This was our third time summoned to the principal's office since the beginning of the week. The first time, we, Okwudili and I, had stood in front of Mr. Ifesinachi, the principal, Mrs. Olakunle, the vice principal and Mallam Yunusa, the Physics teacher for the senior classes. Each person spoke at length, offering their own moral biases to the issue. Although I was frazzled by their questions, pausing at intervals to gulp deep breaths and thoroughly process the questions before answering them, it was Mallam Yunusa's reaction that got to me. He sprang from his chair, as though to hit me, his kaftan swaying carelessly behind him, almost dragging him to the ground. Blobs of saliva travelled from his mouth and only missed my face by a streak of luck. I hated his condescending tone, as he said I had dented the good image of Bright Eyes Secondary School, Itakpe, Kogi State, the constant inflection of his voice as he interjected, Allahu akbar, you, Echezona, kishili?, La samah allah, as though he hadn't recently been accused of sexually assaulting a student in my class. Linda, the only girl in the senior section with the biggest breasts. Eventually like most cases, this one tapered off the instance it arrived the corridor of the school management, for want of tangible evidence.
All that time, Okwudili kept his gaze downward, spoke only when spoken to, his silence a creature curling around my throat, rearranging the cells in my body, until my hands began to tremble, as though they were an entity severed from the rest of my members. He had carried the silence outside of the principal's office, outside of the staff room, averted his eyes from mine when I called him corper, my voice above a whisper.
I glanced at Okwudili now, surprised that he was still standing behind the swinging chair, hands clasped at his back, even though the principal had instructed us to take our seats.
"Young man, aren't you going to sit down?" The principal said, pushing his drooling lens back on.
"No, sir. I am fine this way," Okwudili said. If he was angry or irritated, his voice managed to cloak it. Yet, he sounded like someone who was in a hurry, like he would rather be anywhere else than in this slightly crammed room, the ceiling fan rattling as it swirled around, the shelf of books on the left corner behind the principal, a chest of drawers at another corner. Mr. Ifesinachi looked him over, like a strange specimen, his eyes narrowed in a static moment of repressed irritation. "Suit yourself." His eyes drifted towards me, lingered and for the first time, my legs shivered, as I shifted on the chair. Nowadays, I barely slept enough. In the middle of the night, I would jerk out of slumber, struggling to steady the thumping in my chest. I'd roll out of bed and lumber towards the balcony and stare down at the infinite darkness. Sometimes, the instruction was so precise, so compelling I'd feel a ringing in my ear; but in pushing against it, I'd clench the railing, trying to keep my feet rooted to the earth.
"You're one of the school's brightest students," the principal began. My gaze flitted between my fingers and the principal's face, anxiety surging through me like bad blood. I was partly grateful that Mrs. Olakunle and Mallam Yunusa were not present today still I was a little disturbed. Were they tired of the constant summons? Perhaps they had given their verdicts already in hope that the principal would communicate same to us. I couldn't decode this new wave of tension spiralling through me, a feeling that had been absent during the previous summons. My toes and armpits had become slick with sweat, and I could imagine a river in the seat of my trousers.
Clasping his hands on the desk, he said, "Echezona, I'm so heartbroken, so disappointed in you. Your parents are good people; they certainly don't deserve this. Did you see the disappointment on their faces when they came around?" I wriggled in my chair, trying to nip the urge to poke my index fingers into my ears, to scream in his face. I hated the contempt in his voice. If he wanted to chastise me, he should do so, and not involve my parents. Of course, I remembered how disappointed they were, the stern look on my father's face, the swiftness with which my mother broke into tears when she saw the pictures. What did this man want to know? That at home, I'd become a hermit trying to find his footing. Nobody called me when it was mealtime, morning prayers went on without me, and when I showed up at the living room, it ended abruptly, as though it had never begun. Still, I greeted my parents in the mornings and in the afternoons following my return from school, even when their silence returned to me like an unanswered prayer, a bone wedged at the back of the throat.
Mr. Ifesinachi cleared his throat, tugging me from my thoughts. "It pains me that you of all people are involved in this scandalous act. But this case has dragged for too long, and I'm already exhausted. I wonder how many people have seen those pictures. Now, this is what we've decided."
For a moment, I let my gaze wander around the office, at the long line of awards capping a shelf on the wall behind the principal, a crucifix standing in the middle of the desk. Okwudili was licking his lips, balls of sweat crawling down his beard, into the collar of his brown shirt. He seemed to be perpetually looking down at something. If not for how things had escalated, I wouldn't be here in the first place. Until now, I didn't know what the principal's office looked like, and I wasn't interested in finding out. It didn't make any sense to me, sitting before this man who only viewed the world from two coloured prisms: black and white. A man who didn't consider the presence of other colours, the in-betweens, colours which had equal right to belong, to exist without confinements.
It took the tolling of the school bell for me to realise where I was. Mr. Ifesinachi was facing Okwudili, whose face was trained at a spot on the wall above the principal. By the window on my right, I could see some students milling about, others, like the senior students, walking to the car park, perhaps towards Mama Charity's kiosk. Some of the senior students were from my class, SS2 Science. The culprit was among them, I thought. But who? Who among them had attended the birthday party last week? Who sent those cryptic pictures to the principal and Mrs. Olakunle? As much as I needed answers, these questions were bugs hovering around the lamp of my mind.
