad threw a loud and lavish party on my birthday, thanking the gods and popping kola nuts, happy his fears of not having a son to prove his manhood were finally over. While my mom, worried that the answer to her prayers after birthing five girls would meet a fatal end when she saw me at three trying to balance on tippy-toes, sustaining multiple spins at five, doing somersaults at eight, and swinging off water tanks at ten, enrolled me in ballet.
“His rough play is too much. If not, I would have put him in Karate,” she said the day she enrolled me at Costner Academy. “But I want something that would make him calm down.”
Hah! The irony.
Her decision preluded my baptism into ballet, though. It achieved the purpose of taming my restless spirit, as promised, and gave me room to flap and let my creative wings soar. It inflamed my passion for romance, classic literature, poetry, and tasteful music. And, yeah, it stretched and toned my muscles, making me stand straighter than my budding six-foot height.
A sweet-pie win for all. But then, I grew older, taller, and turned sixteen fast going on seventeen. Heard the, “Hei, na wa o. Shey boys dey do ballet, ni?” comments from guys in my class, and the, “Maybe Naeto is a low-key gay boy.”
Despite my million eye-rolls and markedly ignoring their remarks, even I couldn’t not notice the notable standout of my junk in tights. To fix that, I ditched tights for dancing in loose-fitting shorts.
“Follow my count, guys…one, two, three—” Says my ballet instructor as I complete the barre work assigned and try not to think that I only have this year until all of this ends.
Having taken the SAT in August with a 1596 score, this new school year, September of SS3, means WAEC prep and early decision applications to colleges abroad.
A pastiche of the old ideals of sons symbolizing manliness, my dad is the sort that breaks no sweat singling me out from my five sisters and ensuring he spares no expense on matters concerning my education.
“Naetochukwu, you will go to Hahvad. Your uncle Kelechi studied at MIT, and he’s doing very well in Boston. Or, Naetochukwu, is it MIT you want?”
I wanted none, but who was I to tell him when he was all excited-like and gave an offish remark to my sisters, asking why they weren’t going to Harvard too.
“Naetochukwu did Science, so he has to study at a good university. Is it not Commercial the rest of you did?”
Of my five sisters, only the eldest, Olamma, was in Commercial class. The others—Okwudili, Ojugo, Oluebube, and Ogechi—were in Art class. Not that he’d notice stuff like that. Seeing as he’s always traveling for business and all. A lifestyle he began when he won a government contract that catapulted him from moderate to uberwealthy and moved us from a comfortable three-bedroom flat in Festac Town, Lagos, to a palatial mansion in Maitama.
One that excited my mom and sisters but sealed my fate.
I’m seriously not ready to process these thoughts even though that’s what I’ve been doing these past minutes as I partly listen to my teacher’s count and move my limbs in time to the soft classical tunes wafting off a speaker.
If I could wish upon a fairy, I’d wish for more years to commit to ballet, more years of secondary school, more years in Costner’s ballet class. For within these walls, where classical music plays, nineteen girls and one boy—me—stand in a straight line, bend the knees and sway the arms to musical counts and classical ballet steps, I can be anyone.
But, more importantly, I can fly.
“Everyone to center for the next combination,” our ballet teacher, Mr. Manuel, says, and we leave the comfort of dancing out steps with horizontal bars for support and gather around him. “Joy, Princess, and Ejiro to my right. Naeto, partner with Zikora.”
Mr. Manuel, who insists on us calling him Sir, is a smallish, dark-skinned man with a lilting Francophone accent. When introducing him, Costner’s director, Mrs. Abisoye, told us he’s an avid traveler, studied ballet in Paris, and worked for its ballet company as a soloist before relocating to Nigeria.
At his counts, we dance out Petite, then Grand Allegros, marked with quick and small knee bends, jumps, and leaps across the room. Then, rising onto the balls of our feet, we work on maintaining balance, lose and regain it, with some dancers falling flat on the tiled floor and others shaking as they try to hold theirs.
Zikora, my dance partner and a regular feature at our house, snickers at a girl who, added to her wobbling arabesque, is now trying to Penché by kicking back one leg while bending her upper body forward.
“God, look at that. Terrible,” she says.
“Stop judging, Zikora,” I tell her.
She turns to me as the arabesque girl falls, and we snort out stifled chuckles.
“You can’t blame them, though,” I say. “Most of them are new and were probably forced into the ballet by their mothers.”
“Yeah, Ejiro especially. I heard she’s doing it for college applications.” Zikora snorts. “Plus, Mrs. Abisoye sold them a perfect story about Sir Manuel.”
“Is it true that Sir danced with Misty Copland?”
“Is it only that one? I even heard he turned down a job at Alvin Ailey.”
“To what, teach in a secondary school in Naija?”
She laughs. “Sir was probably swept off his feet by Mrs. Abisoye.”
“Or he sold her that story to make for the expensive ballet fee we pay.”
“God, what will I not give to get into Alvin Ailey?”
“I thought you wanted the School of American Ballet?”
“Not anymore.” She shrugs. “I’m following an Ailey guy on TikTok and saw Revelations on his page. Man, their skill was mad!”
“Hmm, a guy, ba?”
“Calm down, Uncle. He’s not that type of guy.”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
She snickers. “What about you? Still applying?”
“You know I’m not.”
