aDrift

Gerald Ewa

I have made grief a gorgeous, queenly thing, and worn my melancholy with an air, Winifred Welles.

Ndukwe liked the wind on his face. He liked the way it sang sonorously in his ears, tickled his nostrils, and almost veiled his eyes. Still, he resisted the urge to sleep as he clutched the steering wheel and pressed hard on the throttle. He thought briefly of Abuja, the far-flung roads, the giant government buildings. 

In Abuja, he chose a sheltered life, went out only when it was necessary, mostly to meet with his business associates. On Sundays, he didn’t complain when the church people stormed their house. Although he sat in a corner of the living room watching them, he seemed to be impaled by their presence, their voices weaving into a rich tapestry of praises and thanksgiving, so that the entire house took on an ethereal appeal. He loved the radiance on Ime’s face whenever they came around, the way she smiled and cried and raised her hands to the roof in supplication. But he wished she went out often, not just on Sundays or Saturdays to get supplies for the house.  

He waited for the line of cars to zoom across the road. A rickety yellow minibus, missing a back window and bathed in cracks, slowed to a halt beside the bus stop in front, and Ndukwe noticed, among the handful of passengers alighting from it, a young man in a pair of threadbare jeans and a flannel shirt bellowing in the wind. He had a thin waist and thick butt cheeks just like Kola. Ndukwe shuddered from the rush of adrenaline coursing through him as he felt the growing hardness in his trousers. He turned sideways, let out a sigh of relief, grateful that no one could see him or  the murkiness of his thoughts. Yet, he kept darting his eyes about, the feeling of insecurity weighing down on his chest, as though he was not alone, as though Ime was sitting beside him. He could decipher the thing in her eyes, the way it unsettled him, forcing him to lick his patched lips repeatedly. Did Ime really believe that he was going to see one of his friends? Or was she giving him the benefit of the doubt, feeding her mind with the possibility that he wasn't cheating on her with someone else, until the seams of her patience frayed? 

This was their third Christmas in Enugu since they relocated to Abuja ten years ago. Nowadays, she barely challenged him whenever he said he was going out to see his old classmates. But once, after they'd had lunch, she had brought herself to inquire about these classmates of his and why he was always going out to see them instead of the other way round. Ndukwe had managed to steel himself, surprisingly unruffled by the sharp glare of her eyes, the way it threatened to unclip the truth from him. "I have invited them over again and again, but they keep saying soon. And besides, they're old enough to decide for themselves," he said in a stern voice that sealed the gaps for further interrogation. And with that, she rose to clear the table, muttering under her breath.

Around Ime, he sometimes felt unhinged—even though he acted like he had everything under control—like an overwhelming force was pulling the earth from his feet, hurling him into a bottomless pit. Of all the things she was, she was not completely pliant with the suggestions Ndukwe made or the decisions he took on their behalf. She'd changed with the passing years, transforming into the kind of woman who resigned herself to whatever life threw at her. The kind of woman whose memory had become a sieve over time so that she forgot special moments like their anniversary, her birthday, forgot to switch off the TV before trudging upstairs to their room, left the kitchen tap running, perhaps for hours, until he returned to turn it off.

In the beginning before he proposed to her, and a few months after they got married, she was vivacious. Her joy was palpable, capable of lighting up a dull house; she would wake up beside him every morning with a smile on her face, attacking his lips with hers, with a desperation that thrilled him. In the kitchen she whistled a song while making his meals. And then on Sundays, as they strode to church, she was the first to slip her hand into his, locking his palm with hers, as though he would vanish from her sight. 

On weekends, when his business associates-turned friends visited, she accepted his invitation to join their conversations, which, most of the time, were wound around politics, the war between Russia and Ukraine, and football. It was her sheer fearlessness he missed the most, her ability to counter him or his friends when their claims drifted towards sentiments rather than facts. How she seemed to be so versatile, readily contributing to every conversation.

