There, In That Place Of Promise
Photo: Marcos Mayer
1
I can see that he adores his name, Ruben. In the 15 minutes we’ve spent in his room, he has referred to the meaning of his name three times. Ruben, behold, a son. Fixing his eyes squarely on me, he tells me he is new to all of this. Says he hasn’t been with a guy before, let alone date one. Says he’s quite sceptical, scared, uncertain of where this might lead.
I look at him, taking in the features of his almost perfect face. His pointed nose, his wide lips, his hazel-coloured eyes. I fake a smile. How do I tell him that I’m new to this too? Or does he think that because I gave him the look, told him how I felt about him, that makes me an expert?
I pull my gaze from him, stare out through the netted window, and spot three guys conversing and doing their laundry under a mango tree without fruits. On the branches near the top of the tree sits countless laughing doves cooling in the early sunset. There’s a coldness in the air this evening. Besides the flip-flap noise from the guy next room who is using the kitchenette down the hallway, the third floor is almost quiet. I glance back at him, wanting him to know that I’m still here, kneading his words on the slab of my mind.
‘So what then?’ he asks, inching closer to the edge of the bed. He places his hands on my thigh and, seeing that I do not object, leaves it there, continuing to hold my gaze.
‘I don’t know,’ I say.
A warm breeze darts into the room like it is afraid to be there. Silence sits between us like a stranger. I withdraw my eyes and glance at the ceiling. I take in the lines that run from one end to the other. I feel almost uncomfortable being here with him. I feel stark naked—and the way he stares at me. Like I’m a box of crisp. Like he wants to tear me open, let all my air escape, chop everything inside me.
His lips fall on mine. I feel the warmth of his lips. Something shifts inside me. Heat rises from my stomach to my chest. I pull away from him and rush to my feet, stepping away from him, from where he sits.
I can read the consternation on his face, the consternation that now floats in the air, the consternation that is now making its way toward me.
‘Did I offend you? Did I do something wrong?’ he asks, terror all over his face.
I shake my head. ‘No, you didn’t.’ I look away and fix my eyes on the wall behind him. There’s a faded wallpaper glued to the wall. I make out ‘Blue is the colour. Chelsea for Life’.
‘Then sits,’ he says and taps the space beside him, the hollow previously occupied by silence. I move towards the bed, bending slowly to sit but stopping halfway, my back arched, my butt in the air. A cold panic washes through my body. Multiple questions swim in my head, glueing me on that spot. What if this guy is not genuine? What if he only wants to get into bed with me and later dent my image? Or worse, what if he’s one of these tricksters who deceives guys like me and then calls other boys to mess me up?
Fear paralyzes every inch of my being. I imagine myself in a situation where I get extorted by his miscreant friends. I stand, grab my shuttle bag lying on the bare floor, and storm out of the room. He chases and calls after me—in a manner that both terrifies and softens me. But I don’t respond. Neither do I stop moving. I quicken my pace, bracing myself for a total blackout and days of constant pain.
When I get downstairs, I look up and see him standing by the balcony, resting both arms on the metal rails. I can tell from the way he glares at me and from the way his lips are firmly pressed together that he is trying to piece together the reason I’d gotten so upset. And for a second, guilt washes over me.
2
The air blowing outside is cold. I wrap my duvet around myself, leaving my face and shoulders bare. It would rain soon. And the rain would be turbulent. I can feel it. The louvres are all shut and the curtains drawn. I am thinking about him and what to do with these feelings. Other than when I bumped into him at Tedder Cafe four days back, precisely two days after I ran out of his room, I haven’t seen him at all. He’d called a thousand times and sent hundreds of texts, none of which I replied. Why is it so hard to communicate how I feel to him? It seems as though something, something I still can’t grasp, has pushed me to a place where conversation is impossible to make.
