Entropy

A story is about how the chaos of a queer man shapes his existence — from Abah Onoja

“I’m a chaotic person,” Ruth says.

We are seated in the balcony, backs to the bench, overlooking the road and its busyness. It’s a beautiful evening. Up here, the breeze is balmy on our skins, and in the distance, the sun is a burnt-orange disc plunging into the horizon.

She takes another drag of the blunt, and the smoke comes out of her mouth like curlicues drawn in haze.

“What?” I ask.

“Chaos,” she says, “na me be the very definition of that word.”

I laugh, throwing my head back, shuddering gently on the bench.

“You think you’re chaotic,” I say in between laughter. “Me nko?”

Earlier, while we laid on the bed in my small bedroom, bodies damp with sweat, chests heaving from postcoital exhaustion, she told me her story.

How her life had been snatched from her, like a hawk swooping down on a brood of chicks, except, the hawk had kept coming back. First, her parents, then, her siblings, then, her education. How she’d had to live with a relative who cared for her about as much as a lizard would care for its young. How she began to use her body as a commodity.

She told me about her first time — an expensive hotel, two men inside her, one between the legs, one in her mouth.

She told me how she had gagged and retched afterwards. How filthy she had felt, like someone had smeared shit all over her. But how she had thought it worthwhile, since, not only could she then procure her JAMB form, but could also get new clothes to replace the ones she’d been wearing, which were already in tatters.

“You nko?” She turns to face me, handing me the blunt. “Weytin be your story?”

I look in her face, rid of make-up this time but still beautiful, adorned only by a septum ring.

“Me?” I say, taking the blunt from her hand. “Omo, I’m too far gone o.”

I inhale, then blow the smoke out in puffs.

“Weytin sup?” She asks.

“My boyfriend died,” I blurt, and then feel like I have peeled away the scab from a healing wound.

“Ehn?” She says, brows pinched, taking the blunt from me. “Boyfriend?”

I nod slowly.

“Oh,” she says after taking a drag, her face brightening with realisation, “you be gay.”

It seems like an epiphany inspired by marijuana.

“You have a problem with that?” I ask.

“Guy, nothing concyn me with who anybody dey fuck,” she says, looking straight ahead.

We are silent for a moment, only hearing the noise of tyres and brakes screeching, people yelling — it’s the usual evening time cacophony.

“How him take die?” She breaks the silence. “Your boyfriend, I mean.”

“Oh, he was lynched. They killed him.” I say, in a matter-of-factly way, as if to mollify the effect it would have on me.

“Shit,” she says, “simply because na gay?”

“Mm-hmm,” I answer, taking a drag from the now dwarfed blunt, then letting the roach fall to the ground.

“Shit,” she says again, under her breath.

Now, the sluice gate is open, and the images come rushing in. I knew speaking about Lekan would hurt, but I didn’t know it would hurt this bad. Not only have I peeled away the scab from the wound, I have begun stabbing at it.

I see him now, his naked body broken from people hitting him with all kinds of objects to sate their “righteous” fury — green bottles, planks, metal rods.

I see another image. His body and two others, tied together like sheep in an abattoir, ready to be slaughtered, their heads drooping from the weight of the tires hung around their necks.

I close my eyes in a bid to stave off the next set of images, and when I open them, she’s staring at me.

“Weytin?” She asks.

“Omo, that one na just one part,” I tell her. “My story plenty.”

Mom threw a frying pan of heated vegetable oil at me when I was eight, leaving me with scalds all over my skin, and that was when Dad knew I had to leave the house. I was too young, and Mom was becoming unhinged.

But she had been unhinged all my life.

Some of my earliest memories are of flashes of her sanity in between dark periods of dementia. I would wake up one morning and she would be making breakfast and preparing me for school, only to come home to her making feral noises, baring her teeth, stuffing salt in her face.

So Dad told me, tending to my burned feet while I winced with each touch, “you will go and stay with your Aunt for a while, you hear?”

I was taken to my Aunt’s house, and Mom was taken to a psychiatric home.

The most I heard from her after that, about ten years later, was that she had escaped during a riot by patients of the mental home, and had not been seen since.

The house was a quaint bungalow that my Aunt had inherited from her parents. When we arrived, after cursory greetings and exchange of pleasantries, I was handed over to her. Little did I know that as Dad was driving out of the sprawling compound that that would be the last time I’d ever see him.

