For The Things We Do Not Know.

Dear Whoever,

I must say Thank you for always reading these letters, I see you are clearing your post box, it is a good sign that you want to keep listening to me.

So what do I want to have you know in this one? I really don’t know, a lot of things have happened these past weeks, such that telling them might sound too fictional.

Although I technically shouldn’t be at a loss as to what to say to you, but right now I am in a long, white bus, riding past oyigbo or orile.

I am wondering where to begin if I’ll be telling you anything. I am wondering how I might tell it. If you would understand the personal imagery or the coded metaphors. I am wondering what happens if you understand.


I fall in love too.

No I don’t just crave and have sex, and breathe and live sex, nor feel by and be sex.

I am not the basic image that comes to your mind of two penises fumbling for contraption or a backside doing what you feel a backside shouldn’t be doing.

I lie awake each night and imagine what it would be like to speak with someone into the deep pockets of the night, to remember his smile and feel the gentle silliness of public affection without him being there.

But you know,

I have never really had that. This I understand sounds pathetic and weepy, but I guess I don’t want to fight in this letter, we’ll both try to be understanding, we’ll both try to be human.

Each day, I look in the mirror and feel the uncertainty of happiness, it is never in my palms, it is never like something I have ever deserved from loving who I want to, for appreciating myself.

Like I told you, I haven’t got anything concrete to tell you in this letter, I am on a white sheet, in a baking room thinking of ways to find solace in my own bones.


Today is the beginning of pride month (you can google what it means, I have no intention of explaining). And while it has opened some doors for me, it left those that want to remain shut, shut. But I don’t really mind.

Lately, I met people who actually see me. I know you know what I mean. When you swag up to your boys to talk about girls, or listen to songs that talk only about your kind of love, I am sure it is so normal you can take it for granted. That, feels golden to me, yes, I bet you always thought we had not the effrontery to ask for proper and abundant representation.


It is pride month, and I am going to try and stay happy for the ones who see me, and for myself too.

Just so you know, not all gays are gay.

All thanks to you.



This Is How I Breathe

Dear Whoever,

In two days, I will be 18.

I haven’t given much mind to that paramount date until last Friday, which marked my younger sister’s, yes we both share a birth month, yes her day was a relative blast, yes her enthusiasm cowers me, and yes I am terrified.

Of a billion things, for a billion reasons, most of which you know of without strenuous thought.

Come the 6th, I imagine I might wake up to a gloomy Tuesday or a fairly bright one (let’s be positive). I will run my sweat caked fingers through my stiffly curled hair while staring at the makeshift mirror in the bathroom; of a transparent board.

I will stare, and try not to see myself as me, I will attempt to employ the eyes of a stranger startled to find a gangly body, suffused richly with stories, emptiness, hurt, emotions, phases, and most importantly history.

With that eyes, not of me, perhaps brown, perhaps charcoal black, I will measure my height, gauge my arms, run a study through the crux of what makes my body mine and then travel up to criticise my face, while mentally playing out its flaws, its disappointments, its failures, the rejection I have given it, and the ones it has gotten, the appraisal I have grudgingly slipped towards it, and the ones it has gotten, but did never sound sincere.

I will contemplate. Match. Pair. Compare. Contrast. And wonder if it still keeps being passable enough to mark me amongst the normal.


On that day, I assume I might get a few mechanical Facebook wishes, a few from family, none from that special someone(haven’t got any in that sense), from real-life friends tender at my heart as well, and that would be it.

The day will end. But the ache wouldn’t. I’d rest my arm on the railing at the balcony and try to calm a fear I know is heavily there.

A fear that says I haven’t done enough. A fear that says I have missed something; crucial, imperative, transforming.

I wouldn’t know what to name it, I wouldn’t know what to mark the hefty box I’d place it in, I wouldn’t know how to handle this gnawing sense of deprivation, like I am here at a window, outside a grand house where dinner is being served, while my stomach churns, while my eyes burn, and yearn, until they grow into bold, amplified protestants.

But the family within, looks through me, never at me, and quickly decides to see me only as a party crasher, a dinner anomaly.

They believe I wouldn’t handle the fork right, and so insist on using a spoon or disgust their appetite by adding too much salt to my pear, or audaciously note the carelessness of the cook and therefore disrupt their round of two-faced compliments.


In all things true, I hadn’t contemplated freedom two years before now. In all things true I didn’t expect this bludgeoning sense of destitution.

In all things true, I never thought I might have death etched evenly, in the uneven lines on my palms.


And so as I stare at myself-


I will remember that forced kiss, that whip of correction, that scorn, those words sewn with stripped precision from familial tongues ” you disgust me, for the past few days I have just felt a sense of disgust towards you.”

I will recollect those looks; shirty, expostulated, and driving sharply into subcutaneous depths.

Those threats and slander will come back in friable clips, slowly, until they form a frame ” Those people are pure works of the devil, when I see them I just feel like stabbing the life out of their useless bodies.”

I will make sure to remember as much as I can.

Like me,

You know this pain, won’t go away anytime soon.

This is how I breathe, if you know to care.


I Was Once.