Taiye and Kehinde, my close friends, had attended the party, but had sworn on their mother's grave that they had no hand in it. Still, I didn't know who or what to believe anymore. Mr. Ifesinachi, who had taken off his glasses, clasped his palms on his thighs and said he was highly disappointed in Okwudili. "When you came to Bright Eyes newly, I had liked you instantly because of your nice conduct among the students, the way you spoke intelligently." He reminded Okwudili of the school's zero tolerance to every form of immorality. Of course, I had heard all that moral gibberish about homosexuality being a western idea, and at eighteen, I had read a lot of books and most especially those columns in the newspapers my father brought home, that talked about how African cultures and values were fast eroding, replaced by woke western ideologies. After some time, I stopped reading those things, because their arguments seemed not to hold water, always leaning heavily on religion as a backbone. Oftentimes, the scriptural references quoted ended up alienating the humanity in queer people.
The principal delivered his verdict, the bell tolled the second time, and we were out of the office. Few minutes later I was squeezing through a web of ixora head, bounding out of the bush behind our class. I had crouched behind tall grasses, waiting for the students to go home. I had taken the car park, walked briskly as against the prying eyes, so that no one would ask me anything, past the toilet behind the SS3 block until I arrived at the bush.
Except for the birds screeching from a distance, there was no one within sight. I found some of the lockers and chairs flung to the floor, as though a fight had broken out among the students. At the front row, my locker and chair were still standing in position. I emptied my locker, transferring all the books into my bag, slung the heavy bag across my shoulder and strutted towards the door. Pausing at the doorway, I turned to look at the class, the suspension letter in my left hand. I glanced at my locker and chair one last time and pictured how much dust and cobweb they'd accumulate in the one month I'd be away. A sigh escaped my lips as I closed the door and trudged down the hilly slope leading to the library. Lumbering past the library, I meandered the tiny footpath that led to a forest. It was the same path students took each time they arrived late to school. I pushed through the cluster of tall grasses like a man finding his way in the dark, until I find the crooked path on my right. I crossed over a fallen trunk and at this point, I could see Okwudili on the fallen truck of a tree, facing the river. This was one of our usual hideouts. Before going home, we'd spend some time together, listening to the bird sing, their music a stark disagreement with the whooshing current of the flowing river. Other times, I'd rest my head on his chest listening to his throbbing heart, trying to match its rhythm with his voice, as he spoke of the universe like a thing with a soul. He hoped one day the universe would make all his dreams come through, that one day he would build a house befitting for his mother, and his sister, Amara, would no longer have to hawk akara around Okigwe after school hours, in the searing sun, to seal the gaps his lean monthly allowances created.
Okwudili didn't turn around when I edged closer to him. I wondered if he had heard the crushing of leaves and twigs underneath my sandalled feet. I cleared my throat, and he faced me, for a moment, before looking ahead. "Why are you just coming?"
"I'm sorry. I was trying to sort my books." I sat on one end of the trunk, unsure if I should go closer to him. I sensed the tightness in the air, the veil silence hanging in the air around us. "Are you not going to say anything?" I said, bracing myself up for what was coming.
"What's there to say, Eche, no tell me? How's everything that's happened so cool to you?"
Looking beyond the hoarseness in his voice, I chose to delve into my memory bank for all things still fresh, moments not mildewed by the ugly hand of fate. I remembered the day the principal walked into our class, Okwudili behind him, in a crested vest and jeans, how the whispers flew about the class the instance he introduced himself as corper Okwudili Jideofor, the rich baritone in his voice a breath of clean air sending shivers through my spine. I remembered how he had spoken briefly about wave and wavelength, mostly things we had been taught, the gentle curve of his back, those butt cheeks popping against his trousers as he strutted across the class; how Taiye, my seatmate had nudged my shoulders and whispered, "You dey see wetin I dey see? This one fine die." Okwudili had a pristine accent which bore no modulations, and it was this characteristic together with his thick eyebrows and dimpled smile that made my heart wobble in my chest. During break time, I watched Taiye and Kehinde bicker over who would have him, fluttering their hands in the air, and I smiled when their squabble remained unresolved.
"Just take a look at me," he was saying now, abruptly shoving me out of my reverie. "Barely a year of national service truncated, just like that. Where do I start from?" As he spoke, the paper in his hand flapped in the wind.
"Please, can I see it?" I said, extending a hand across to him. He looked befuddled for a moment, as though trying to understand the relevance of my request. Still, he surrendered it to me. It was a letter of dismissal, written, signed and stamped by the principal. I still recalled his last words before we left his office, how he had risen from his chair, eyes trained at Okwudili and said, "You ought to thank your God that the school has resolved not to take this case to the police. You know what that portends for you. What you did is a heinous crime under the law, cajoling a minor into an uncouth sexual behaviour."