The living room was big, the chairs were old and some of them had their leather torn, exposing yellow foams. The walls were lined with old family pictures and calendars. There was a small shelf in a corner where old newspapers and books were stacked neatly. Then, a big boxy television that I’d later discover was nonfunctional.

Aunt Bola, as I’d been instructed by my Dad to call her, bore a semblance to my Dad. They had the same sepia skin, same thick lips, but while Dad was near skinny, Aunt Bola was a plump woman with a double chin and folds of fats in her arms. I was surprised to discover that she was unmarried, had no kids, and lived in the house alone.

She led the way to what was to be my room, and I followed in tow, my bag in my hand. It was a small room, drably painted, and apart from a bed, a wardrobe that had its doors flung open, and the fan that hung from the ceiling, there was nothing else. Saying nothing, Aunt Bola left me in my new room.

Aunt Bola seemed to hate me. No matter what I did, I couldn’t please her. I would do all the chores, but she would still be unsatisfied.

She would come back from the bank where she worked, a bitter expression on her face, and would begin to chew me out.

“Can’t you greet?” She bellowed, once, when she got back, and before I could open my mouth to say, “welcome, aunty,” or “good evening, ma,” she had conked me.

“Dọ̀bàlè,”¹ she spat, and I stretched my thin frame on the floor, my head aching.

She would conk me, pull my ears, smack me across the face at the slightest provocation. As if these acts of assault were not enough, she cooked terribly. Meals were tasteless, and sometimes, in those early days, I would go without food simply because of how bland what she had cooked was. Later, I would learn to prepare my own food.

Although, she wasn’t at home most of the day, she always made up for her detestable presence in the evenings when she got back from work, and during weekends when she didn’t go at all.

So my days were darkened, but my nights soon became the blackest shade of dark.

One Saturday night, tired from chores and wanting to rest, I lay on my bed to sleep,

Then I heard the door squeak, and I jerked up awake.

“Omowale,” she called out, her tone conspiratorial.

“Ṣe ọ tí sùn ní?”² She asked.

“No, ma.” I answered, my voice tremulous with uncertainty.

She flicked on the light switch that was near the door and walked in. Aunt Bola never made it into my room before then, so I thought I’d left work undone and she was coming to punish me. I was surprised when she sat down on the side of my small bed and fondly tousled my hair, a simper on her face.

But I was even more surprised when she pulled out one of her huge stretch mark lined breasts from her nightgown, pulled my head close to her chest and said, “oya, suck.”

And what did I do?

I sucked, confusion numbing my mind.

My mouth around her nipples, her hand caressing my head, I started to hear gentle moans. Then, a tap. I pulled my mouth and looked at her, still confused.

“Oya,” she said, pulling out the other breast, “do this one, too.”

And I did.

The next day, she came into my room at about the same time, and she made me suck, and the day after that, and the day after that, until it became less of a surprise and more of a routine. On weekdays, after she had gotten back from work, she’d walk into my room in the evening, and ask me to gratify her.

But my confusion shot for the moon when, one Saturday evening, as usual, she strode into the room. But this time she asked me to kneel in front of her and then tucked my head between her legs and asked me to lick it like I would a stick of lollipop.

And so I did.

My head between her legs, I licked.

I grew up a shy and reticent child. When Aunt Bola would go out to work, I rarely got out of the house. Since there was no TV to watch, I indulged myself in the books that were scattered all over the house.

Nothing changed as I got older. I continued to gratify my Aunt. She paid my fees and provided food, but I had to “work” for it.

Strangely, the cunnilingus and boob sucking were all that ever happened, no more, no less. Perhaps, to her, incest was only when penetration occured.

When I was ready for secondary school, I suggested the idea of going to a boarding house, more out of wanting to flee than anything, but she refused vehemently.

And so I continued to live with her until I finished secondary school and was ready for university.

Getting admission into the university began a new phase of my life, an important one.

I went to the university feeling small and inadequate. It was there that I wanted to explore my sexuality and, reclusive as I was, I did. But before Lekan, there were others.

There was Queen — plump and light as the inside of papaya, with eyes that were always lined with mascara. We dated in our first year, and broke up after half a semester when she said she was no longer “feeling” it.