The pouring rain is ferocious, pounding like a police battering ram on the roof. A thunderstorm peals. The children in the next compound roar. I pick up my phone and scroll to the messages. His earliest texts are from the day I left his room in anger. Hey, talk to me, what did I do wrong? The corner of my lips turns up. Don’t leave me hanging on the cliff of uncertainty. I beg you, talk to me. And on the evening of that same day. Is this it, to leave me worse off? What possibly could have gone wrong for you to ignore me in this manner? I like you, Sam. Does that at least not count?
Two days later. If you’re not certain about this, it would only be fair that you communicate your disinterest. Goodness, tell me, did I do something? Did I upset you this much? And yesterday. This is the third day we haven’t spoken. You matter to me so much that I can’t stop thinking about you. I’m sorry if I ever wronged you.’
I feel the muscles on my face contort. Outside, the rain is threatening to pull down everything on its path. The electricity, which has been off since the early hours of this morning, comes on. A bolt of lightning strikes, and it goes off again, leaving everywhere darker than it had been minutes ago. My phone buzzes, a new text from him. I bite my lips. I want to leave the text unread, but I am curious. Since I’ve started unearthing the messages one by one, what harm would it do if I read this one too? I’m stunned. I don’t know what to say to you at this point. And on this, I promise not to bother you anymore. Stay well. Love, Ruben.
I force a smile. I let my phone slip out of my hands onto the bed. Just what would it take me to open up to him and tell him what I feel? Would the words spiral out of control and choke me to death if I told him that it isn’t everyone that is passionate about sex and that, for starters, it shouldn’t be placed above all?
I can feel the cold breeze coming into the room through the cracks in the door. I shiver and fight back the tears dancing on the surface of my eyes. Feeling as though the duvet around me is repressing the life out of me, I unwrap it and fling it to a corner of the room. From a place of great despair, I force myself to sit up straight and let the tears run down my cheeks.
3
My mind drifts to places far beyond me. I am not here. I only sit and watch as the professor moves his lips, uttering words that make no sense to me. I try owning back my mind, but as soon as I lay hold of it, it slips and drifts off to places even farther. It’s still about him, still about that silly boy. And it hurts that I have no control over my thoughts when it comes to him.
The class comes to an end. Quiet whispers roll into louder conversations, and the room is now noisy. The professor packs his files from the podium and puts them under his left arm. He tells the class to read up on how states play a role in international politics and leaves. Outside, just at the entrance of the lecture theatre, Jenny spots me and asks if I want to eat at Zik Cafe.
‘No,’ I tell her in a low voice. She peers at me as though she is searching for something and asks if I am alright.
‘I’m okay. My head just hurts a little,’ I say to her.
She tells me to go home and rest a little, that she’ll call me much later. I nod. I head toward the unpaved road behind the lecture theatre. Standing under a mango tree shed, I wave down a shuttle and point toward the Main Gate of the campus. There’s a slight discomfort below my stomach. I think of Jenny and wish I had followed her to Zik.
Caught in traffic, watching as vehicles crawl and a few motorcycles navigate through gaps, I wonder if Jenny would forgive me if she knew why I ditched her. I wonder what we’d have talked about. Perhaps Meghan Markle’s appearance at the royal wedding. Perhaps how to tackle Professor Jagunda’s coursework. Or perhaps life in general, something worthwhile and unrelated to our course of study, something to keep my mind away and far from Ruben.
Within, I tell Jenny to forgive me. Going down to Zik Cafe would only put him at the centre of my thoughts. And the chances of running into him were high. His dorm was just a stone’s throw from the cafe. I couldn’t risk that. And besides, it was in that cafe, with walls so high and ceilings with elaborate zigzag designs, that we first heard the texture of our voices. Being there would only resuscitate that image and make it difficult for me to breathe.
4
It was on a Tuesday evening, one of those evenings where you just want to walk, feel the world around you, and know that you truly exist. I had just left an evening fellowship and walking down to Zik café using an untarred road that served as a shortcut in and out of Indy Hall. My mind was mapping out the rest of my night: buy food, get a cab from Zik Hall to Main Gate, cold shower when I get home, library for the rest of the night.