The last car had zoomed across the road as he engaged the gears and sped off. Occasionally he stretched his taut muscles, stuck his head out the window, and swiped the phone in the glove box. He thought by looking at the houses and shops lined up on both sides of the road, he could shift his mind off the weight of guilt lodged in his chest. He was going to end things with Kola. These past weeks, the odds had been against him: Ime's unusual silence and the unpredictability of her mood and the fear that rose in his chest whenever he thought of Kola. 

He couldn't explain this new feeling of aimlessness breathing under his skin. He wasn't sure of anything, how to begin, if he had enough courage to look Kola in the eye and say it was over. 

This thing — that had begun three years ago — started off as a fling, and they had come to a mutual understanding that it was only destined to last for a night after their lust had been sated. But that night at Trisha's Bar and Suites, somewhere around Ogui, had culminated in many more nights spent in secluded hotels in lonely streets. He had been thrilled by those years, as he longed for the prospect, a reason to travel down to the east to see Kola, to nestle in his arms and sit by the balcony, watching pockets of shy stars fill the sky. 

Beyond the spree of sex, Kola was almost everything he had missed in Ime, the seamlessness with which Kola started and maintained a conversation with random guys in the bar, filling the entire room with new energy until they were enamored by him. Ndukwe always looked forward to football hours when Chelsea and Man United played and he and Kola sat amid other men facing a large screen. He loved the way Kola’s skin brushed against his whenever he stirred, loved to hear Kola whine bitterly when a player from his club, Chelsea, missed a chance to score, smiled when the sea of voices rang through the air with goal, Kola jumping to his feet and screaming, goal, his voice shrill and imposing. 

Nowadays, Ndukwe couldn't tell if he still had it in him, that dizzying anticipation, burning up every other desire, even his appetite for food. He sensed that whatever he felt for Kola had become mired by a feeling of ambiguity he couldn't trace its origin, an uncertainty that sometimes left him indecisive and terrified.

I have now been here — how many years? Years unnumbered. My hands grow clawlike. My eyes are large and starved, Conrad Aiken.

In the beginning, it was easier for him to conceal that delicate part of himself, to pretend that her touch and kisses enkindled him with desire. Even after he had squirmed and moaned through the portals of release and they lay stomach-up on the bed, their shoulders touching, breathing each other’s air, he was satisfied by the smile on her face, by his ability to ferry her to a place of unfathomable bliss.  

These days, he felt like a frozen lake, stripped of warmth and splendor whenever Ime curled up beside him in bed, her body warm against his own, her eyes hungry and searching for his. He hated himself for feigning a yawn just when Ime planted a kiss on his lips, making excuses about how hectic his day had been.

There were times when he attributed her extreme sadness and nonchalance to her inability to conceive a child, his mother's constant banter about the incompleteness of a house without a child, segueing into taunts and threats of imposing another woman on him. At first, he had been horrified by the streaks of miscarriages that greeted them at the outset of their marriage, until they seized and the years flew by like a tornado, guzzling up whatever faith and hope was left in him, so that he stopped joining her in those midnight prayers, stopped following her to those hospitals where the doctors gave the same report: nothing was medically wrong with them. 

And yet, he wondered what Ime thought of him. How did she perceive him, especially those times he only spoke up in her defence, after an enduring moment of silence, rescuing her from his mother's rage and insults? Did she recognize his silence as an adumbration of cowardice? What if she had agreed with his suggestion to adopt a child rather than rebuff it as something unclean? Would it have lessened her grief, transforming her from a woman who solely yearned to carry her child to a woman who could love someone else's seed in the hope of carrying hers some day?

Maybe, just maybe, if he had resolved to stay single, refusing to cower under the weight of his mother's threats to take her life if he didn't find a wife, Ime would've been spared this needless pain.

In all the places I have been to, why does love greet me at the door with an effort sculpted by brutal labor? Romeo Oriogun.

