SmokeLong Quarterly

Your name might be Paul. Or Franklin. We may have met online. I might have asked you to pick a date and a place. Anywhere is fine with me. I may have scrubbed my fears clean, chewing my insides out, wondering, Should I go? Should I stay? Is it risky?

I might have looked disastrously beautiful as I sped past the hall outside my mother’s room, clogs on my feet, clomping on her tiles, then outside to get to you.

This is the part that gets heavy.

The jean jacket I would wear would still any angst I might have about my weight. The afternoon sun would churn. Bikes would swish past as I ran towards the other side of the street to get to you. I would recognise your faded cardigan and the jeans you’d said you were wearing. When you see me, you will turn and hit the road. I would follow at a pace, careful not to be too obvious. I would perhaps wonder what we would look like to the aliens above us—two young boys trying to find ways in a chaotic town to absorb each other’s heat.

Our breaths would align at the bus stop. You would wait for a taxi, and I would wait too. We would sit inside the taxi like dovetailed birds, gawking at each other from the corners of our eyes, while the driver sped, stopped, quarrelled with potential customers over pricing, and then sped off again.

We would get down at the same stop. The driver’s eyes might linger on me while you skulked by the corner. I would shrug and ask for my change.

How do you know about this place? I’d ask as we walked past rows of bushes, skipping over puddles and bricks.

You look nothing like your pictures, I would say. Only I wouldn’t say this with words. I’ll understand because boys like us often take on masks to slip through the earth unnoticed. My eyes would linger on your face, memorising your features.

Come here often, I’d wonder, with boys as strange as me?

I’d stare past the road ahead, imagining our lips locking. Our skins burning at the touch of our own electricity.

Your eyes wouldn’t meet mine the entire walk. I’d wonder, perhaps, if you’re shy or disappointed at my features—my sunken cheeks, the nose God gave me, the one he propped down my face in defiance, as if to say, a nose is a nose, whether big or small. Or is it the clothes I’d have on—skin-tight jeans and a dark polo?

How strange would I really look?

“How close are we?” I’d ask, banishing these thoughts.

If the aliens had a satellite and were able to communicate with us, they’d have sent me emails or signals. They probably did, but they all ended in a mix. Like when you said you were 18. I could tell just by looking at you that you were much older. Sense evaded me as I brushed it off. I didn’t really mind, you know. But there was something—an alert in the back of my mind. That could have been the aliens trying to communicate with me.

Earlier, when you told me you knew a place we could go, that alert sprang up again. But perhaps adrenaline—that feisty thing that grips one when you’re 18, that shakes you into turning out yourself for field practice—I shunned the thought of this sounding like a catcall and said, Ok, where exactly is that?

For weeks, this day has been meticulously planned. I’ve seen myself in versions of this tale, walking beside you, as free as my belief that I deserved to be seen with you.

The hotel would be remote. The receptionist may have looked bored as she checked us in.

What do you want to do first? I would ask inside the room, searching for a remote. We could watch a movie.

I would hear you grunt, slipping off your sweater.

Our eyes would meet. One, two, three, and we’ll lock into each other’s arms, with your lips ferociously attacking mine. I’d ask you to calm down. Or perhaps I won’t. Perhaps I’m just as famished as you are. Our breaths would tingle the insides of our bodies. The bump in our hearts would accelerate. I would open my eyes a little to the sound of your phone dinging on the bed. That and the rapped knocking on the door.

If the aliens could interact, and were they really allies, they would have given me a sign. Like when your eyes poked off your face and you disengaged. They would have said, Run, Ifeanyi, run, when you stood to go open the door.

Our eyes wouldn’t meet this time.

I would hear a voice. This won’t be a room service type of voice. It would be a male voice demanding things. Demanding to be let in. My heart, that obtrusive animal, would flee, leaving me there with you, frozen in time and space. I’d have no time to react as you turned the lock. The voices on the other side would barge in.

“Where is he?” They’d ask.

The faces would constrict at the sight of me.

I would look at you then and recognise what this is: a Kito.

One would reach for his belt, unbuckling. Another would grab my backpack from the bed and turn it over.

“Homo,” they’d say, “So na you be the gay? You want to bash man?”

“Where is your phone?” another would ask.

I would watch things fall out of my bag. And then I’d close my eyes, preparing myself to be hit. The aliens, they would look away this time.

This is why, when you say, Can we meet? My eyes linger on your texts. The aliens, obviously allies, whisper to me. And then I type: No, sorry. Maybe some other time.