When we were Fresh Blossom.

For two hours, I hurtled my car through all that vastness of the interstate, bordered by bushes that seemed to stretch forever.

The wind beat against the rolled-up windows. Rusty hulks of trucks and dust-tanned signs whizzed by in a blur of gray and brown. Only a few times did I need to slam on the brakes to let impatient drivers overtake me, indifferent to their haste. Finally, the signboard I long-sought for slowly swam into view, its colors faded like an old Adire cloth.

The sign flanked the road that veered off from the interstate. On it, scribbled in uppercase, was, “WELCOME TO OKE TOWN.”

My GPS voice, as if it’d somehow seen the sign, too, directed me to turn onto the road it marked. I drew in a slow breath and complied. My heart raced with the thought that I might be too late.

This morning started like every regular morning until my mother called. Grandpa was very sick, bedridden, and it’d be unkind of me if I still refused not to come to Oke to see him, she said.

My car’s underbelly suddenly scraped against something. Startled, I muttered a curse and eased off the gas. Even then, I still couldn’t avoid the potholes that seemed to materialise out of nowhere, causing my car to jolt often.

It had been ten years, and Oke hadn’t changed: the road was still bumpy and eroded, the shops were still clustered together, hawkers still walked with trays on their heads, motorcyclists and Keke Napep still sped by, and beggars still lay on mats, waving, their eyes pleading for help.

As soon as my phone began to buzz and “Mom” flickered on the screen, the thought of how excited she’d be to hear that I was in Oke stayed at the top of my mind. I answered the call and told her I was in Oke and would be at Grandpa’s house soon.

For too long, I had relied on the same old excuse of being too busy to visit him, but now I had driven as fast as I could because I heard he was dying. Such irony.

Of course, my parents had remained curious all this while and questioned why I steered clear of the town, but I didn’t see myself explaining my reasons. Whatever it was would go down with me to the grave.

Now, Mom asked if I was really on my way, her tone thick with disbelief. I replied with a brief ‘yes’, knowing nothing else would convince her until I showed up at Grandpa’s house.

Dad’s laughter was the first to boom in the background, then Mom’s, and soon their crackling laughter filled my car. I asked why they were laughing, frowning. There was a long silence before Mom finally said Grandpa was actually in good health, but he really wanted to see me. And they knew I wouldn’t come otherwise, so they lied to get me to visit.

I gripped the wheel hard, trying to control my outburst. I felt a fifty-fifty mix of relief and anger at the realization that I had been worried for nothing because it was all a deception.

Dad added that my Grandpa knew I was coming and would be really hurt if I turned back now. I hung up before he could finish and let out a frustrated groan.

Being lied to by your parents was one huge hurt. I struggled even more with the fact that Mom was in on the lie, too. It hadn’t occurred to her how much it would hurt me. The hurt cut deeper because I’d always been her trusted ally since I was younger, when she and Dad weren’t getting along well, unlike they did now.

During those days, she would accuse him of cheating on her simply because she saw him with another woman, but as I grew older, I came to know that her incessant nagging drove him away, making Dad’s reason for flirting logical, that he sought affection elsewhere—the affection Mom wouldn’t give to him.

Their marriage almost ended when I turned sixteen. Mom had left his house, taking me with her to Grandpa’s in Oke, where she sought comfort and a break from Dad.

My short stay in Oke left a lasting impact. The memories overwhelmed me whenever they surfaced, unbidden. It was during my short stay in Oke that I learned that the love of others can curdle into hate just because we’re not what they expected.

That hate that disgust furrowed the brows of my cousin, Ara, someone I once considered a close friend.

It was that same year I freed myself from the self-loathing shackle that had bound me for too long and let myself drift into Kayode’s clutch, a close friend and age mate of Ara’s. It was that same year Ara slipped by the bank of Oke River in which he had swum his entire life and died.

It was the year I turned sixteen. My skin broke out in tiny acne, my shoulders widened. But my stay at Grandpa’s lasted for two months between the period of November and December, when the dust-laden wind whipped through the trees in his yard, yanking down overripe fruits and dried leaves, which scattered everywhere, even onto Grandma’s grave in the backyard, so that we swept it every morning.

