Stargazing

RAHEEM OMEIZA

I

I met Itopa in Lagos while I was waiting for a bus at Ikeja Underbridge. I held onto my phone tightly because I’d been robbed there before. A boy who looked no older than eight had snatched my phone from my back pocket and disappeared into the crowd before I could give chase. Ikeja Underbridge always smelled like piss. Men would piss on the thick concrete pillars that held up the bridge, putting back the smell of urine that had been washed away by rain.

Itopa was telling off a police officer trying to extort him. The officer had a pockmarked face.

“I have shown you everything you asked for. Why are you still detaining me?” Itopa asked the policeman.

“Oga I say make you come down from that moto! Come down!” The policeman yelled.

“No,” said Itopa. He was tapping on the steering wheel with his index finger. I could tell he was trying to rein in his anger. The policeman had a gun, an AK-47 he wore across his body with a dirty sling. Surely that was enough to persuade anyone to comply with the officer. But Itopa didn’t get out of his car. He was so light-skinned his face was beginning to turn red in anger. Green veins crisscrossed the length of his arms as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. A small crowd had gathered, and they were yelling entreaties at both the policeman and Itopa.

“Fine man, do as the police talk.”

“Yellow, give am ₦200 make e dey go. Na so dem dey do. Dem no get shame.”

“Oga police, dis man no do anytin, leave am!”

Most of the women acknowledged his ‘fineness’ and ‘yellow skin’ as if to say he was too handsome, too light-skinned to be murdered by a policeman. Being light-skinned in Nigeria automatically conferred beauty on a person. For dark skin to be beautiful, it had to be flawless. But Itopa wasn’t just light-skinned; he was also beautiful.

“Oga police, this fine man no like wahala. No be everybody una go stress,” a woman with a baby strapped to her back said.

Overwhelmed, the policeman gave in to the crowd. “You go still jam who pass you. Because you be lawyer, you tink say you fit do anyhow,” he said to save face. He knew he had lost. Itopa waved at the small crowd and said, “Thank you o,” in that Nigerian way that showed both camaraderie and gratitude to a bunch of strangers you’re never likely to meet again.

“I’m going to Lekki. If anyone is going that way, please hop in and let me drop you off.” This caused a small frenzy. Many people were headed that way. I forced my way into the front seat, elbowing many men with sweat patches around their armpits. Months of hustling to get into buses paid off. Before I could close the front passenger door, four people were already in the backseat.

The people at the back — two middle-aged women with badly bleached, sunburnt faces, and two men — a young man wearing thick glasses, and the other, a man old enough to be called old — praised his courage.

“Oga, you get mind o. Na man you be!”

I said nothing. He looked at me. I stared back, fighting the urge to look away first. Up close, he was even more beautiful. His eyes were dark brown, like rich soil after rain. His black hair was curly, not kinky like a typical Afro. He dropped the people at the back off at different bus stops to effusive “thank you sirs” and “God bless you.”

“Where are you going?” he asked when it was just the two of us left in the car.

“Lekki Conservation Centre. You can drop me off here if you aren’t going that far. Thank you.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll drive you there,” he said with an easy smile. “You’re so reserved. What is your name?”

“Amoto.”

“Oh my God! Anebira uvi ni?” His smile grew bigger, stretching his face taut. “You’re my brother! My name is Itopa.”

A smile played on his lips every time he looked at me. He talked freely and took my phone number. He said we ought to look out for each other in Lagos. When he dropped me off at LCC, he waved at me enthusiastically as if we had known each other our entire lives.

II

I would love to say that our love caught and spread quickly, that we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. That we tore off each other’s clothes and made love like animals in heat. But that wasn’t what happened. Love crept up on us slowly, and when we found out, we’d already been consumed. It wasn’t chaotic. It felt like a soft wool cardigan on a cold day, like butter slowly melting into warm bread. It was comfortable.

One sunny Saturday, Itopa invited me to brunch for the first time. I tasted the word “brunch,” rolled it over in my mouth and smiled. Brunch was for people who were doing well, for people whose lives weren’t a daily struggle.

Itopa was an energy lawyer at Banwo & Ighodalo, a senior associate. He was part of the team that brokered an important energy deal with Siemens a few years ago. He was thirty, a rising star. I was a civil engineering graduate working as a cashier at First Bank. He made jokes about engineers  working in banks. He didn’t know that I couldn’t get an engineering job in Lagos and that I had bribed the local branch manager to get the placement at First Bank. People like Itopa had never had to beg. They took what was rightfully theirs. His intelligence and beauty made sure of it as did his wealth. He had grown up privileged, and had the haughty affect of a man used to things going his way. It was why he could argue with a policeman who had a gun.