Close to the cafe, beside one of those huge billboards where upcoming football games were posted and where different campus fellowships hung invitation leaflets, I spotted him leaning against a wall and talking to a girl dressed in a heavily sequined gown that was too big for her small frame. His look when he saw me was welcoming, as though he’d been expecting me to appear. His gaze unblinking, his lips forming an ‘O’. I too was looking at him, reducing my giant strides to snail crawls, and smiling awkwardly. This was not the first time that I’d seen him here. The first time I did, he was with a group of boys, talking and laughing so loudly they could have been heard from Main Gate. As days lazily stretched into one another, resembling themselves, I saw him more and more—inside the cafe, outside the cafe, at the entrance of Zik Hall. Although words were not exchanged, we acknowledged each other in that awkward silence that befell people who were neither strangers nor acquaintances.
On that Tuesday evening, as I got what I needed from the cafe and sauntered out, I saw him coming towards me, walking too fast as if propelled by something other than his will. Our bodies brushed as he got to the doorway. I’d never felt that sudden rush of emotions before. It was all strange, this feeling of adrenaline dressed up as shimmering heat just because my body touched another. I stood there, just outside the cafe, melting. Thoughts swam in my head: What if I walked up to him and told him I liked him? Would it hurt anyone if I let out my desires for once?
Courage was foreign to me. It was something I couldn’t grab and make mine. But not that Tuesday. From nowhere, a place I did not know existed within me, I felt courage filling me up, touching every cell, and leaving no part of me untouched. I walked up to him, tapped his shoulders, and asked if I could speak with him “for a minute”. He nodded and pointed to an empty table. Not wanting to choke on my nerves, I whispered, almost could not hear myself, ‘I like you. I don’t know what it is yet, but I do know that I like you.’ I feared he would shout at me, push the table towards me, and call me all sorts of nasty things. Actually, not true. I feared he would shake his head and say, ‘Sorry, you’ve met the wrong guy here. I don’t do that shit.’ But, instead, he brushed his fingers above mine, caught my gaze and held it for what seemed like an eternity, and said, finally, that he liked me too.
We spoke for a little while. Had I not found the courage to walk up to him and admit how I felt, making him recognize that he also liked me, he probably might not have noticed a thing, he told me. We talked about what it meant for two boys like us to like each other in a society like ours. And then he gave me his number, and I gave him mine.
5
As the unending rainfalls over the past week gradually taper off, I deliberately avoid paths that Ruben takes. I’m aware, though, that one cannot hide forever. Something will make the snail come out of its shell one day. I’ve been in the library all day, and it’s time to go home. Today, I decide to take the route that goes through his faculty rather than following one of the shortcuts that lead to the campus shuttles park.
I walk as though my legs are unable to carry me. Anxiety creeps up my spine with each step I take. My mind roams over to him and lays out images of him holding on to me. I try pushing these images back, but it isn’t working. My eyes stray toward a newly erected poster hung on a fence in the Faculty of Arts. Inaugural Lecture of Professor Alabi Edwards. The Place of Education & Literature in a Developing Society: Engaging the Truth behind Economic Stability.
I glance away and walk farther. I see a familiar face and wave. The face waves back. I get to the shuttle park, and seeing that the available shuttles are full, I resort to trekking instead. I put on my headphones and bring Tracy Chapman’s The Promise to life. The lyrics toot through my eardrums—Remembering your touch, your kiss, your warm embrace; I’d find my way back to you—and satiate me into a deep-seated nostalgic longing. There, from a corner behind the Student Union, I see him emerge, carrying a tote bag.
As he comes closer, colour drains out of my face. The ground begins to sway under my feet. My movements become wobbly. Out of an overwhelming trepidation to leave things as they are and not to stir already troubled water, I bend my head and pretend to be busy with my phone. But he sees—and calls out. On reaching me, he grabs my right arm as if preventing me from running. His lips stretch into a broad smile. His eyes bore into mine, digging into my mind, my soul, and bringing out things, things I desire to leave buried deep within me.
‘What did I do wrong?’ he asks, surprising me.
I feel a lump gather inside my throat. Words become difficult. Two guys beside us are arguing: ‘The government has failed us,’ one of them says, his voice so husky that it drew a few eyes to his direction.