“I was hoping—”
“Ejiro, stop pushing out your butt!” Sir yells. Zikora laughs out loud. Ejiro grumbles and lowers onto the floor. “Get up now and return to barre.”
“He needs to chill,” I tell Zikora.
“He needs to accept he’s wasting his time on these lot. They’re not cut out for ballet.” She smiles as I place my palms on her tiny waist, then relevés, takes my raised hand, kicks one leg backward, and bends her upper body with back and pelvis smoothly aligned while I tilt to the side.
We sync our rise and straighten, and she melds her body with mine, her extended leg bent so her toe is placed at the back of the knee held en pointe, and with me propping her waist, she pirouettes The Pencil Split.
“Unlike us,” she says. “We’re special. Born for this.”
Holding her waist through every revolving door spin, upper body bends, and Sugar Plum Whip, I grin as we waltz a Tchaikovsky variation. We are indeed made for this.
“It’s just that your dad—”
“Zikora, let’s not talk about my dad, abeg.”
“What about Graduation? How will you swing your presentation?”
“He’d be long gone, another business trip to Germany.”
“Germany to the rescue once again.” She turns to the side, kicks back her winged leg, the supporting leg still held en pointe as I lift her, and we dip into a Fish Dive.
“Did you all see that?” Sir says, striding towards us. “That is how you dance ballet. Dance it soft…and smooth…think of yourselves as swans…” He sways his arms swan-like. “We want to create an image of ease…grace…and beauty.” The distant bell ring drowns out his voice, and dancers rush to collect their stuff. “It’s the Nutcracker for Christmas Concert, guys, and practice starts next week.”
“Are you still coming to my house this weekend?” Zikora says above the din of chattering dancers and Sir Manuel’s practice reminders.
“Nope. Busy with college applications and stuff.”
“Yeah. Mrs. Abisoye still has your picture on her pin board.”
“Lawal got a perfect 1600 score.” I shrug.
“Ejiro too; 1564. You guys are so lucky for being super smart.”
As a secondary school fully committed to grooming students for colleges abroad, Costner’s tradition is to have its students take the SAT twice, one in junior year to prepare us and another, the main one done in the third term of SS2. Costner awards three students with the best scores and fans our competitive spirit by publishing them in newspapers and having their framed photos in its hall of fame. Ejiro, Lawal, and I made this year’s cut.
“Heard Lawal saying he’s applying to Columbia,” Zikora says. “What about you?”
“MIT. It’s my uncle’s alma mater, and all my dad talks about.”
“Lucky you. I didn’t get a good SAT score, so…” she shrugs.
“Dude, high score or not, I’ll need to apply first and get in to be sure. You know MIT nau, last I checked, their acceptance rate was 4%.”
“Serious?”
“Yeah. The percentage is almost nonexistent for Nigerians, ma sef.” I scoff. “So don’t get excited yet; if they take me, fine. If they don’t, I’ll go to Uni Abuja like my sisters.”
Or a ballet academy if I can help it, for that’s honestly all I want, to study dance abroad. Zikora talks about Harvard having a low acceptance rate as she slings her backpack across a shoulder, and with me zipping mine, we walk towards the exit. Someone elbows me, “excuse, abeg,” and brushes past. We turn to see Ejiro stomping out, followed by Princess, alias madam wobbling arabesque, and two other girls in our ballet class.
“Ejiro, this one that you want to break my shoulder,” Zikora calls out. “You better leave ballet and join Karate, o, because it’s not my fault that I dance better than you people.”
The stomping girls halt and spin around, then Princess, the tallest of the lot, claps her hands and laughs. “See who’s talking? This one that cannot even pass in class. Someone that is always coming last.”
“Don’t mind her. It’s only ballet she’s using to make mouth,” Ejiro says. “After now, she will be looking for somebody’s work to copy. Copy-copy.”
Zikora grits and balls her fists. “You—”
I pull her back. “Don’t waste your energy.”
Laughing, the girls walk away.
“They are right, sha,” Zikora says a few minutes after arriving at the car park, booming with line-ups of honking school buses, chattering kids, and parents—some idly milling around and others ushering their kids into their cars. “I’m not book smart. Of all my friends, I’m the only one with a terrible SAT score.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re best in ballet class, and I know schools also consider that for admission.”
“That’s why I’m applying to ballet academies abroad. I’m not book smart, so what’s the point in going to Harvard even though that’s what my mom wants. Or I’ll just go to Yale. At least they have great dance programs—I don’t even know sef.”
To be honest, no one expects us to make a career out of ballet. It was supposed to be just a hobby, a beautiful indulgence we had while we were young. Now, with adulthood knocking on our doors, Secondary school about to kick rocks, Zikora and I must kiss our beloved art goodbye.
“After all,” I remember her mother saying to mine one afternoon when they sat in our living room over sweating glasses of store-bought juice. “Girls are becoming pilots these days. I want my Zikora to be a pilot.”
“Pilot, kwa! What about air hostess?” my mom said. “She is very tall and slim. A very beautiful omalicha. Air hostess will fit her.”
“No o, Chioma. My daughter will be a pilot, inugo? Have you not seen how they used to clear road for pilots at the airport? I want that for my daughter.”
“My Obimnaetochukwu will be an engineer,” said Mom.
“Ngwa now, the two of them will make a good match. My Zikora will fly the plane, and Obimnaetochukwu will repair it.”
