The Night the World Melted Away

The Night the World Melted Away

When Fire Owns the Air

It began with observations. Then questions. Then speculations. Then the conclusion came that Ikenna Anyanwu, who lived at 8 Okigwe Road, was sleeping with a manfriend, Gbenga Afolabi. It had to be true. What two men who cohabited, shared a bed, fed from the same plate, and washed in the same bathroom, would claim that they were not a thing? Like husband and wife. Except in this case, the wife was a man. 

The whole street gathered outside. 

“Aru! Abomination,” one man shouted. 

“How can a man lie with a fellow man as with a woman?” a woman cried. 

“What is becoming of this generation? Our government has failed us. We don’t have stable electricity. No good roads. No clean water. Ah, we’re not even sure where our next meal will come from. Yet, these two men wish to incur Allah’s wrath upon us. Allah ka tausaya mana! God, have mercy on us!” 

“We must get rid of them, lest they corrupt our sons.” 

“Yes, we must.”

“Yes!” they chanted. Their faces contorted, and they nodded at each other. 

The sky was darkening. The men lit torches. The women gathered big rocks. They tightened their fists around machetes and clubs. Children trailed behind. All marched down to 8 Okigwe Road.

In their lamplit room, on the mattress that pressed against half the length of the peeling wall, Ikenna Anyanwu’s mouth worked its way down Gbenga Afolabi’s nakedness. Kisses on the forehead, lips meeting lips, throats pulsing with moans. Around their sweating bodies, in cracks and corners, mosquitoes hummed and crickets sang. Ikenna’s mouth settled on the flesh just before the dark mound of hair below which Gbenga’s shaft bobbed with life. Their bodies rose and fell in harmony. Ikenna’s lips brushed Gbenga’s stiffness, and then his mouth opened and welcomed all of it in. Gbenga threw his head backward on the pillow, his hands balling up the sheets. Their eyes shut, and the world melted away. 

Perhaps they had drifted to a realm where only lovers go during lovemaking. Perhaps the world had melted away around them, and they were suspended in space, their bodies so fully attuned to each other that Ikenna could have sworn he had registered nothing that night. 

The wooden door came unhinged, hitting the concrete floor. The night breeze swept in, and with it came the mob, trooping in by twos and threes. Their eyes caught Gbenga and Ikenna folded into each other, arms wrapped. They dragged Ikenna away, pulling him this and that way, as though they wanted to devour him. They upended the room: they tore down the curtains, kicked the cabinet of books by the window, flung the kerosene lamp against the wall where it landed on a heap of unwashed clothes—its globe shattered, the little flame flickering and flickering, emanating, kissing fabric, erupting, the room glowing a spiteful red. 

Ikenna heeded Gbenga’s screams. He glanced over his shoulder. Blows crashed into his face. The people shouted for tires and petrol. He held his arms against his face, toppled to the ground, and curled into himself, a tight ball. Gbenga’s screams persisted. 

For a moment, the beating stopped. Ikenna half opened his eyes and focused on a gap before him. He leaped, mustering the last of his strength, and negotiated his escape. A woman grabbed his shirt. Her grip was weak, or the shirt was worn thin from many years of use; the cloth ripped along its middle. Ikenna fled, past rows of kiosks lining the street, past houses and the intersection where Okigwe Road ended and two other streets began, then down an alley that smelled of garbage and rat feces. He ran, momentarily inspecting the shadows behind until he could not spot them anymore. He surmounted a hill that overlooked the north of Enugu, tears and wind in his eyes. Fat whorls of smoke ascended the sky. Gbenga’s cries rang in his head.

The night was breaking into dawn. Swallows, trogons, and wagtails littered the air above. Birdsongs—a backdrop for the endless thoughts that assailed his mind. He plodded until he came upon a cliff and peeked over the precipice. He had met Gbenga during choir practice at St. Paul’s Anglican Church. A conversation led to a date, which led to trading visits, which bloomed into a first kiss, and another kiss, and then a relationship. They had made plans. 

What good were the plans now? 

He had received a government scholarship a month ago for graduate studies in the US. Gbenga was to join him in California after the first year of his Ph.D. program, where they could live, without fear, without judgment, and seek asylum. Or maybe they would not be asylees. Ikenna would get a job as a professor and, years later, become a permanent resident. These hopes now lay in ashes. 

He inched closer to the edge of the cliff, peering down at the boulders and the river gurgling by. A rustling noise jolted him, and he turned back. A girl, about seven or eight, he guessed, gazed at him. A tray of oranges balanced on her head. He returned her stare. She was like him, stripped of everything dear. How else could he picture this girl who should be in bed at that time or waking up that morning, expecting to meet her friends at school later in the day, but instead was sent out in tattered clothes to hawk oranges? He searched her eyes. Finding nothing, he braved a step.