‘You’re okay, right?’ he asks, moves closer to me, and gently rubs my arms.
I take a step backwards, not wanting to draw attention from prying eyes. I say to him in a low voice, ‘Yes, I’m well.’
‘That’s good,’ he says, nodding. My countenance doesn’t affect his. Light glimmers in his eyes. I expect him to be mad at me, to walk away and ignore me, but he seems even warmer from the way he is speaking and the way he is looking at me. As he stands there, and me so close to him, it’s hard to get myself together. I can’t help but think that I’d acted foolishly.
‘What has been happening with you?’ he asks, holding my left arm.
‘So many things,’ I say. Won’t he just get on with it and ask why I’ve snubbed him all this while, instead of lightly touching on things? Or is he going to stand there and continue looking at me, causing people to wonder if we’re both sane?
Silence descends on us, covering the atmosphere like a makeshift blanket. I want to leave, but walking away and leaving things this way would only make me look like a coward. And I’m no coward—most times. ‘We should meet at Zik Cafe by this time tomorrow. They are a lot of things we have to sort out.’
He agrees. We stare at each other for minutes like two teenagers on a blind date, and then he turns and walks away.
6
The wall behind us, the one overlooking the hilly parts of the campus, is designed with graffiti. There’s a popcorn stand a few inches beside where he sits. The smell of brewing corn hangs in the air like raging clouds. We are outdoors, outside the cafe, absorbing the warm evening breeze.
‘You should have talked to me,’ he says, plastering a smile on his face.
I turn my gaze elsewhere. ‘Yes, I should have. But how could I have said that I like you but wouldn’t want to get intimate that soon? How could I have told you that I believe it’s ill-fated to start a relationship with sex,’ I say in a whisper, looking around to see that no one overheard me.
‘All the more reason why you should have told me what you were feeling,’ he says, pausing to wave off a butterfly. ‘Look, Sam, I respect you so much that I wouldn’t think of doing something you don’t agree to.’
Close to us, a pigeon lands on the ground. It looks towards our direction, perhaps wondering what we’re discussing, and then, smoothly, takes to the air to join its relatives firmly perched on the branch of a tree. I glance back at Ruben, teary. ‘I’m sorry I kept you in the dark. I hope you understand it wasn’t you that I was mad at. The idea that sex is what a relationship like ours is fated for made me so furious.’
Like a child robbed of their toy, his expression turns sour. Watching as he pokes at his nails uneasily makes me shiver with remorse. ‘I’m sorry I made you believe that sex was what I wanted. Frankly, it wasn’t,’ he says, squinting like a bag of nails. ‘I thought maybe it was what you wanted, but I was wrong. I’m sorry.’
I’m all flustered. I can tell from the texture of his voice, dry and hoarse, and from the trees and the birds and the people all around that he is genuinely sorry. All of these—my storming out of his room, my total blackout, my refusal to neither pick up his calls nor reply to his texts—all of these could have been avoided if I had talked to him.
‘It’s fine now,’ I say, looking down at my freshly cut nails. We stay quiet. No words are exchanged. None are needed. Someone calls his name, and he turns. He excuses himself. He returns almost immediately, closing the space between us. From within the cafe, Elton John’s Sacrifice is blaring. There is a familiar warmth in the air. On the bare ground partly covered by sullen grasses, an earthworm crawls slowly, leaving behind a fragile trail.
‘So, we’re good?’ he asks and rests his hands on my thigh. I face him and smile. And without giving it a single thought, I lean against him. His face holds a promise, a promise that things will get messy, that the road will get slippery, but as long as we have each other, the paths wouldn’t be too lonely.
About the author
Josiah Ikpe is a storyteller, one who is constantly evolving, and a book lover, born and raised in Lagos, Nigeria. His works have appeared in the Kalahari Review, Nnoko Stories, Tea Light Press, Lanke Review, The Mark Literary Review, The Crater Library, and elsewhere. He's a Law student at the University of Ibadan, Nigeria.
