Nothing could have happened if he had not died. He was shot by a hired killer after a thanksgiving reception.

I listened to the tunes of Onyeka Onwenu. My heart felt the melody of an Igbo song, the voice of a lady — woman, the mother of contemporary Igbo music — to me. My hairs danced like ropes running up and down in the air and tree branches reaching out to touch my face.

I heard the voices in my head, they were putting in words as though the roots of my hairs were adding water to my head instead of absorbing. I couldn’t decipher what they said but I heard words like: death, life, gun, love, wealth and car. The breeze was much and the air flowed into my head, it was December and the Harmattan season, so the wind blowed like a madwoman moving swiftly, walking about and dancing.

That was the afternoon of that cursed Sunday. In the evening Papa died. No. He didn’t die, he was killed. Papa was killed.

It was this morning that I felt some cool, slippery and scented substance on my underpants. I knew it was, sperm, it wasn’t my first time of having wet dreams but I had sex with a girl — in my dream. A beautiful girl; only providence knew who she was and where she came from. Or, do I call her succubus? She was extremely beautiful.
It made me to remember the boarding house, when it happened after my first experience of a wet dream. It was with a boy, my friend who I’d just met in the hostel, he was a new student. He fucked me and I fucked him. And in the morning I found out it was all a dream, and the white snot-like liquid or do I call it gel appeared on my boxer shorts. It dried before it was bath time.

Sometimes I feel that I’m a gay. I know that I am quite effeminate, and that is a bit alright. I also call myself a feminist because I uphold the rights of girls especially in relationship to the fact that they are no lesser beings compared to boys.

That day in the boarding school’s bath place, it came to my recollection: the first day I did bathe in this bath place. It was with my classmates and the students of the class ahead of us. My dick got erect as I began to bath, because as I looked about there was a hormonal circulation and excitement — I thought so. There were some haired pubic, haired underarms, dark and fair cute dicks, et cetera.

It was before I became a poet. Before I could imaginatively put life unto paper. Before I travelled to the village for summer holidays. I began using abuba-eke — python’s fat — mixed with some herbs as my body and hair cream. Grandmama was very good and she was more beautiful compared to her age. It was before Papa was killed.

It was not before I began to love Asa’s and TY Bello’s songs. It was not before I began to perform my poems, that happened about one year later. It was not before I found out I was not a gay. It was also not before I learnt how to cook jollof rice and sauce and stew.

It was not before I travelled to America and on entering a church, an usherette told me where to sit away from the whites. That was when I knew that I was black and different from the white rabbits. It was not before I won a scholarship to study creative writing up till my doctorate without paying a pierced anini. It was not before I realized why Papa was not a Christian instead he was a reformed traditionalist which I am proud to have taken after.

Papa was still alive when girls started coming my way, I didn’t ask for friendship rather, they asked if we could be friends. I had begun visiting a hair saloon on Saturdays to wash my hair. I had received a slip from a Senator’s daughter which read thus:

Dearest Dike,
Ever since I knew you from school, I’ve always loved you. Your dark skin and your dada (dread) locks, your pink lips, your lovely eyes and your arms and legs are so cute and I really feel and wish to be with you all my life. To hold your hands all my life.

Papa was shot in the evening of that cursed Sunday as he was about entering the car. There was blood, blood everywhere. He died a day later and I became mad with everybody except Grandmama. I instructed the gatekeeper not to let anyone into the compound apart from Grandmama.

It was after Papa’s death that I noticed that I never thought about my late mother because Papa was more than enough, he was twice a mum and dad to me. Mum died immediately I left the birth canal. Papa raised me all on his own. Though we had many house helps and also relatives who were helped by Papa. They sometimes visited and stayed with us for some days.

After Papa’s death I received condolences with words like: irreparable loss, irreplaceable loss, hard-to-fill-vacuum. The police has not found Papa’s assassin. They will never find him, may be her.

It was after the death of Papa that I learnt he willed all he ever had to me and begged I should be well behaved. He had mansions in Britain, America and some other countries. He also owned biscuit, juice and wine companies. He had a fashion industry the leading one in the country and a gigantic well structured shopping mall.

It was after Papa’s death that I found his journal, where he kept records of his love for me, and how he wished to see his wife (Mum) physically once again, and not always only in the dream, his dreams.

It was after the death of Papa that I began to love the ways of Ugochi and wished to love her forever. We became friends but we wished to become a married couple someday.

I was only seventeen years then, when Papa heaved a sigh of relief and physically died. But I’m sure Papa will come back again through my son whose name shall be ‘Nnanna’. Papa lives in and through me.

About the author:
Agwu Christopher is a Nigerian teenage writer. He lives in Abakaliki. He is also an unpublished poet, short story writer and blogger. He once said, ‘how I wish I could write a complete and uncensored story about teenagers in Nigeria, no matter their sexuality, tribe, personality, et cetera.

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