Mom was distraught for a week. She lamented that despite her tireless efforts to hold their marriage together, Dad had still continued to cheat on her. On one of those days, when she sat on a wooden bench having a long, hushed conversation with Grandpa at the verandah, Ara sauntered into the compound.

It wasn’t Ara’s first time visiting; he had spent countless school breaks there, but mine was the first long stay. I got along well with Ara, my elder, by two years at the time. Despite my initial reluctance, he coaxed me into meeting his friends, whom he had made during his previous visits. They were a group of boys older than me with a few years, boys who played football together on the open field; boys who climbed trees like apes, all the way to the very top, shaking branches till fruits rained down; boys who swam in the river without clothes. It was at the river I met Kayode for the first time.

Gawking at Kayode terrified me. The sight of his chiselled chest, his even broader shoulders, his dick thrashing against his veiny thighs, his thighs too like tree trunks, stirred a feeling in me that I thought I had long tucked away, a feeling that grew stronger as my eyes kept drifting back to him, no matter how hard I tried to look away. I feared he would catch me leering at him.

When Ara hollered for me to join him in the river, where he was splashing around, I shook my head and admitted that I didn’t know how to swim. That was the first time I saw the boys’ brows furrowed in irritation like they had a life of their own.

The second time was when we went to climb a tree to pick mangoes. Ara drilled me to climb with them, but I refused, admitting I was too afraid of falling. This time, their disgust went beyond mere scowls. It spoke volumes with taunts like “incompetent”, “sissy,” and “weakling”.

For longer than usual, they laughed until tears came, until they were breathless until I slunk away in shame. It was Kayode who hushed them and asked me to pick the fruits instead while they did the climbing.

The following week, Ara stopped asking me to hang out with him and his friends.

It was a subtle exclusion that stung like a termite’s bite to one’s skin. One that filled me with a pang of sadness because I feared I would never have a chance to see Kayode. However, I occasionally joined them on my own accord. Even then, it always felt like I was an unwanted presence. Although, I continued to tell myself that Kayode liked having me around. In the end, I wasted no time in leaving and stopped joining them.

It was either a fortunate coincidence or an answer to my prayers when Kayode crossed my paths during one of my solo strolls and thought it was only fair to join me, and before long, it became a regular thing, unknown to the other boys.

It was during these strolls he opened up—that he only hung out with the other boys to fit in—and I found my feelings for him deepening.

The day Ara slipped at the riverbank, Kayode and I saw it happen, saw his feet slip, saw his head strike a rock, saw his blood mingle with the mud and wash away into the river.

We stood still, looking at his lifeless body for what felt like an eternity, until a rustling in the bushes snapped us out of my trance, and we took off in sync, running as fast as our legs could carry us. When Grandpa asked if I had gone out with Ara, I denied and dashed into my room, staying in there for the rest of the day, trying to shake the fear that someone in the bushes might have seen what happened.

That evening, when the boys and some men came to tell Grandpa that they’d found Ara’s body by the river, I finally came out from my room.

Grandpa broke down and cursed himself for letting Ara go to the river and for letting him mingle with the boys. The men who stood around Grandpa told him to be strong, but their tone came across as irritating to me, and their disapproving looks seemed to say they were contemptuous of his open display of grief as if it was a crime for a man to cry openly.

Mom was the one who picked up the phone and called her sister, Ara’s mother. Her shrill wail over the line was so piercing that Mom held the receiver away from her ear for a moment, so piercing that it shredded me, and all I wanted was to vanish into thin air. I didn’t step out to see Kayode after that. A week later, after Ara had been mourned and buried, Dad arrived at Grandpa’s to win Mom back, and we, at last, returned home with him.

A sudden rap on my car window snatched me back from my thoughts. I turned to the window, but the tinted glass made it hard to see who or what it was, so I rolled it down.

The young man responsible for the knock was the passenger on a motorcycle riding closely alongside my car. The roaring wind and the motorcycle’s engine drowned out his voice, but he kept pointing frantically at my car’s rear, his eyes wide with alarm. At first, I thought his face looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him, so I dismissed the thought and rolled up the glass.

Just then, there was a deafening bang, and my heart thumped. The car lurched backwards, and for a moment, everything seemed to be sliding in reverse, like a landslide.