They’d laughed then as they still do now as they usher us into their different cars, chat with each other about an upcoming function, make visitation promises, and pull out of Costner’s parking lot.
As much as I hate to admit it, graduating from secondary school would mark ballet’s end for me ‘cause I may have convinced mom to continue paying the extra money for ballet lessons when I entered SS1. We may have been able to hide my ballet appearances at school functions from my dad, but heaven knows no one, not even my darling mom, would support my desire to pursue a career in ballet.
Unless I do what I’d been fantasizing about lately.
Run.
TWO
“Epic fail, dude. Trust me,” my best friend Zino says. “Running away from home sucks.”
“Right.”
“I ran away from home once to prove I could and hated it. Not cool.” He stands spine straight, with long legs clad in black spandex pants, feet turned out in fourth, and arches a brow. “Why, though?”
“I think running away to live with my aunt in LA would improve my chance of studying ballet instead of Mech-E.”
“Mechanical Engineering? Please.” Grinning eyes sweep my entire length, travel to my eyes, and linger. “By the way, take off the heavyweights.”
“Come on, Zee, you know how I feel about dancing in tights.”
He rolls his eyes. “Can’t say I understand, though, cause with this body? Shocking.”
“Whatever.”
“The others will be here soon. Wanna do a bit of warm-up before they do?”
“Sure.”
Warm-up sees us springing into jaunty jumps that begin on one foot and then land on two. It sees us alternating the jumps to switch our legs midair to land in fifth, taking off again, but this time rhythmically clapping our feet midair in soubresaut. Landing on both feet, making swift, scissor steps, leaping across the room in sauté, taking more leaps and jumping turns, and then wrapping it up with a series of grand jetés.
“You’re a star, Naeto,” he says as we pace our breaths. “You belong on the big stage.”
I smile. “You too, Zee.”
Zino takes my hand, and we Adagio, our slow-dancing bodies touching, detaching, brushing, and sliding against each other. Whenever these brushes occur, the growing intensity in his eyes raises my awareness and calls to mind all I’ve heard about him.
“If we could only—” He smiles tightly.
“If we could, what?”
“Nothing.”
Zino and I met two years ago at a dance competition in Lagos, and though he was in SS3 while I was in SS1, we got chatting when we learned we were both based in Abuja, and his crew, a group of contemporary ballet dancers, set the stage on fire with moves he choreographed.
They won, of course, and, totally awed, I collected his number, reached out to him, and we became friends. We lost contact a few months later but reconnected when his family moved to Wuse. His dad converted one of the boy’s quarters into a private dance studio he uses for dance hangouts with his crew, creating social media content, and occasionally shooting celebrity dance videos.
When he told me he was recruiting a new dance crew, I was all in and wasted no time joining his team, a group of five—four guys and a girl. And the more time I spent coming to his studio and dancing with him, the more fascinated I became about his freedom to do whatever he pleased, one of which was his social media representation and lifestyle choices.
The debate between people who know I come here for regular Friday dance practice is if he’s really what they say he is. I think he’s straight but presents himself on Social media as queer for the trend and pop culture. Others—Olamma and Zikora—believe he’s bisexual.
Bracing myself up to ask as we close warm-up with a saut de basque, I work on pacing my breath while watching him toss down a bottle of water.
“Yo, um, can I ask you something?” He shrugs. “Is it true…? I mean, what they say about, uh, you?”
He mops sweat off his face. “What do they say?”
“That…you know—”
“Mm-hm.”
“And your dad knows?”
“Does he?” He scoffs. “Of course, he doesn’t.”
“But on TikTok—”
“Bro,” he chuckles. “You think my dad would be on TikTok?”
“Right.”
“Was that your question?”
No, but how do I word the thoughts in my head without sounding offensive? I’ve seen the video of him, one he danced so sensually it trended for weeks and had some crazy engagement. Half of me thought while watching it that he did it just to become TikTok famous. My classmates are so mad about pop culture—mostly them, I hope—and would do anything to trend, including putting on wigs and dressing up as girls, doing comedy skits, and Live stream makeup. Again, them, not me. Okay, me, sometimes, not makeup, though, what? My mom is on TikTok and follows my account.
I’ve blocked her a thousand times, but she finds ways to reconnect using a different account ranging from MrsChi55 to MrsChi225. Hah! That woman cannot let someone rest. She’s so all over my case like white on rice! With her eagle-eyed monitoring, the highest TikTok trend I’d joined was to lip-sync POV movie scenes and dance to popular music. Nothing as dramatic as cross-dressing or, like Zino, sensually pole dancing.
Man, Zino is a whole new breed. Like his drip hits differently.
Hence, my question on how and why he decided he was into guys. Is it in response to pop culture? Like, I won’t lie. Some openly gay Korean guys I follow are snatched and have crazy post-engagements. But are there actually guys who prefer guys, or is it all a woke thing?
If it’s real and not a woke thing, how come I’ve not—like, I’ve not felt any of the vibes I’d read and watched about love, sex, and romance for girls, and I’m sometimes low-key tempted to join the social media culture and pretend to be queer. But what if I do and then meet a girl, and it turns out I’m straight?
“Dude!” Zino rolls his eyes.
“Sorry. I, uh, am not sure how to ask it.”
“Ask it anyhow.”
“Did you always know…or you grew into being into guys.”
He scoffs. “What is this, fam, an interview?”
“Sorry.”