Brunch was at the Radisson Blu Hotel. The hotel stood out, as if aware of how luxurious it was. Itopa wore a white shirt and navy-blue shorts that exposed his hairy legs. His feet were fitted snugly into white Nike sneakers. He looked like one of those rich white men on golf courses in Hollywood movies. He took off his sunglasses and shook my hand when I stepped into the hotel lobby. He’d been waiting for me.

“Welcome, Amoto. Anya ru se.”

The sky that Saturday was vacant, a stunning bright blue. We sat outside, under an awning. Our table was full of food in elegant bowls and platters: seafood, rice, sauces with foreign names, crispy fried chicken, a cheeseboard with several cheeses, some fruit, and two bottles of dry white wine.

“It’s too early for red wine,” Itopa said as we sat down.

I tried everything. I hated the feta cheese. The pasta dish was so good that I made Itopa order some for me to take home. He said it was farfalle pasta with mushrooms and pesto. He told me about his work and I listened. I told him that I’d just been promoted. “Congratulations!” he said.

III

Itopa was a whirlwind when he was working. He was cutthroat and efficient. He took calls in Ubers, spoke with confidence to his colleagues and superiors when on the phone with them. But when he switched off from work, he was present with me.

Our second date found us at the Oriental Hotel for dinner. The soft yellow lighting of the restaurant reflected off Itopa making his skin radiant. That night, many women around us tried to catch his eye. Some even walked to our table to greet him. I knew I was lucky then. Lucky that he chose me when he could have anyone he wanted.

Itopa stroked his beard when he was nervous or distracted. Sometimes, he’d pull hard enough to pull out a strand of hair. His beard had a slight wave, as though windswept but only halfway.

“When did you find out?” I asked.

“Find out what?”

“That you were different,” I said and looked away. I knew I shouldn’t be prying.

“When I was six? Seven? I don’t remember, but I’ve always known.” He shrugged. “What about you?”

“When I hit puberty. I wanted to kiss a boy — Joseph — in my class. I wrote him a love letter. It didn’t end well.”

“What happened?”

“I got beaten by a group of boys who saw the letter.”

“That’s sad,” he said.

I waved it away. “It was a long time ago.”

For a while, we said nothing. We sat in comfortable silence and ate our food.

“I just bought a country home in Ihima,” Itopa said, breaking the silence. “I’m going to spend my 20-day leave there. You should come with me.”

I froze. There was something unbelievable about a 30-year-old man buying a country home. The people who owned country homes were old and bald with massive potbellies.

“You bought a country home?” I asked, astonished.

“Yup. You should see your face,” he laughed.

 IV

The house in Ihima looked nothing like I imagined it would. It was a four-bedroom bungalow painted a bright yellow. The yellow contrasted with the army green roof. It stood out. It called attention to itself. Pink bougainvillea crawled over the short fence, adding even more color. Neat hedges of ixora encircled the house, as though trapping in all the beauty, preventing it from spilling out. Young lemon trees, years away from fruiting, perfumed the air.

“Babe, do you like it?”

“Do I like it?” I repeated. “This is the most beautiful house I have ever seen, and I haven’t seen inside yet. It’s almost as beautiful as you. Almost, but not quite.”

I leaned in for a hug, kissed him twice on his forehead, and led him to the door. “Let’s see if it is as gorgeous inside.”

“I aim to please,” said Itopa.

There was an easy languidness about Ihima. The village was like an old man riding a bicycle: slow and content. The air was clean and smelled like nature, unlike the polluted air in Lagos, which smelled of rotting garbage and gutter water. At dawn, several shrill voices called out to people to buy their wares. It tore the still fabric of the morning and set the day in motion.

“Buy fresh bread!”

“Buy kerozin!”

The rurality amused Itopa. He’d lived in abundance for so long he’d forgotten that people still cooked with kerosene and firewood. If I wasn’t already enamored of him, I would find him out of touch. He was a member of the upper class who’d forgotten that people beneath his social class lived full lives. The dirt road paths in Ihima were perfect for casual evening walks with a lover. The singing of birds was music. Even the croaking of frogs and the chirping of crickets at night weren’t annoying.

Late one night, lying on his back on the balcony, he called out. “Babe, come and see.”

“See what?”

“Look!” he pointed up.

I looked up. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“The sky. Isn’t it marvelous? All those stars dotting the night sky, sparkling.”

“I think you mean ‘twinkling.’ Stars twinkle. They don’t sparkle. ‘Twinkle twinkle little star,’’ I said as I lay on my back too, next to him. “Yeah, it’s beautiful. But they’re almost always there.”

“That’s the point. We take the beauty for granted because it’s always there,” he explained, gesturing with his hands. “A shooting star is shooting across the sky. Make a wish,” he said.

“What are you? Seven? This is real life, not a Disney cartoon.”

“Make a wish anyway.”

“I wish that this happiness never fades. I wish —”

He pressed a finger to my mouth and said, “A wish. One wish.”