Ene’s body was svelte, and she moved with such rhythm, it was like a single blade of grass bending to the gentle swayings of the breeze. The relationship with her lasted the longest, but after a protracted period of strike, which hindered us from seeing each other, we had to break up.

And then Kike, whom I’d met on Tinder, and was more of a sex buddy than an actual girlfriend.

I was in my final year when I met Lekan at a barbershop on campus where I went to have a haircut. He had skin so dark it was like ink, and teeth the colour of sugar. But that was not the first thing I noticed about him, it was his gait — he waddled, swaying his hips from side to side. I thought him graceful.

“Hi,” he said, flashing me his teeth. His voice was a honeyed soprano.

“Hey,” I answered back.

“I just saw this really cute guy from afar, and it would have been wrong not to come say hi.” He said.

“Which guy?” I asked.

“You, of course,” he said, leaning into me, peals of laughter spilling out of his dark mouth.

“Ohh,” I said, smiling back.

We exchanged numbers and soon became close friends. As we both stayed off-campus, we could afford to visit each other often. I’d walk to his place, where he stayed with two other roommates, and he’d walk to mine where I stayed alone.

Kike sometimes visited. She often came without prior notice, and would insist on spending the night.

Once, Lekan was in my place. We lay on the bed in silence with only the fan whirring above us. He turned to me, propping his head on his hand.

“Omowale,” he said, his voice soft.

“Yeah?” I turned.

“You know I like you, don’t you?” He asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“No, man,” his face straightened, “like, I really like you.”

He cupped my face with his free hand.

“I really like you, too.” I said, feeling something flutter inside of me.

Our faces inched closer, and when we kissed, I thought I’d found something special, something I’d never had.

Something beautiful.

I felt safe in the newfound love. Lekan was perfect. There were no feelings of emptiness, no feelings of inadequacy, it was as natural as tree branches dancing to a gust of wind.

And he seemed to love me, too.

He’d often come to my place, since I lived alone, and we’d have the best of time. We didn’t even have sex then. I felt a sense of freedom when we cuddled, I liked it when our skins touched and when our lips met.

One time, Kike walked into us with our bodies entangled on my bed.

“Oh,” she said, before turning to leave.

Later, I explained to her, how I felt swaddled when I was with Lekan, how the warmth from his touch was the most soothing thing in the world.

I was having the best time of my life, but my world exists only to be a blatant defiance to balance and order.

One day, he invited me over to his own place, both his roommates had left for the weekend, so it was an opportune time.

That was the first time we had sex, the first time I took him inside me. He was gentle, firm, sensuous. We made love all night, and that has to be one of the best time of my life.

The next morning, we went out for an early morning walk, just two young men in love, fingers interlocked, faces radiant, not a care in the world. When we got back, we decided to have a bath. Feeling tired, I wanted to lay down a bit, and allow him take his bath first.

While he took his bath, I picked up his phone and began scrolling through it. The pictures I saw made something fold up inside of me.

Strewn all over his gallery were pictures and videos of him and two other guys having sex. There were different scenes indicating that it had happened multiple times. When I looked closely, I saw that I actually recognised the other guys — they were his roommates.

“What the fuck is this, dude?” I asked him as he came out of the bathroom, a towel loose around his slim waist, his body dripping with water.

“Guy, leave that thing,” he said dismissively, yanking the phone from my hand.

“You’re fucking them, abi?” I said in a harsh whisper. “You’re fucking your roomies.”

He looked at me with indifferent eyes that tugged at the rope of my patience.

And then, a smile spread across his face.

“Well, I’m not in love with anyone,” he said. “Na free agent I be.”

“Bastard.” I snarled as my fist connected with his jaw. “Fucking bastard.”

That was the last time I saw him.

I remember walking out of the apartment, then looking back. He held his jaw, a consternated look on his face, water still trickling down his body.

Kike was the one who informed me of his death. It was a dreary Saturday, the kind that inspires ill forebodings. It had been a week since I’d spoken to Lekan. I’d blocked him on all of my social media accounts, blocked his number, too. But as I lay on my bed that afternoon, I felt uneasy. I thought of reaching out to him because I missed him terribly.

He had cheated, yes, but was that unforgivable, especially for someone who had helped define who I was, who had sharpened all of the blurred edges in my life?