“It’s cool.” He purses his lips, looks at me, scoffs, and says, “I didn’t. Had a girlfriend in SS1, Halima. Man, she was so fine.”
I scoff.
“Found out I wasn’t really into her. The attraction was there, yeah, but the sex wasn’t giving.” He shrugs. “We floated it until SS2, sha, and then, one summer in Cali, I met this kid, Quentin. Cool dude. He lived across the street with his mom.”
He smiles into my eyes. “She was this hot, super busy boss white lady who was always on business trips and drove the baddest cars.”
I chuckle.
“Q was mostly home alone, yeah, and we sorta connected. Just friends and all. Then one afternoon, skylarking in the pool and doing stuff, I can’t remember what, he asked if he could kiss me.”
“Whoa!”
“Yeah.” He laughs. “Said he’d never kissed a black boy before and would like to know if we tasted the way we looked.”
I frown.
“Chocolate.”
“Oh.”
“I said sure, and he just sorta did it, and I just sorta felt weak in the knees and sorta wanted to do it again.”
“Cool.”
“Cool?”
“Mm-hm.”
He scoffs, flits his gaze across my face and neck, and slowly lets them travel to my eyes. “So, you, uh, wouldn’t mind trying it?”
“Me?”
“You give me the vibes sometimes, though. Like you’d like to try it.”
What?!
“No.”
He grins, and with slow strides, he eats up my personal space. “No, you don’t wanna try it, or no, you don’t give me the vibes.”
“Both, I guess.”
“Ever been with a girl?”
Girl? No.
Jeez, can he, like, back up a bit?
“Not in that way,” I say.
“Boy?”
“No.”
“Ever thought about it?”
I scoff at the lack of a better response and put distance between us. “Uhm. Nope.”
“Okay.” He stares grinning-eyes at me. I smile into his.
He leans closer. I stay. Eager, anxious even, and unsure what to expect, I let him lace our fingers, squeeze my hand, and draw closer, and closer still, so my face heats up on his breath. I stay as his eyes, first searching mine, slowly drop to my lips. I don’t move as he caresses my jawline. His head moves forward, and lips…lips close in.
“Tell me you’re feeling this,” he says.
“I’m uhm—” I harrumph.
He scoffs and pulls away. “I have a better alternative, though.”
“To what?”
“Running.”
“Oh.”
I’ve totally forgotten about running. The almost-kiss has nothing to do with my amnesia. No. It doesn’t. Geez, shut up! Zino has always been crazy like that. Creating challenges and daring his one million plus TikTok followers to jump on one trend after the other. Like, he’s so woke! And TikTok famous. Like, some of his videos get close to two million views. I always walk shoulders high when he posts videos of us dancing in his timeline, and my friends at school be like, Dude, you know Zino Sleek? Whoa! Dope!’
Yeah. I know him, duh! He’s my best friend, and gay vibes or not, I’m not willing to lose our friendship.
Preening in front of one of the half-a-dozen mirrors placed flat on the white wall, he turns his head from side to side, adjusts his spandex, and moves in a series of Piqué turns to a laptop attached to two speakers blasting The Jonas Brothers: Selfish.
I like him. I do. But to kiss him? Uhm.
Snapping his fingers, he looks at me as he lip-syncs: ‘I wanna be selfish, selfish, for you and not for me….’ I roll my eyes. He smiles widely and taps his laptop.
“What’s your email?”
I tell him.
“It’s a Study Abroad thingy sponsored by an organization called Skyline. I’m sending all the deets, so… read and…” he taps, taps, “see if it’s something you’re interested in.”
“No worries. Thanks.”
“This year’s application opened last week, so…” He nods and smiles at me, then drops his gaze to his laptop and makes a few more taps.
“Did you apply too?”
“Yeah…but not sure I’ll follow through.” He leaps off the seat, swings his hips from side to side, and clasps his arms above his head. “I already have an invite to Joffrey.”
“For real?”
“Not going, though.”
“What!”
“I’m like a bird, fam.” Snapping his fingers and tapping a foot in time to Sam Smith’s Love Me More. “I’m designed to fly, not be caged in some academy and have my creativity stifled.”
“Yeah, but it’s Joffrey?”
“Nah.” He cranks up the volume and mouths: ‘feeling like the mirror isn’t good for your health. “Academies are for young’uns like you.”
“You’re just eighteen going on nineteen.”
“And you’re sixteen.”
“Seventeen in April.”
“Aries. Nice.”
I shrug. “Anyway, we’re still young and—”
“Dumb enough to believe the answers lie in structured learning and institutions.”
“Well.” I shrug.
“You can make me do it, you know?”
“Make you do what?”
“Go to Joffrey if you applied, and we both get in.” His eyes, guarded and shiny, grins at me.
“My ballet dreams would die a painful death as soon as I finish WAEC.”
“Right.” He scoffs.
“Like my dad can tolerate lotsa things, but ballet dancing isn’t one of them.”
“That sucks! My dad hated ballet at first, but sorta warmed up to it when I won a competition that got me an MTV dance feature.”
“For real?” He nods and chuckles. “I knew creating content wasn’t the only reason you’re so popular on TikTok.”
“Whatever, dude. Check the email and see if you’re interested.”
“Sure.”