The sun had begun to relinquish its throne in the sky, when Ndukwe pulled into a quiet street. A veil of darkness swept over him, but the headlights led the way as he navigated the sharp bends and potholes. It was unlike him to frequent a particular place for a long time, but Kola had assured him of the safety of this place, that there was absolutely nothing for him to fear. "Besides, if you look around you closely, you'll find many just like us," Kola had said in that off-handed manner of his, spreading out his arms and cocking his head, like he was so sure that nothing could possibly go wrong. It was their first night in a bar that boasted of exquisite furniture and a wide veranda upstairs bordered by rooms. And when Ndukwe looked around him, in all that sea of men locking hands and eyes, he felt a soft landing in his chest, something close to stability, an assurance that he was in the right place.

Ndukwe let out a sigh of relief; he had stridden past the thick-chested bouncer — in a pair of jeans trousers and tee-shirt that hugged his body —stationed at the entrance, and he recalled the man's large hands that invaded his body, squeezing the muscles of his hands and legs, his balls. The man only let go when Ndukwe squeaked, a coy smile plastered on the man's lips. 

He closed his eyes for a moment and let the gentle music, trickling from nearby speakers, wash over him.

He didn't bother to look around the bar; he was certain Kola was upstairs in one of the rooms. He would join him later but for now, he needed something strong to oil the desert of his throat. He sidled past a table occupied by two men sitting across from each other, their eyes so focused on each other it would take the zapping of a fly to make them blink. Without looking at them, he apologized as his butt kicked the table slightly, forcing the bottles into an awkward dance. He sat in front of the bar, his hand on the counter, as he waited for the barman.

"What would you have, sir?" The barman said, wearing a lavish smile and spreading his hands on the tabletop as if he would lay on it.

"Two shots of tequila, please?" He said, returning the smile and feeling stupid for revealing too many teeth. For a person like him who could barely down a bottle of stout, he was setting himself up for an impossible mission. Two shots of tequila were probably going to knock him off, yet he was prepared to do anything to get the guilt off his chest. Perhaps, the sourness of the drink would burn the guilt away. He had taken both shots in a succession of quick gulps, stifling the urge to scream as the liquid burned down his throat. All the while, the barman leaned at a corner, shrieking with delight and clapping and egging Ndukwe on. His head was spinning with a strange sweetness, and he was certain he could manage a third swig.

He was about to slip the third shot into his mouth when he felt a hand tugging the glass from his lips. 

"I think you've had enough to drink for the night," the voice came afterwards. He recognized the voice, its softness, and looking around, he found Kola beside him, smoothing the creases on the collar of his shirt and bending over to kiss his left cheek. Ndukwe burped as he surrendered the glass to Kola, who placed it on the table like a fragile thing and settled on the stool next to him. At this moment, the dizziness thawed, and he stared at Kola clear-eyed, but confused, like a lost animal. Kola smelled of warm bath and cologne. For a moment, Ndukwe was lost in Kola's brown eyes, the slender bridge of his nose, the lush pink lips, and he felt like reaching for his beard, inhaling the wet hair jutting from his chin. Instead, he cleared his throat and said, "How far?" 

"Alfa dey mosque." Kola rolled his eyes and flapped his left wrist so that it skipped Ndukwe's nose by a shouting distance. In a different circumstance, Ndukwe would have chuckled, allowing his fingers to wander along Kola's thighs. But all he did was smile.

"What's it? Is everything alright?" Kola said now, waving the barman over for a drink and deciding against it almost immediately, when Ndukwe remained quiet.

"We should go upstairs, right?" It was more of a subtle command than a suggestion, but Ndukwe obliged

He was standing by the window, drinking water directly from the Eva bottle Kola had bought for him, when the pair of hands slid into his shirt, undoing his buttons and stroking his nipples. The city by the window was beautiful and full of light and Kola's breath was warm on his neck. He closed his eyes and threw his head backwards, easing himself into Kola's arms. He had wriggled out of his trousers and slid into the bed beside Kola only to crawl out of it, his back turned to Kola. But now, he moaned as Kola nibbled at his earlobe. This should be the point where he let go, turning around to kiss Kola. Still, he pulled away as Kola reached for his shorts.

"What's it? You've been cold to me since you arrived?" Kola was saying now, as Ndukwe settled on the edge of the bed. 

"I'm sorry, I'm not just in the mood."