I turned around, stomach down and body propped up by my elbows so that I looked right into his eyes, which appeared black in the moonlight, and said, “I love you.”

“I love you too, Amoto, more than you’ll ever know.”

I lay my head on his hairy chest. The world was perfect. Everything was well.

V

I had only requested a three-day leave from work. Those three days plus the weekend were supposed to be enough. I didn’t know that I’d love Ihima as much as I did. I didn’t know that I would be taking evening walks with my lover or that stargazing would become something I looked forward to. I didn’t go back to Lagos when my leave expired. I stayed all twenty days with him, unbothered about my future because the present made me happy, happier than anyone had the right to be.

We took long walks and hiked hilly trails.

On one of those walks, we hiked a small hill. When we got to the top, we could see the entire village. Most of the roofs were brown and rusty. A few modern houses had reflective aluminum roofs. Our shirts were soaked through with sweat. Itopa pulled the stopper off his water bottle and drank from it, spilling some water.

“Ugh, even when you’re sweaty and spilling water down your chin, you’re still hot. It’s not fair,” I said with mock disgust.

He laughed. “I can’t help it. I was born this way.” He winked at me.

VI

I befriended an old man who lived opposite our house in Ihima. He had dark age spots on his face. He was always outside during the day, sitting by his sewing machine. He was one of those men that tailoring had left behind, forgotten like bicycles when motorcycles became the rage. He’d learned how to sew in the late sixties when the quality of the fabric was more important than the style. When style meant having room to maneuver, to dance without being hindered.

Every morning, he brought out his old sewing machine and oiled it slowly, deliberately. He’d then sit under the cashew tree in front of his house and wait for people to bring him clothes to sew. Most days, no one brought him clothes. Sometimes, people whose zippers and buttons needed fixing brought him clothes to mend. But he was outside every morning, measuring tape around his neck, waiting for business. The few times he had something to sew, he pedaled with purpose, whistled to himself, and stopped momentarily to rub out the pain in his arthritic hands. Everyone called him Papa.

Itopa, too, befriended a child, a boy named Ihima, like the village. They’d met by chance. The boy had run into our house screaming, begging for mercy, his mother hot on his heels, cane in hand. His mother stood at the door and yelled at him to come out of Brother Yellow’s house before he broke something expensive. Itopa promised to talk some sense into him. The mother, placated, left.

“Why are you hell-bent on terrorizing your mother?” Itopa asked the boy in English. He’d stopped crying, and his tears had dried, leaving white, salty lines on his face.

Confused, the boy said, “No, sah.”

“No? What did you do?”

“I go play ball in the field, sah.” He was fidgety, unsure of how to behave.

Ihima somehow always ended up at the village’s dusty football field when he was supposed to be running errands. He liked the sound of the wind as it whooshed past him. He narrated his escapades on the field to Itopa in excited, high-pitched, broken English.

“You cannot always play football when you like. Tell you something, we can go to the field together, you and me. I’ll ask your mother, but then you must run all your errands before we go. How’s that?”

Ihima’s face lit up. “Yes, sah!”

Itopa had won the entire village over before we left on the twentieth day. He was Brother Yellow. Even older women called him Brother Yellow. I was the friend of Brother Yellow. People liked me because they loved him. Only Papa called each of us by name.

“Amoto, what are you and Itopa?” Papa asked one evening. We were alone. Itopa was at home, napping.

“We are friends. We’ve been friends for a while,” I said.

“Okay,” he said. He looked like he knew more but chose to stay quiet. Later, he said, “Take care of him. He takes such good care of you.”

“I will,” I promised.

VII

The illness started as something innocuous. We’d moved back to Lagos. I was living with him in his apartment, looking for a new job because I’d been fired from my old one. I still cannot believe that I got fired because of my love for a man. A job that I had prayed to get, that I had bribed to get. I would have judged anyone else for abandoning their source of livelihood for a man.

Itopa’s illness started as a slight wheezing after we made love.

“You should get that wheezing checked,” I said.

“It’s nothing, babe. Just a sore throat.”

The wheezing progressed into a wet cough the next day. He drove himself to the hospital that evening and called to tell me that he had been admitted.

“What did they say is wrong with you?” I asked.

“They think I have pneumonia, but they’re running tests to confirm. I’ll be back home soon.”

“Do you want me to bring you anything from the house?”

“Yes, bring my comforter.”

When I got to the hospital, he was in good spirits. His coworkers who came to visit were on their way out. The heels of their shoes clicked on the hospital floor. They looked important in their tailored suits and shiny shoes. They left several hampers filled with fruits and candy and get-well-soon cards. The antibiotics he was given seemed to be working. But he got worse that night. He coughed and coughed until he coughed up blood. And wheezed. And then hiccupped. The doctors had to hook him up to a respirator to help him breathe.