We stay talking about this and that and singing along to his playlist, after which we do an unplanned dance to Kizz Daniel’s Oshe he uploads on TikTok. The rest of the crew meets us goof-dancing TuFace’s Oyi. I exchange fist-bumps with Lara and the rest of the gang. After minutes of exchanging pleasantries and whatnot, we all get into position as Khalid’s Better comes on.
The dance is our cover for a dance competition organized by a local malt drink company. It opens with Lara sliding one foot after the other in a slow glide as the slur of a feminine voice pours off the speaker. In a smooth transition, she partly bends her knees with her legs spread in the second position, and, arching her shoulders, she pulses her body.
Zino’s entry is a slow moonwalk, and with arms drawn with all five fingers curved downwards, he controls the rhythm of all four of us dancing behind. We merge with the beat, our bodies and feet freely conversing with the music as we switch between moves, slides, leaps, and dance out unified maneuvers that transition into the group splitting in two.
Zino and Lara take center stage. The rest of us melt in the shadows, return, drop to the floor, pulse our bodies in time with the beat, and dissolve onto the dance floor as the duo dances the pas de deux.
On cue, I waltz in, take Lara’s hand, lift and hold her aloft, and balance her supine form on raised palms. Zino joins, takes her swaying arms, and we dance a pas de trois with her not-so-lithe body hanging on a pivot of both my hands. I toss her to Zino, he returns her, and I spin demi-pointe, stilling my brain to ignore my trembling legs. Not to body shame or anything, but I find Lara legit heavy. I’ll lose my center and drop her if I miss a beat or hold her for a second longer than I should.
Of a dance heavy on elegance, posture, the beauty of form, and a continuous strive for perfection, you can lose anything—your smile, breath, and even your sense of self. One thing you can’t lose is your center. For when that happens, you, in Chinua Achebe’s words, will be the thing that falls apart.
“Great job, everyone,” Zino says when the music stops. “If our video makes the cut, we’d have a month of practice until the main day. Naeto, how’s the home front? Can you swing it?”
“Sure.”
“Cool, cool.” He nods and ushers us to his Mac.
Having spent weeks mastering the choreography, we’re eager and ready to launch. After about an hour of tweaks and cuts, we certify the cover ready to go, hit send, and hug each other for good measure.
“This was fun, guys, but I gotta bounce,” I say, noting the lateness on my watch and hurrying into my street clothes. The others announce they also need to leave.
“Yo, wait up. I’ll give you a ride home,” Zino says.
“You…have a car?”
He rolls his eyes. “I have full access to dad’s cars, fam, so chill.”
“Oh. Right. I’m not sure I can wait, though, ‘cause I have to be home in fifteen minutes.”
“We’ll make it in ten.”
True to his words, he drives as suavely and deftly as he dances with the car stereo blasting Burna Boy’s Anybody. Cutting through a mild traffic build-up at Ademola Adetokunbo, he’s, in no time, pulling into the tree-lined road of my estate as Tekno’s Rara comes on.
“So…” he says when he pulls in front of my gate and turns down the music’s volume. “It’s my turn to ask you something.”
“Okay?”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Nope.”
He scoffs. “Whu-what? Are there no fine girls in your school?”
The girls in my school are plenty fine. Zikora is one of them. Ejiro is fine, too, but she’s too pompous. Princess is the finest but doesn’t speak to me much. All I do is catch her stealing glances and looking away when I stare back. I tell Zino this, and he laughs.
“Maybe she likes you.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Soooo, are you interested in her or…”
“Nope.”
“Okay. But are you interested in girls, though? I mean, have you ever been interested in girls?”
“Most of my friends are girls.”
“I don’t mean friends, like friend-friend. I mean, have you ever wanted to, you know… touch a girl?”
Girls have never held any particular appeal to me, to be honest. I do get the occasional jingle in my nuts when some guys in class pass porn around, but I’d always laughed it off and made the necessary reactionary responses to keep them from seeing just how dorky I am in bedmatics.
“I’ve not thought about any girl in that… you know, way.”
His laughing eyes on me sharpen, and he adjusts on the chair. “Why, though?”
I shrug. “Not ready yet, I guess.”
“‘Kay, um. I know I’ve asked this before, but it bears repeating.”
“Okay?”
“Have you ever kissed a guy?”
This time I’m the one adjusting. “No.”
Fingers drum on the steering in time to BNXN Kilometer. “No pressure. I’m high-key eager to see what kissing you would feel like, yeah? But, no pressure.” He looks me in the eye, then my mouth.
I shrug, unsure how to say what to say. The nearness of his lips to mine, honestly, made me anxious and scared at the same time. Afraid I was doing something sinful and would likely get struck by lightning, but eager to see…experiment…prove a point. Gosh!
“But are you open to trying it, though?” he asks.
Will it hurt him if I say no? Will he end our friendship? Gosh, I don’t want to lose my friendship with him.
“I’m not sure.”
The orchestral tune of Ruger’s Snapchat comes on, and, locking eyes, he inclines his head and leans in. Gosh, I…we shouldn’t be doing this…his nose rubs mine…I seriously ought to…warm lips clasp mine—
“Zino—” I pull away and harrumph to silence my frightful heart threatening to beat its way out of my chest.
“Cool. Cool. Whenever you’re ready.”
“Okay.”
“I wanna rush you. Seriously, I do. Like my body is doing me gim-gim to rush you, yeah? But, nah.”
“Bet.”