I was not a minor, at least I was old enough to take decisions for myself, and that included falling for a man seven years older than I was. Nobody deceived or cajoled me into anything. Yet, what struck me was how little Mr. Ifesinachi knew about love, its varied forms, about desire and the inappropriateness to toss it in a box. I stopped reading the letter. Nonchalance coiled like a snake in my belly, and I returned the paper to Okwudili, who clutched it, almost squashing it.
Staring at him, at the sullenness on his face, I wondered what his younger version was like. Did he cry when life's storms gathered around him? Did his back cave in from carrying the world on his shoulders? How much did the heart have to take before it finally buckled? I desired to hold him in a tight embrace, to cup his shattered heart, to save what was left of it. To lay on this bed of dry leaves and twigs, just like those few evenings we'd spend together in secluded hostels in town, when he complained that my constant presence in his house had begun to spawn rumours. All those times I had been the one talking about myself, my desire to go somewhere else, away from my parents and their extreme religious ideologies to a different country, say America, where I could live my life, be comfortable in my skin. This time, I would be quiet and hear him speak, rant, cry. Even if it were for a minute, I’d convince him to let go of the reins of the world.
Above us, ribbons of dark clouds had begun to weave around the sun. A drove of herons sped through the sky, flapping their wings. Something stirred in the branches above us, and dry leaves rained all over us. I must have glimpsed tears snaking down his eyes, but he was quick enough to pluck them with the back of his hand. I open my mouth to say I was sorry, but halted, not certain what exactly I was going to apologise for. Of course, I wasn't sorry for the things I felt towards him. I wasn't sorry for making the first move, when he seemed reluctant. How for weeks I barely concentrated in class, until finally I decided to visit him at the corper's lodge. How he had looked startled, mouth slightly opened, when I told him what I felt, how I claimed that I didn't care what he did with the information as long as I had undone the knot of anxiety from chest, even though I was hoping he would say something afterwards. His reaction had surprised me, the way he held my hand, tickled my palm and smiled. A smile that told me all I needed to know.
"What are we going to do now?" I said, hoping the sound of we, would assuage his basket of grief.
We? He yapped, cocked his brows. You said we? There's no us anymore. You probably don't have anything to lose here. As it stands now, my service year has ended. How do I face my mother and Amara? I mean where do I start from."
I wanted to say that he wasn't the only person who had lost things. I probably had lost my place in my parents' heart. I didn't know how to face the world again."
His eyes had reddened the moment he turned to me. "Why didn't you delete those pictures? I begged you to delete them, and you promised. Remember you promised. Why did you send those pictures to them?"
A strange wind slapped my body, and almost immediately I wrapped my arms around my chest. The wind slipped away, still my arms were hugging my body. Okwudili's words had undressed me, leaked my bones clean of the sinews of warmth. I wasn't sure of anything or who had been with my phone the night of that party. My parents had travelled to Ogun State for a two-week training of church leaders, at the winners chapel headquarters. While Taiye and Kehinde rocked each other on the dance floor, I sat at a corner, drunk and fighting to stay vigilant. Many people must have brushed past me. Maybe, I must have chatted with some classmate, who took my phone without asking and went into my gallery. Even now, I wished I had kept my phone on password. That way, whoever had taken my phone wouldn't have gained access to my pictures, especially those ones where Okwudili and I locked eyes, my tongue buried in his mouth, his mouth trailing the side of my neck.
After I was unable to offer any response because I was tired of explaining myself to convince him that I hadn't sent those pictures, he hitched to his feet, ready to leave. I grabbed his wrist, and held onto it even though he pulled, trying to wrest himself free. As though conceding defeat, he fell on the trunk beside me. His lips were dry and white. I took his palm, ran it down my face, drenching it with my teary eyes.
For the first time in many nights, I lay on the bed, naked, my body spread out like an offering, my penis flat between my thighs, waiting to be nudged into erection. The harmattan wind blew fiercely through the balcony, moving the curtains around. My parents were probably asleep by now, after hours of shouting at each other. I had been the reason for the quarrel. My father had looked at me with disgust in his eyes the moment I passed the letter to him, calling me a disgrace to his bloodline. "If you don't want to go to this school again, just let us know," he had spat out before storming upstairs to his room, and down to the living room. He shuffled into the kitchen where my mother was, raising his voice at her. "You've failed as a mother," he told her. "Where were you when this boy strayed from Lord's path?" How my mother had refused to clip her voice, quickly knotted her sagging wrapper under her armpit, and stormed out of the kitchen, my father hurrying from behind. How she had shouted at him in equal cadence, reminding him that as parents they were both responsible for their child.
I was sorry for my parents; that they had become the kind of people who threw words at each other in a bid to evade the truth.
Stroking the bracelet on my left wrist, the same one Okwudili bought on my birthday, four months ago, I tried to conjure his face, the kiss that passed between us hours ago, his arms around my arched back, the tenacity with which his tongue sought mine, the quick exchange of saliva, our tears commingling into a unit. This kiss was different from the rest; it was, loose and thick with unsaid things. It was the beginning of the end. My penis had wriggled out of slumber, but when I caressed myself, it slid back to sleep, my palm gathering dregs of a time now in the past, memories wrung of their colours.
DoubleSpeak 