Panic set in as the steering wheel refused to turn in my hands, and the car veered to the side. Urgent warnings lit up the dashboard, the tyre pressure indicator flashing relentlessly. I muttered desperate prayers under my breath, my legs firm on the brake pedal while my hands wrestled to keep control of the stiff steering wheel.

Inch by inch, I steered the car off the main road and pulled over at the layby by the left. I let out a sigh of relief, turned on the hazard lights, and took a few seconds to collect myself and steady my trembling hands.

Through the side mirror, I saw the motorcyclist pull over behind my car. The young man got off, patted the shoulder of the cyclist, who then sped off in a cloud of exhaust fumes. I stepped out of the car and leaned over to take a closer look at the badly damaged rear tyre, torn around the wheel. That’s when I heard a voice call out “Somi”. I stood up straight and turned to the young man who was now standing next to me.

Kayode, I breathed. He burst into a hearty laugh. His dreamy eyes crinkled at the corners. He threw his arms wide, and I crossed the gap cautiously and hugged him briefly. His body was incredibly solid, much like a sturdy and impenetrable barrier.

I took a step back, feeling somewhat bashful.

Earlier today, my mother’s call had sent my thoughts all over the place, about and not about Kayode. I was aware he’d be in Oke, that our paths might cross, but not completely off guard like this. He asked how I was, and I said ‘good’, quickly sizing him up.

Time had been kind to him. His teenage years, during which he had a lean, muscled physique, had developed into a formidable bulk that strained against the black tank top and the grey joggers he was wearing. He had two polythene bags clutched in one hand.

Do you have a spare tyre? He asked, trudging towards the damaged tyre. I hesitated, unsure if I wanted him to help me. But he was already at the trunk so I leaned into my car and pressed a button to release the latch.

He reached in and lifted the tyre with one hand. Then, he grabbed the jack and lug wrench. Thank you for doing this, I said. He brushed it off as no big deal, dropping to his knees beside the damaged tyre. It took him about twenty minutes to replace the tyre. He got to his feet, dusting off his hands theatrically, and I thanked him once more, but again, he brushed it off as nothing, and our eyes met, causing shivers to run through me.

It took me a few seconds before I could tear my gaze away, my mind reeling with questions, but one thought stayed—our secret from a decade ago. I searched deep within myself for the excitement, the love, that had once driven me crazy for him, but now it was just a hollow, haunting emptiness. I wondered if he felt the same way, if the life we shared together, too, was now tucked away in an untouched recess of his soul, left to fade into oblivion. When he opened his mouth to speak, I braced myself for a mention of Ara’s death, but instead, he said it was a surprise that I returned, that he never thought he’d see me again.

I forced a smile. Hop in, let me give you a lift, I said, and immediately wished I hadn’t said it.

My brief stay at Oke wasn’t the first time I discovered my love for boys. The realisation dawned on me long before. It left me feeling like I was the only one in the world who didn’t fit in and whose distinctiveness was a crushing weight to carry alone.

Before Kayode, there was Dele, a classmate in my junior secondary school whom I was pretty much close to, until I misinterpreted our friendship as something more.

I was so taken with him that, in my innocence, I wrote a letter to tell him how much I liked him and crumpled it into his hand as we marched to our classrooms after the morning assembly.

My face burnt with shame, and hopelessly, I had wished the earth would swallow me whole when he walked to the front of the class during break time and read the letter aloud to everyone’s hearing. Soon, the whole school was talking about it.

The principal heard it, and my parents were called in for meetings. I lied that I didn’t write the letter but my handwriting was too distinctive to be denied.

Although the situation eventually died down, it never fully went away. I walked around the school grounds with my senses on high alert, readying myself for the next hurtful comment. Boys walking past me would frown and call me names like ‘homo’, A slang term used to mock boys who seemed feminine or came off as gay. And sometimes, girls would burst into shrill giggles, like fingernails on a chalkboard.

I was haunted by the fear that I’d be defined by it all my life, until I finally enrolled in a new school. My parents tried to act like everything was okay, even though I’d overheard them talk about my identity as a phase, even though they had shot me a glare at church during the sermons on sin—when the pastor, with his tie hanging down his pot belly, spoke with a menacing intensity that shook me to my core.