He exhales, bounces on his seat, and clasps the steering wheel. “I’m dying to kiss you right now, know what Naeto tastes like—” Eyes search mine. “But I need to be sure you’re in first. Like fully in a hundred percent.”
“Okay.”
“Go, Naeto. I’m feeling very devilish right now.” His mouth smiles, eyes weep, and my heart breaks.
He drives off as soon as the door closes, and I walk deflated toward the gated entrance of my house, knowing for sure that ballet isn’t the only thing I’m at risk of losing.
THREE
To tell or not to tell. What’s there to tell anyway? I’m already the weird, possibly queer son of Maxwell Nwafor, mad about dance and ballet. Not that I’m effeminate or anything, or at least I don’t think I am. I love pink for its sheer beauty, not because someone somewhere chose it for girls, and I care about my grooming. Like, I powder my face, gloss my lips—sometimes—maintain weekly barbing salon appointments, pay attention to my clothes, shoes, choice of perfumes—the whole shebang needed to never be caught unfresh.
Could this mean something, though? Am I a girly boy on the off chance of attracting guys because I care about my looks? No wonder I’m so finicky and can’t think past my social media presence and I, Zino and I, ballet and I, my family and I, every-flipping thing and me. Like, my thoughts are so surface level they only always border on something and I.
“So, I’ll tell, then,” I say out loud to my Rottweiler, Deuce. He responds with a tail wag and doggish eye-roll. “I know, dude. I’m equally bored listening to my thoughts.” Bet I’ll tell it to a human, then. Unburden? And who better to tell than the only family member privy to my weekly soirée with Zino. Olamma.
Engrossed in a paperback, head propped against a pillow, legs crossed at the ankles, and an Apple Airpod Max headset strapped around her neck, Ola hums out a tune, BE’s happier than ever from the sound wafting out of her headset. A University of Abuja Biz Admin undergrad and five years older than me, Olamma, for some weird reason, is mad about Billie Eilish, buying books, potted plants, stuffed animals, and, of all my siblings, I’m closest to her.
Picking up a grizzly bear, I sit feet-tucked in facing her, the fluffy animal perched on my winged legs and a panting Deuce seated to my right.
“Ola.”
“What’s up?”
“I think Zino is attracted to me.”
She slams the paperback and sits up. “As how?”
A startled Deuce woofs at her sudden movement and tone. I scratch behind his ear. “I don’t know… he, uhm, sorta made a pass at me.”
“Chineke, God have mercy. Naetochukwu, does this mean you’re gay?”
“I’m not g—gosh, Ola, did you have to say it out loud like that?”
“Okay. Sorry. What did you say or do when he—”
“I’ve not said anything. But I told him I’ll—”
“Please don’t tell me you’re considering it?”
“Ola noooow.” I groan.
“Jesus! Naeto!”
“See, ehn, the thing is, I like him, right. He’s so good at ballet and dresses well. Like he’s drip! But I don’t know if my feelings are just a normal likeness or whether I want to kiss him.”
“It better be a normal likeness. If not, hian. You’re dead!”
“We almost kissed, though.”
She throws up her hands. “Toh!”
“Woof!” Deuce adds his bit.
“Naetochukwu, you’re gay.”
“Jesus. Lower your voice! What if Mom hears you?”
“I told you to avoid that guy after his twerking video went viral, did I not? You see now? He has started influencing you.”
“He’s not influencing me or anything, Olamma.” Gosh, why did I even tell her, sef? She’s flipping weirdly and reacting so not how I expected. Jeez, we didn’t kiss, and she’s flipping. If we now kissed ma, what would she do? “Ola, honestly, I didn’t expect you to react this way. Ahn-ahn, what is it, nau?”
“Yeah, but it’s a shocking thing, this. Gay, kwa!”
“Whatever.”
“Okay. You know what, tell me everything. How did it happen?”
She listens as I open up about Zino, how our friendship blossomed immediately after I started a regular Friday dance practice with him, all the dance practices that often had us brushing and pressing bodies. I tell her how easily we gist about anything and everything despite his being two years my senior. How bloated with pride I get whenever he tags and mentions me as his bestie on IG & TikTok Live.
“Like, he’s drip, Ola, and well-traveled too. We love the same music and movies, not books, though, because he prefers non-fiction and self-help. He’s my bestie. Did you know he did a music video on MTV?” She shakes her head, then keeps a rueful smile as I talk about Zino. “But then people started talking about him being gay, and it just made me curious to know if maybe I can be g—I mean, if I could maybe—”
“Be like him?”
“Not like that, but yeah. Something like that. Not like that-like-that, but—gosh, am I making sense?”
She heaves out a loud sigh and straightens her back. “Well, I’m not very sure about this sexual identity thing, but have you had the conversation with Mom?”
“Which conversation?”
“Sex conversation?”
“You want me to talk about sex with Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you kidding me right now? I told you, and you almost ate my head off. How do you think Mom would react?”
“Or dad if he finds out.”
“He doesn’t even know about ballet, now add me being gay to the lot, and he’ll feed me rat poison for sure.”
“Could it be the ballet?”
“The ballet?”
She regards me thoughtfully. “Do you think you like him because he also likes ballet?”
I love ballet for all its artistic intent and purpose. And yes, Zino is badass at ballet, and I can peg his attraction to me to our shared interest in the art, the length of time we spend dancing, or the vibe he said I’d been passing, which may or may not have stemmed from my feminine side alluding to his attractiveness.