Dear Whoever,

Once there was me; a finely plaited body,

Once I could never hex this Pius body into sinful manifestations –


Now what is sin?

Me and my body?

Me and the soul nobody can understand where I stole from?

What is a body without language?

What is language without patted understanding?

Why am I unable to settle my worries on time’s hunch?

Isn’t that it’s appointment? To straddle my worries through,



A fitful preinduction.

What is this body you cannot see beyond this bright, obscene aureole it stands beneath?

What is this body just in unaligned production?


I was once the things you dream of,

The words; good and authentic from your lips,

A part in cracks,

A part in plump.

I was once right.


Like you know what that means.


My girlfriend wants to know why I do not have a girlfriend,

I tell her of the unquestionable nothing that I feel,

She asks me this again,

She looks at me with her razor eyes,

She has that word on her lips,

I want to help her confirm it,




You are sick, she says,

I am sick?

What is sick?


Keep reboxing me,

Keep refixing the souls that beat at my tempo,

Keep seeing short, clipped and righteously malevolent.


The Other Bridge.

Dear Whoever,

I know about silence; this particular one, so still, so unperturbed, so unquestioned leaves me stiff on a cold tile floor; staring up at the swinging fan.

Why does it swing so fast? Is it my eyes? I am trying to count it’s angles, but my eyes will not do as I tell it, is it my eyes?

I have come on this plain evening to question the silence. To look at the void squarely and not fear what it does to me. I need you to say something, it is not enough that you display your true skin in suggestions, in light, passive texts that rounds off as the haughtiest thing, a most inconspicuously degenerating substance.

The wind this evening, why do I concern my mind with it? Yes, I forget things these days. I never thought it would be this hard to pull out my skin from your draconian fist; holding it down. I never thought it would be so difficult to remember why I have to struggle to love a man.

I wake up most morning, hopeful that I might walk the streets without reservation, that I might wink at a boy that winked at me, that I might ask a boy for his number without fear, that at night there would be a sanctuary for me and my soulful brothers to converge and feel alive without looking over our shoulders for the disfigured law upholders, desecrating the rights they believe to be protecting.

But then I remember, and a whisper of disdain kisses me to life. My eyes swim open out of their infeasible hopes, and I am empty with the realisation that these things have not happened yet.

At least for now.


This wind, it is cold, yet warm, it arrives from a controversial day. But this wind is nothing, something profoundly like nothing.


Where do I stand? How do I fight? How do I place my legs, how do I arrange my shield? My weapon, my voice? Are you listening? Can you pack away your destructive sentiments and listen? I need to know what side of the bridge I am to stay at.

I do need to know.


There’s an eye. A body. An arm. A voice. A throat. An organ. A personal definition that needs to know where to stand. That needs to know how to fit into this cold, stoic narrative.

You need to send me a response soon, I can fight without course, burning through every of your structures, but I do not know the extent this strength will carry me, but fight I shall.

I’d like to hold a boy’s hand on Valentine’s day, without question.

I anticipate a response soon.

All things, severing, and unallowing.


Why You Must Let Boys Make their Histories.

Dear Whoever,

I wonder what will remain from me when I keep emptying myself to gather salvation for myself.

Today was not a good day. The memories come back without permission. They are not good memories, just so you know, but they come with a numbing force.

I don’t suppose you care about this, you shouldn’t if things were different, if the law of the land wasn’t your foothold for cruelty. Cruelty? Yes cruelty! Mind eroding treachery steeped in something vile and queer inside of you. It is not in how much you make me hide, nor what you do when I try to step out and show you that I am able to walk like you do, talk like you do, see as you do. That I am as human as you ( a notion you aggressively cloak yourself in).

It is in the things that you say. How bashful, dismissive and unaccommodating you steadily grow around me. It is in the things that you do, how you have fashioned, defined, and conceptualized life on your heteronomative terms. Any ruffle is to be palmed down. Any crease singed straight. I am up listening and waiting for when you might leave the crease in acceptance of inevitable imperfections. Where you might put on the ruffle with understanding.

I am waiting for when you will stop defining other boy’s boyhood.

A boy feels a thing. I felt things. There comes a confliction. I was eternally spiteful of a body that wasn’t working as it should. The boy has demons to do secluded things with. I have their footsteps, claws, horn prints, and scars emblazoned about me. It became what and all I could see. The boy is a dim kind of shapelessness. There is nobody to tell it to, so the demons never have a third party snooping into their feasts. Into their manipulation. Into their misinformation.

The night was bright with stars. I know. I swear I know because I was staring up at it as the belt hit me wherever. Head. Chest. Eyes. Arms. Feet. Libido. Thigh. Knee. Feet. Stomach. Lips. Soul.


Maybe you cannot explain some things to him, just don’t shut him out. This is not an imploration. It is only an advice, because he will shut you out after playing out your orchestrated plans to sick perfection.


