She was nutmeg, I could pass for light-skinned. For a girl, she was tall. For a boy, I was short. Her body was full, in all the right places, the kind we call thick. I was lean as fuck — too much marijuana. It was a classic case of opposites attracting. We were unlike poles, and not just physically. She loved telenovellas, R&B, President Jonathan, and Linda Ikeji. I worshipped the English Premiership and rap music, thought Jonathan could do better, disliked Ikeji’s ethics. One could say she was a girl’s girl and I was a guy’s guy.
We met online.
“Looking good, Gorgeous.”
“Lol, thanks Handsome.”
Because guy-man could not dull, I slid into her DM. She was in a university two towns away. Told her I was a Lion striving to restore the dignity of man. When we began talking over the phone I quickly became Trevor Noah: delivering joke after punch line after joke. She had this high-pitch cackle that sounded as though she was laughing at, not with, you, and the first time we met, I found she reflexively brought her hand over her mouth while laughing — it made it seem more so.
I knew her body well before we met, its curves and undulations. She sent nudes a lot. Stuff excited me to no end. I’d be making noodles after a long day of listening to bespectacled professors yammer about the golden years of their ’70s and ’80s, and chatting with her on BBM, and bam! Boobs. I’d be boiling water to take a warm bath for a seven A.M. class after our customary good morning phone call, and bam! Bumbum. You can imagine how it went down when we finally got our hands on each other.
Yet even better than the sex were our conversations, our disparate views sparring all day, every day. I advocated for true federalism, she believed the key to solving Nigeria was a termination of the union. I said no one could defeat the Hulk, she claimed Dr. Banner would not stand a decent chance against the other Bruce. She was big on conspiracy theories too: the Americans, through their CIA, killed General Abacha. The Nigerian government injected Fela with HIV. And the Bermuda Triangle was an instant gateway to another dimension. I lacked the requisite imagination to follow her arguments, but humoured her regardless.
She was both vampire and werewolf: hated the sun and despised the moon. She preferred the comfort of being indoors, like a wall gecko. I could not understand this. I liked it because it saved me money, but did not admire that it offered me very little opportunity to flaunt her. And bros, I wanted to flaunt her, wanted my boys to be awed by her beauty and wit. So guy-man baited them into visiting whenever she was around.
“Guy, you want my Building Components note? Come house come collect am.”
“Guy, you no go like watch Chelsea match for my side this weekend?”
“Guy, food dey house.”
Emeka always got his ass handed to him when he played her at ludo. He beat her only once, I think. And in her defence, my fingers had been teasing at discreet corners. Richard pestered her non-stop, to hook him up with one of her many dazzling friends. He’d snatch her phone and scroll through her photos.
“These your friends fine o,” he’d say.
“They are not looking for boyfriends,” she’d reply snuggled up to me, her head on my flat chest, her bosom grazing my belly.
On the triumphant days I convinced her out of the room, stranger-eyes followed us everywhere we went. I strutted beside her with a Deltan swagger. Their father. If we were out shopping, we’d argue before purchasing any item, her laughter interspersing the chaos. If we were seeing a movie, she’d instruct the actors like my mom did back home when watching her Africa Magic. Once, a fat guy seated in front of us shushed her.
“You too ssshhh,” she said.
I swallowed a chuckle, and thought, this girl go put us for wahala.
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Now, let me tell you something about the human male, the Nigerian male in particular. When he is a toddler, he is a chubby-cheeked cherub. Everything is a football, so trust me, it’s not out of place for him to hurt his foot kicking the coconut his Sister Nene bought from the afor market. He likes Onyinye, his kindergarten seatmate. Shares his akara with her and forgets his pencil with her and plays catcher with her.
When the Nigerian male is about six, his innate violence begins to rear its head. He’s punching Onyinye right in the gut now, and refusing to sit with her, and breaking her darn pencil into two uneven halves. It’s too much WWE, I tell you.
When he’s eleven, he’s watching blue films snuck into the video cassette player by his elder brother, and there are pink titties of blonde bimbos before his eyes and his member is harder than Olumo Rock and he’s imagining all various kinds of fantastical shit.
From eleven to sixteen, his life’s goal changes, no, evolves, thrice. First, he wants first base. Then he aspires to second. Then he desires third. All the while, he and his friends compare experiences like all good Nigerian students compare notes after a sloppy teacher’s dictation. He makes up stories when he falls short. To fill in the blank spaces. To cover a shame he should not be feeling anyway.
At seventeen, he, as the boys say, collects. It feels good. Better than beating his meat in the bathroom at shower time, almost as delightful as when he recounts the episode to wide-eyed sniggering friends. This is the moment the demon in him breaks free, destroying all shackles of restraint. Why? Because why not, bros? You no see the admiration for him boys eye? Collecting becomes the new cool. The wielder of the highest number is lord of his clique now. Thus, whenever our dear Nigerian male professes love, he remains steadfast on his goal of collecting. He’ll keep a clean shelf up in his head, place his many acquisitions — treasured memories of sexcapades — in various compartments. He’ll polish them with recollection from time to time. Chidera. Tolu. Aisha. Rachel. Jennifer. Abigail. Like that, like that.
Only a handful of Nigerian males know when to outgrow this foolishness. More never consider the option. People have called it the Yoruba Demon phenomena. In truth, it’s wider than any one ethnic group. It’s one of those few things that cut across ethnic, religious, and even class lines. It’s glue binding this country together, like the Super Eagles, like our crude oil.
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You already know how I lost Anwuli.
Yes, I was still swimming in foolishness. Yes, I did not take her — did not take us — seriously. Yes, I was immersed in collecting from willing givers. Yes, I was forgiven more than once. Yes, I used up all my lifelines — pulling a stunt of appearing at her school unannounced, calling her friends to plead on my behalf, asking Emeka and Richard to intercede for guy-man.
In the end, she left. Without ceremony. And like all fools worth their onions, it was only months after that I realized she was the real asa, and I had lost the one great love of my short life so far.