All, some, or none of the above, who knows. I know I don’t.
Seriously, how does one know the person they want to be with? At what point do they say: ‘this is who I want to have sex with.’ Perhaps sexual awareness is ageist, only favoring the twentysomethings and thirtysomethings, or it’s hormonal, sprouting suddenly like pubic hair. One minute it’s all clean down there, and the next, you’re staring at tufts of hair and thinking: ‘where the hell did that come from?’
Or it’s, as taught in Biology, a reproductive tool reserved for the twentysomethings and thirtysomethings. If that’s the case, then I, and pretty much all the guys in my school, walk around in a bi-curious, bi-confused, or bi-sexual haze until nature tells us: ‘alright, fellas, enough messing around. Time to contribute to the circle of life.’
Man, this is too much. I’ll rather stick to my two-dimensional thoughts because processing adulthood isn’t something I’m ready for. It’s too hot, heavy, and confusing as fuck.
Forcing air out, I hunch over my winged legs and prop my chin. “Ola, I don’t know. In fact, I don’t think I’m normal. Shouldn’t I want to have sex with girls by now?”
“I don’t know, do you?”
“No, and that’s what scares me.”
What if my penis isn’t working? Oh my God, that can’t be. It works when I stumble upon porn, and it mostly fills me with an overwhelming need to touch and have myself in the shower. However, feeling the urge to translate that need to wanting girls is always a dud.
I’d been tempted, in the past, to ask Zikora or Princess out and kiss them in one of the many hidden corners in the Physics lab, but I’d always held back out of fear of either of them agreeing and me discovering I couldn’t get it up and they laughing and spreading the word around that Naeto doesn’t give good.
Hold on a minute. Maybe my classmates are right. I’m a low-key gay boy, a watcher, or a porn-sexual!
“I’m so confused right now, Ola. Adulthood is a scam, I swear.”
“Better start warming up to it, especially now that you’re about to finish secondary school. Because before you know, you’ll enter university; before you know, you’ll be thirty—”
“Thirty. Wow. That’s. Hm, so far into the future.”
She scoffs. “And then my kids will start calling you Uncle Naeto.”
“Awn. That’ll be cute.”
“Then you’ll now join the beard gang—”
“Beard what, nah! Ballet and beards don’t mix; I shave those off every morning, thank you very much.”
“Already? Awn, our little boy’s all grown.”
“Leave me, jor.”
“I honestly didn’t know you’d started shaving o. Good thing you don’t have shaving bumps; otherwise, they’d look weird on this your light skin.”
Why are we talking about shaving, though?
“Remind me why we’re talking about beards and shaving again?”
“It means, silly, that you’re old enough to get a girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend? Come on.”
“Mm-hm. Getting a girlfriend is a surefire way to remove all doubts. Or if I’m being preachy, old enough to know it’s time to limit the time you spend with Zino and concentrate on getting Dad to allow you to study dance.”
“But Zino’s like my ballet mentor.”
“Yeah, but shouldn’t you be more worried about getting Dad to allow you to go to a ballet academy instead of whether you’re gay or want to be gay.”
Billie Eilish, everything i wanted, bleeds through her headset. Deuce, no longer interested in our conversation, dozes off on the bed. And Ola looks expectant at me as if waiting for me to scream: ‘Oh, my God, that’s so true!’
Please! I’m not worried about being gay or not being gay. All I am is worried I’d lose my best friend, and I was hoping since she’s my older sister, she’d have some kind of sage nugget to share on how not to lose your best friend. But as it stands, I literally just wasted my breath talking to her.
“Naetochukwu! Olamma!” Mom calls. “You people should come downstairs and eat, nau. What is wrong with these children, sef?”
“Eat” is definitely heavy because her Oha soup was the first thing I perceived as soon as I stepped into the house. Knowing my sisters, they would find ways to avoid dinner because it’s the dreaded Akpu, alleged to be the destroyer of all their diet plans, the bloater of their faces and tummies, and the chief reason why they can’t slay their summer bodies. They’ve invited me to all their diet plans, but I’d always dodged it. Eating is my brain’s playpen. I get brighter ideas with a full belly and thank God for dance, or I’d add Diet and I to the growing pile of concerns padding heavily on my shoulders.
“Let’s keep this conversation between us, Ola.”
“Which conversation?” She winks as we both get off the bed and leave the room with a wagging-butt Deuce.
Meeting my sisters coming out of their rooms amidst openings and slamming of doors, I thud down the stairs and hi-five my grinning mom standing attired in an Ankara romper at the foot of the stairs.
We lock hands and say grace when we sit at the twelve-seat dining table. Mom’s prayers, often proportional to dad’s presence—short when he’s around, long when he isn’t—drag on to a full minute of calling forth dad’s individual business both home and abroad and baptizing them with the blood of Jesus. Doing the same for the glistening wraps of Akpu, steaming bowl of Oha soup, water jug, and glasses. At the final chants and Amen, I’m spiritually bloodied and mad hungry. Clinks and thuds of dinnerware rent the air as each collects food and digs in.
Mom starts and floats the regular dinner ‘how are you and how’s school’ conversation. Olamma takes the lead, and we chime in according to the order of birth—Dili, Ebube, Ojugo, Oge, and me.
“Naetochukwu, how’s your MIT application coming?”
“Good. I started drafting my essay last week.”