Itopa died on his seventh day in the hospital.

It was almost immoral for something as trivial as hiccups to take him. The doctor said there were underlying causes and followed it up with a bunch of medical jargon about peripheral pathways and mid-brain modulation. But it was hiccups that took him. I saw it. I watched outside, through a rectangular glass window, helpless, chewing my fingers as he hiccupped and hiccupped his life away.

VIII

            The aftermath of a death is a surreal thing. One moment, Itopa’s room was crowded with doctors trying to save his life, and the next moment, they were heading toward the door, shoulders slouched, as if to say “we have lost another battle.” I wanted to yell at them, to tell them to go back and try harder. But I didn’t. I accepted the sympathetic pats they gave me on the back. The consultant, a man with a grey beard and kind eyes, came out last and officially announced his death to me.

“I am so sorry,” he said. “We lost him.”

I nodded. I didn’t know what to say.
“Is he your brother?” he asked.

“No, he is…was my friend. He was my best friend.”

“I am sorry for your loss. You should call his family. So that they can claim his body and start making arrangements for his funeral.”

Of course, his family. I was the person who loved him the most in the world and I have just been demoted. I couldn’t tell this sweet doctor that he was my lover, nor could I tell his mother when I called her to inform her about her son’s death. Itopa loved his mother. He looked like her. She’d raised him alone after she left his father, whom Itopa had described as a charismatic philanderer. “My father can charm anything out of their pants,” he’d said. It was his mother he spoke to often. Itopa said she’d cried when he came out to her when he was sixteen and begged him not to tell anyone until his affliction passed. They’d fought over it. His mother pretended not to know that her son was gay and she kept trying to set him up with a “nice girl” he could start a family with.

Their relationship fascinated me. They loved each other but also somehow tolerated each other, as though each thought of the other as unreasonable. Even though Itopa told his mother that I was his lover, she only ever referred to me as her son’s friend. “Greet your friend,” she’d say at the end of their calls in a tone that was perfunctory and devoid of seriousness. I dreaded having to tell her that her son was dead. I dreaded having to meet her too. I called her on Itopa’s phone. I kept my voice even. I listened to her yelp of disbelief and her firm assertion that what I was saying was a lie, that her son couldn’t possibly be dead. I stayed on the line as she wailed. I listened and said nothing when she asked if I killed him because I wanted his money.

I briefly considered writing a letter and giving it to the consultant, but I decided not to. Only Itopa’s mother knew that he was gay. I knew she would want to protect his image. So I stayed.

She arrived with five other people — three men and two women — in sleek black SUVs. One of the men was Itopa’s father. He looked like a weathered version of the picture Itopa had of him. He shook my hand firmly and asked me how I was doing. He had a Cockney accent. Itopa never told me his father lives in England. The other women were Itopa’s older sisters and I assumed the other men were their husbands.

I explained again how what killed him began as a cough. They spoke with the doctor and cried over his body at the morgue. I stood away from them, lonely in my grief. I told them about the house in Ihima. It pained me that they would never know about the magical days I had spent in that village with Itopa. I wondered briefly if there was a cosmic shift that let Papa, and Ihima, the child Itopa befriended, know that he was dead. The child was too young to comprehend death but Papa would know that I had failed at taking care of Itopa. I had let him die. I also gave them Itopa’s key to the apartment in Lagos. His father’s brows creased with suspicion.

“You say you’re just his friend?” he asked. “How do you know so much about our Itopa?”

I started to lie but stopped. “We were a little more than friends,” I said. “He was my boyfriend, my lover. I lived with him.”

“I see,” he said. He wiped his brows with his handkerchief even though he wasn’t sweating. The visitors’ room was air-conditioned.

My heart was threatening to pound its way out of my chest but I continued speaking. “He is the best thing that ever happened to me. He is the smartest man I know.” I didn’t realize I was speaking of him in the present tense, as if he wasn’t dead.

His mother started to cry. Itopa’s sisters hugged her and his father clustered with his sons-in-law to whisper. I knew it was time to leave. At the door, I asked if I could attend his funeral, and one of the men said he’d let me know. I knew he wouldn’t but I was grateful that he didn’t say no. I headed back to the apartment in Lagos and began to pack my things. The apartment wasn’t mine to keep even though he would have wanted me to keep it. Already, I miss his smile, the way his upper lip curled upward. I miss how he stuck his tongue out like a child when he was thinking. I miss his touch — warm, strong, and sure — on my body. I miss, most of all, his dry humor.

IX

I lie down on the balcony and look up. What if stars are dead relatives, dead lovers, dead children looking down at us from heaven? What if my Itopa had ascended, twinkling for me and everyone he loved? He’d be the brightest star. I search for the brightest star, hoping to catch a glimpse of Itopa but I’m not sure which star is the brightest. I close my eyes and imagine he is here with me.