Excerpt from 'Abali'

I want to fall madly in love with soccer. I want to know the chest beat that the last few minutes bring. I want to be genuinely excited about the start of a game because of the game. And not because there is chance that Ali may just rock my world if he wins. You see, Ali is really a gentleman. Oh, he is the gentlest of them all. But if Chelsea wins a March I have learned to stay out of the way of his madness. First he pulls the top of his shirt over his afro and gives the air a good fuck and fisting. And then the magic happens for me. He brings me a frosty glass of gin and tonic. Rides me to a pop. And then passes the night besides Raluchi's cot with his bottles and wipes on stand by. But if Chelsea loses, he drives out briefly for a smoke, returns home in a few minutes and goes straight to bed. And no matter how much Raluchi squeals at night, this oga is not moving. Of course all this fizzles off before the sun comes up and he is back to being the chatty and overly perceptive Ali who ... At the Berger park in Lagos, although we were tribes and world's apart, we connected over a knowing smile about sex, it's naughtiness, it's being a taboo. In that brief moment everything between us thinned.

Can we see the world and not get lost?

Its February 2020, I am at the OR Tambo airport and have just been charged R180 for a plastic wrap service by some black South African men. I don't have enough rands on me as I am on my way out. I have also never been asked to pay for a plastic wrap service. But you see, my bags have already been wrapped becau

se I let them, because I assume that it is free. I make an appeal for a lesser man and they refuse. The flip out their scissors and destroy the tight plastic wrap. And when they are done they move to wrap the suitcases of the person next on the queue. I am taken aback by this, but because nothing can get in the way of my craving for home, I brush it off and check in my luggage. I have a 4hour or so layover in Addis Ababa and everyone has become a surgeon. They are all wearing masks. I joke to my friend that this must be Corona fashion week. Only that Corona is not a joke and people are really scared. The air hostesses wear face masks and gloves through out the flight and their mascara defined eyes look dead and cold. I catch one examining a sandwich closely and call on a few more and they have a short meeting to deliberate on that particular sandwich. Then they disperse. I already ate the sandwich handed over to me, so now a lot is running through my mind. Was the entire batch bad. Or had the bun caught Corona virus? I am in Abuja Nigeria and some airport ground staff question my Nigerianness. I'm too tired and recurrently explain that I am a student and that I home to see my family. I am way over the luggage weight limit and I don't have the naira to pay for the weight above 20kg. AN angel points me in the direction to get ab affordable plastic bag to split the weight and reduce cost. After checking in someone comes to get my bags to be screened. I offer to assist him with moving my bags but he calmly insists that I let him do his job. My bags are checked and he wishes me a safe flight. People give me directions. People are kind and respectful and carrying on with life. Nigeria feels different. South Africa feels different too. In Nigeria we are quite familiar with operating with or without electricity. In South Africa, without electricity time stops and shops close. For a few minutes I'm madly in love with my Nigeria and quite pitying of South Africa. For a few years now my life has increasingly moved to SA. And the more I move away from home, the more I feel lost to my roots. Nigeria is no paradise. On several levels 'the struggle is real'. It gets very warm and then very dusty. Things can get terribly expensive and lives can change in a flash. But then I form part of the flock of young Nigerians who have left home to pursue a :better' life. The older and farther away I get, the less often I visit, the more lost I feel. The more I feel that a better life is sought at high a cost. In South Africa, I am often asked how lucky I feel that I am in a country where sexual and gender minorities enjoy constitutional protection. I should feel lucky shouldn't I? I had felt lucky for a year or so. It was a nice liberating rush. But then it takes more legal protection to guarantee luck, and a good quality of life, a feel of trust and community. Even with the legal protection that gay men enjoy here, I often feel very lost and alone. And that my thirst to see the world could be self-destructive.