I placed a call, but it didn’t go through. I did again, for several times, and it still didn’t go through.

“Fuck.” I muttered, annoyed at myself for not having made the call earlier. I sat up, went to my desk and resumed working on my project.

Sometime in the evening, Kike barged into the room, giving me a start.

“Fucking knock nau,” I said in a half yell.

She must have been running for she was out of breath. Her hand was outstretched, holding her phone.

“Take.” She said in a huff.

“Weytin?” I say, turning back to my work. “Abeg, I no dey in the mood.”

“Dude, fucking take this phone and look in it.” She screamed.

I collected the phone grudgingly and saw the video.

After I watched, Kike told me what had happened in between sobs. Apparently, one of the roommates had mistakenly sent the sextape to the WhatsApp group of his class and everyone had seen it.

Some of the boys in the class, disgusted by the “dirty” act had decided to at least teach him a lesson, give him a beating or something.

But it went out of hand.

What happened was what was documented in the video that I now held in my hand.

The boys, 3 of them including my Lekan, had been stripped naked and first thoroughly flogged. They were then made to dance while the crowd jeered at them.

When more people came around, it got more violent, and the mob started hitting them with bottles and all. I watched in horror as someone smashed a cement block on Lekan’s head. My Lekan. I heard him scream with the infliction of each unjust violence. Like when someone broke a beer bottle on his head and used a shard to trace ugly marks on his chest.

“You dey like fuck man, abi?”

“You no like the way wey god take create you, ehn?”

“Man fucking man.”

Until, finally, someone suggested that they tie the three of them together, like animals to be sold.

They looked half dead already, unable to even cry out, bodies bathed in their own blood.

I held the phone in my hand not wanting to watch, but unable to turn my head.

Not until I saw the bodies lit, did the lump in my throat melt into tears, and I began to cry profusely.

Lekan, my Lekan.

I moved to a farther part of town to avoid the trauma, and also out of fear — those bastards could come for me.

I discovered weed when I left school, the transient calm I could get if I filled my mind with it, and I’d often buy loads of it and smoke till I could touch the clouds.

Done with my project, I decided not to return home to Aunt Bola, and instead got a house with money I’d saved. I found a job with a small company as an accountant. The pay was little, but I had enough money to feed, buy my daily supply of ganja and hire hookers.

Ruth was my favourite.

She had an arousing beauty and there was something about how she delivered. It wasn’t just her body, how it seemed like it could stretch, break, collapse and return to its original state. It was in how much passion she exuded, how she’d look me right in the eyes during a fellation, how she seemed to be gratified simply by providing gratification.

The first time we were in a room together, while she rode, I shut my eyes as wave upon wave of pleasure washed over me. She smacked my thighs rather harshly saying in between puffs of breath, “Open your fucking eyes.”

“You still dey fear?” She asks when I am done talking.

It’s dark now and my eyes move from the star-littered sky to the neon signs in the bars on the side of the road. The cacophony of traffic is louder now and more discordant, with engines revving, brakes squealing, people yelling and music blaring.

I don’t say anything to her question.

“You still dey fear,” she says, as if my fear is as visible as the smoke from the marijuana, and is coming out of my body in plumes.

“Yeah, I’m scared,” I say.

She gets up.

“Come,” she says, holding her hand out to me. “Make we go inside.”

When we’re inside the dark bedroom, I wonder why she has chosen to come back inside when it’s cooler outside. She connects her phone to the bluetooth speaker, turns on the flashlight of the phone, and put it on a table, lighting up the room.

The first song that plays is Brymo’s Entropy. She puts her arms around me and we sway gently to the music.

“It’s entropy, entropy, took you and left me memories.”

I remember Lekan, my Lekan, whom they took, and when the tears start to come down and I start to sob, my head buried in her neck, she says, “we fit dey chaotic, but we still dey beautiful, na weytin make us humans be that.”

1. Dọ̀bàlè: Prostrate
2. Ṣe ọ tí sùn ní?: Have you slept?

Abah Onoja is an Idoma-Igbo writer born and raised in the city of Lagos. A biochemistry graduate, he depends obsessively on music and literature to navigate the chaos that life is. Take those two things away and you don’t have a human being, but an empty casing, a mere shell of a person. You can follow him on Twitter @DUDE_NOiR.