Kola cocked his eyebrow and pulled out a blunt from the nightstand. He took a deep, long drag, and at that moment, Ndukwe was sure he would swallow the entire cigar. Then, Kola blew smoke rings into the air. 

"Do you remember the thing you said to me the first night we met?" Kola said, shoving his stick of cigarette towards the window, as though he was talking to the city.

Ndukwe glanced at him, unsure of the thing he wanted to hear, because he had said so many things that night, mostly a string of words birthed from a place of awkwardness.

"I can't remember exactly."

Kola smiled. "You said that I was so beautiful like mammy wata and yet you couldn't even manage to look me in the eye."

Ndukwe lowered his gaze, and chuckled. Throwing his head up, he said, “But you're still beautiful like mammy wata.”

"Hmm..." He took another draft on his cigarette and another until he flung the stub to the ground and crushed it underfoot. Now he squatted before Ndukwe, resting his arms on Ndukwe's thighs. Making a funny face, he said, "So, you think I still look beautiful after you've chopped me finish, eh?" But the joke didn't quite get to Ndukwe, whose lips were drawn in a semi-frown.

Kola had begun to tickle Ndukwe's thighs, nudging him into hardness while Ndukwe twitched his legs. And suddenly, Kola paused, resting his palms on the bed, so that he was facing Ndukwe squarely. "This is not you. I know there's something not quite right with you tonight. Is it your wife? Does she know already? Has she said anything yet?"

Ndukwe felt the urge to end the thing between them already, and slip away, into his trousers and out of this room that irritated him now, away from Kola and the casualness laced in his voice, this boy who saw the world as an oyster that must bend to his desires. And yet, somehow, Ndukwe envied Kola, his flagrant audacity, his subtle way of not-giving-a-fuck about anything, of damning the consequences and reaching headlong for what he wanted. It was the kind of life Ndukwe adored, only from a distance, but lacked the courage to pursue it, to make it his reality. Among the mountains of his fears, one appeared prominent: he feared the unknown, the beginning of the end. He was terrified for them, for Kola who seemed oblivious to the mechanics of the world, to the unkindness that raged beyond these walls, to a world that didn’t understand difference and was so swift to kill anything and anyone that belonged to this category.  

Instead, he sat there, drinking in the nauseating sweetness of tobacco steaming from Kola's breath. Arching his back, Ndukwe took in Kola's soft features, the bright eyes and lips, the long clean fingers that administered injections and tablets to people during the day and stroked him on most nights until he came. He still didn't understand Kola's reason for sticking to his pharmacy, although he had studied chemical engineering. And although Ndukwe was in a better position to place him firmly in one of his oil businesses in Port Harcourt or Aba or anywhere else in Nigeria, Kola had politely declined this offer, clutching onto his decision to remain in Enugu, managing his pharmaceutical store, until he was tired of the State and ready to return to Ogun State.

"I think I know your problem," Kola said, sitting on the bed beside Ndukwe who was checking the time on his phone.

"You're scared of coming out, of being seen for who you truly are." Now, he was raising his voice. He leaned in and slowly whispered into Ndukwe's ears, "Because you don't want her to know that you're a homo." Ndukwe slapped Kola's face. The swiftness of his hand, the deftness of his fingers against Kola's face surprised him. He was sure he had left a huge welt on Kola's face but as he lowered himself to the floor to check, his words soaked with apology, Kola pushed him away and crawled back into the bed, his back against the wall, his arms folded across his chest. Ndukwe was glad there was no mark or welt on his face and yet, he felt a pang of shame. “I'm sorry, babes. Please, forgive me. I didn't mean to..."

"You didn't mean to, but, but...you did. You slapped me, N... Ndukwe." The edge in Kola's voice had dissolved, giving way to a breaking, as columns of tears rose in his throat. Ndukwe stared at Kola for too long, his bones reeling with shock at the way Kola cried like a child who'd lost a parent. Something in Ndukwe had cracked, something he couldn't vividly describe. He made to lift himself from the floor and go to Kola, but the thing held him back. He turned to the window, away from Kola's glaring look, his eyes glistening with tears.