He screamed, “Youths, turn away from homosexuality, or you’ll face God’s wrath like Sodom and Gomorrah. You can’t hide from God. You shall be punished”, and at that moment, I knew I had to suppress the feelings. I couldn’t accept it as part of myself. But then, that time at the river when I saw Kayode, I realised I couldn’t fight it, that it was impossible to trap or contain—it was who I was, it was what it was.

The evening, during one of our strolls, when I found the courage to tell Kayode I liked him, hoping I hadn’t misread the signs again, it ended up being a repeat of what happened a few years earlier. Only that this time, after missing two evening strolls with me, leaving me to wonder if I had lost him forever, he met me at the river where we often stopped to stare at the rippling water and skip stones across its surface, and told me that he felt the same way too, but he was too afraid to admit it.

Only this time, I got an apology for being made to feel like I’d misread everything. Only this time, he reached for my hand and tickled my palm. I withdrew my hand out of fear of being seen by someone since we were in an open place. Only this time, he didn’t seem to mind my hesitation, and instead, stepped in front of me, gently cradled my head between his hands, his breath warm on my face, and kissed me deeply, as if trying to draw out every last breath from me, his tongue filling every crevice of my mouth, his dick straining against his short that it caressed my thigh.

I tried to resist, but his mouth swallowed my protest, and eventually, I gave in, forgetting we were by the riverbank where anyone could see us.

The silence between us now was suffocating. We talked for just few minutes as we set back on the road to my Grandpa’s house, which was closer to his parent’s house.

He was almost done with his bachelor’s degree in mechanical engineering and was back in town to see his parents, he said. I’d completed my bachelor’s in medicine and was now a practising medical doctor, I said. Things had turned out pretty well for both of us, and that was fair enough. Finally, he asked if I still thought about that day Ara died, and if the memories still haunted my dreams. Words refused to escape my lips for a moment, my eyes fixed on the road ahead, my hands clenched around the wheel.

Veering into my Grandpa’s street, I noticed his old bungalow from afar looked the same, only that its paints seemed to have faded with time, whitewashed, but trees still formed canopies over the yard, still rose above the rooftop, just as they always had. I nodded yes.

Somi, I know it’s not. . .fault everything. . .happened, he stuttered. But still my lips ,held stubbornly together.

The silence that followed was broken by the creaking of the car door as he eased it open upon arrival at his parent’s house. I will come over to see you later this evening, he said, our eyes locking, a mesmerising glint in his gaze, one that tugged at my heart. I will be waiting, I mumbled, hoping I would be willing to talk to him when he did.

Driving down to my Grandpa’s, tears welled in my eyes. My heart ached to stop the car, jump out, run after him, and cling to him, as if letting go would mean losing him forever.

I wanted to tell him that, of course, the memories of that day still haunted me, that it wasn’t his fault Ara died, that we were basking in the sweet innocence of new love, a love that had just begun to unfurl its petals for us, blossoming in our hearts and that what happened to Ara that day at the river was just fate at play.

My mind was suddenly awash with memories. That day, when Ara had found Kayode and I kissing by the riverbank and his croaky voice forced us to disentangle, something inside me came undone. Ara seized a palm frond from the ground and dashed at me with a sudden, aggressive swiftness, making my heart pound at an alarming pace. He bellowed, “You stupid homo. You got to my friend!”

Kayode had stood there silent and still. With a quivering voice, I called out to Ara to calm down, to hear me out. But Ara, deaf to my entreaties, still charging at me, didn’t realise when his feet slid out from under him on the slippery riverbank. In a heart-stopping moment, as he lost balance, I prayed he would grasp Kayode’s outstretched hand in time to break the fall. But, unfortunately, all I heard next was a sickening thud as his head struck a nearby rock, and then blood began to pool around his head, mingling with the mud, a startling deep reddish-brown, spreading so fast.

My blood ran cold. The river’s gentle gurgle, bird calls and cricket chirps became a deafening assault to my ears. A numbness froze my limbs in place, a paralysis that only lifted when a rustling sound came from the bush. Kayode and I took off in terror. Our feet pounding the ground, without a glance back, driven by a singular force to escape. A frantic sprint, one without pause, until I reached the safety of my Grandpa’s house.