He tells her. The next day he leans close to tell her what I have done. What I am. What is inhabiting my body. She looks at me. I am sure she did, because I kept moving my sore body away and at her without calculation. I just needed a place to have it. She’d wonder aloud at the feasibility of two men fucking. It would run through her mind for a while before deciding to shoot me those passionate eyes. There seemed everything wrong in what her mind had concluded on her speculation. Concern. Care. Hate. Love. Anger. Mercy. Opposites. He tells her, the one person who could have made her know me as something strange but similar. That is if he himself saw me as that.


For every day that these memories come back to spoil my day, I thank you. For the unkind words I thank you. For your blatant neglect I thank. For that boy of yours, I am sad for him and piteous of you.

Happy (mis)parenting.


The Act Of Dissimulation

Dear Whoever,

In case it has crossed your mind,

This isn’t me. This shiny skin, this eternally excited person, hopping about life without any tinge of a past. Of an originally bland, moody, closeted skin.

This is a graft, a literally ‘gay’ extraction that is learning new tunes, tunes that played in a far background, in thin, imperceptible wisps. This skin however is leaning close. This new body wants to listen audibly to the workings of his body, of an accepted being.

I type this on a mundane evening, nothing out of the ordinary has happened today, nobody made any prickly remark, nor sentimental gesture your kinds are good at. Does that sound harsh? Segregated and arranged in my deranged mind? Perhaps it is, perhaps not.


Just understand that this revelation is between us. You will read this and laugh. Pinch your nose or roll your eyes. You should know also that this letter is taking me a lot to write. This scourge for freedom. This struggle towards making you understand diversity like I were teaching a child to count backwards. A very self-absorbed child.

I am a young man in love with my cell phone, music, books, fashion shows, female musicians and of course boys. I shouldn’t concern myself with what you think, it shouldn’t matter if you accept me or not. If you see me as a stench. An upset in all things normal and collected. But we are here aren’t we? I am making you understand now am I not? (Have you cleared out your mailbox as I instructed? My words may not be consistent, they may be broken and suppressed by the structures of singularity, but they will come, it will depend on how you take it) I am pulling you out of your everyday into thin slices of bizarre days, am I really doing that?

Yes, about my skin. You sure are one hell of a curious somebody. And yea I met one of your kind keeping tab of people like me on Facebook. It’s hilariously pathetic how you ostensibly hate me, yet make sure to catch a wiff of my every existence.

That by a corner, this skin, yes this skin. What else would you like to know about it? How plump it is? How it dresses in rainbow themed singlets that sling low to his delicate ribs? Shorts that latch onto his supple skin, and run well above his knee? This skin has found, and is finding a new language. Not really new because it was a suppressed understanding. So it isn’t hard for him to learn the codes; the transiting ways of avoiding your knawing misunderstanding.

This skin has Sia’s ‘I am Alive’ on his lips, and tests his vocals on Beyoncé’s ‘I Was Here’. He walks with the mind of an audience about him. He stays somewhere uncontrollably exciting by day, but retreats into a cold, cold room, with tears for scathing warmth.

And I am sure you know why. I am sure you understand the law of avoidance to a fraction. I am sure you don’t know what it feels like not to find someone who can unabashedly speak in a language he understands, for many miles away from his being.


But that is not me. Me. Me? You wouldn’t want to know me. Me agrees with all that you do and say. Me has no inhibitions nor devilish tendencies. Me tries to fiercely be like you, so it would burn away the traces of that boy. Me winks at girls because it is how things are to be. Me hates what you hate. Which means that me hates me.


So you see why I need this person? Why I need that boy that stands no matter the jabs. That lives no matter the deaths. That knows his truth and isn’t afraid to find it.

A boy, truly alive.

Until next time,when you might have seen from a tilt.

Toodles now!!

Not A Butterfly.

I Am Not A Butterfly.

Dear Whoever,

I am not a butterfly!

It’s what you think - pious, holy, normal you- of me; as a dainty, glassy thing with an easily manipulated mind. A mind robbed by the devil, taken apart and then fixed into something ugly and unacceptable.

Here is a newsflash; I am not an idea. I am not a notion, I may flutter about tentatively finding my own kind of nectar to suck from, but that is something you should understand since you are so judgemental.

I am a human with peculiar wants; which you need to stop seeing as a problem. It is of my very discretion where, and how I find emotional filling.

I don’t want to sound cliché though, you have most likely heard and read rants of despair such as this one, it’s okay if you have, you just never seem to want to understand.

I don’t want you to endure me, I want you to accept me; this is imperative to how much peace you want, because I don’t intend to stop. I cannot stop. You don’t seem to grasp my discomfort. How I smile at you yet yearn to tell you how much I wouldn’t mind going down with you but cannot because the law of the land has criminalized my truest emotions.

I don’t kill. I don’t infect. I don’t steal. Dupe nor assault. I do nothing but love the way my being is familiar with, the way I always will be familiar with.

Make sure to keep a lot of space in your mail box for this rainbow stripped letters. I am not going to stop. Until you care to see as I do, I am not going to be fine about things.

You- Godly, patriotic, Democratic, and infallible- know I am not fine with things, you know.

As well as me not being a Butterfly in your eyes, I asphyxiate.

Unpack your sentiments from your stagnant boxes, it will make this easy for us both.

Toodles now!