“Deadline is November 1st, ba?” I nod. “Be fast with it, then send it to your uncle Kelechi so he’d help make it better.”
“As for me, though, I think Naetochukwu should do at least one year in Uni Abuja,” Oge says, and I roll my eyes. She’s sixteen months my senior and often ignores me. “You can roll your eyes from here to kingdom come, but I know what I’m saying. Naeto makes friends easily and sometimes becomes distracted by them. Better keep him where we can see him before he’ll go to that Yankee and mix with the wrong crowd.”
“Gosh, Oge, say less! Don’t start your Lawyer analysis on me, biko,” I spit out.
“Okay o.” she shrugs. “I’ve sha said my own.”
What’s her problem? She’s just a first-year law student and already feels she knows everything about human psychology.
“Speaking of college, Mom, I think Naeto wants to do something else,” Olamma says.
Mom frowns. “Something else like what?”
“Olamma…” I glare at her.
“Tell her, Naeto.”
What’s up with my sisters and their decision to have a stick-it-to-Naeto day? I don’t support my dad passing them off on schooling abroad, but that doesn’t mean they should hold his decision against me nau.
“Are you kids hiding something from me? You know how I feel when you guys do that.” Mom moves her gaze from Oge to Ola and me. “Obimnaetochukwu. What do you have in mind? Talk to me.”
“Nothing.”
She tilts her head to an ‘I don’t believe you, but I’ll let it slide’ angle.
Knowing her, she’d wait for when I’m relaxed and unguarded, usually during or after movie night, or in today’s case, a rerun of The Johnsons, then making me sit next to her, she’d stylishly ask,
“Ehen, Naetochukwu, what did you want to tell me again?”
And because I’m not ready to, nor will I ever be ready to tell her anything, I’ll reiterate my earlier statement of wanting to tell her nothing. Then I’ll force out laughs at some overly dramatized Johnson family scene, make commentaries, and sneak off into the den with Dili for some PS5 trashing.
Ballet and the future hold no place in my head on nights like this. I just stay in the moment, laugh, argue, and fellowship with my family, and since it’s a non-school night, I hit the stairs hours later than regular bedtime.
In this convivial vein, a little after 10pm, I read Zino’s email after returning to my room, powering my Mac—Dad’s gift for acing the SAT—and putting some minutes into my college application.
This might excite young’uns like you
Quirky Zino, I chuckle, clicking on the link and surfing the website of a scholarship organization called Skyline. Roused to an awakened state of excitement, I click prompt after prompt of “Click here.” Thirty minutes in, I’m filling out forms and setting appointment dates. If what I read is anything to go by, this is looking more sumptuous than the proverbial manna from heaven.
With this, I can secure a full-ride scholarship to any university abroad to study whatever I want without worrying about tuition and boarding. All I need to do is sign a bunch of agreements that I would comply with and obey the school’s rules and regulations, remain in good standing with them throughout my study, and return to my home country upon graduation.
Are they kidding me? Of course, I’ll return. I mean, I love the United States of A. I think it’s fantastic and all, but, uh, nope. I don’t think it’s ‘it’ enough for me to leave my home. Like, leave my Mom, sisters, and Deuce for? Nah. I just want a chance to study dance and become better at it.
Shooting them an email with questions not covered in their FAQ, I pluck a basketball off a cubbyhole and bounce it around. To say I’m chomping at the bit is a gross understatement. I’m burning with fevered anticipation.
My Mac swooshes. They couldn’t have responded, could they? Whoa, they have. I pounce on the email; a “Thank you for contacting us” and a couple paragraphs of ‘About Us’ and ‘What We Do’ and a final line of more links to click and attached pdf files I download. An hour later and my head is teeming with information about Skyline.
“Naetochukwu,” Mom says, tapping on my door. “It’s past midnight. Will you not go and sleep?”
I assure her I’ll be doing that, but stay up researching Skyline and the ballet school I can apply to. I’m required to take a computer-based test, but that doesn’t bother me. I test well and have never had any reason to panic over that. What brings my blood to an impatient boil is if the organization is as legit as it is peddled. The website looks legit sha and knowing Zino, he wouldn’t send me a link if he hadn’t vetted it. Wait, Zino. I can ask him.
I shoot him a text, and he replies with a surprise emoji.
New Message From Zee:
Fam. Isn’t it past your bedtime?
Me:
What am I, twelve?
New Message From Zee:
With that body? Nah!
Me:
Lol
New Message From Zee:
What’s up, tho? Can’t sleep?
Me:
Sorta
New Message From Zee:
Same. I can’t stop thinking about that “kiss.”
My brain halts my typing fingers at the realization that Zino and I no longer share the innocence of friendship. We’ve bridged a gap, crossed a line where friendship has no pass.
New Message From Zee:
I felt it everywhere, fr.
Me:
🙂
New Message From Zee:
But…I knw. We’re taking it slow.
Me:
Bet
New Message From Zee:
Checked the email?
Me:
Yeah
New Message From Zee:
It’s dope, ba?
Me:
Bro!
My fingers find speed, and I excitedly type questions about everything I’ve read. He responds in equal fervor, saying he applied last year and got the invite from Joffrey. I urge him to reconsider taking the scholarship, and he drops a thinking GIF, and it’s almost 3am when we send our last line of messages with vague promises to hang out sometime.
I can’t see any more hanging out for us. How can I when there’s a gaping sexual divide between us?