*searches deep down into soul for something inspirational to write*
*finds out all the soul is thinking about is the big box of chocolates in the freezer*
Hello creatures of KD. I hail all of una… The Queen mother of dragons, the ever controversial Gad, the slightly venomous Max, Pinky the demon who thrives on controversy, my new friend Mitch, everyone else I can’t mention, and the ghosts who show up to read and not say squat for fear of being destroyed by our sharp-tongued brethren. Why don’t y’all take a chance and comment today? Hope y’all had a lovely month-end weekend. Scratch that – can’t bear the thought that your weekends were better than mine, because nobody else deserves to be happy unless I’m happy.
This past weekend has been one heck of a ride, and I was taken back approximately four years ago when on Friday, my mum asked me the question again: “Are you still gay?”
I knew she knew the answer, so I didn’t bother lying. She then said she wanted me to go see a pastor. She said he’s a man of God gifted with prayers and etc. I agreed. Last time something like this was brought up, I disagreed. This time however, I agreed because I’m supposed to honour my parents.
We set off for Ijebu-Ode that morning, and we branched off to my brothers’ school to drop off some cash my aunt gave me to give my elder brother. (I actually really just wanted to see him, and my younger brother too)
Then we continued on our way, and my mum began to talk. It stemmed from the fact that I gave my younger brother money from my personal stash, and I actually texted them to tell them how special they are to me. So she said that I’m such an amazing child, and that the devil knows this, and he’s using my being gay to bring me down and hide me from the world, but that God had won and this evil shall pass. That the devil’s plan to make me a child that brought her sorrow would fail.
I was mostly quiet for the rest of the journey as I started to battle my demons again. I thought I had taken care of them. The question of ‘Can I change?’ rose up and started to plague me. Is it because of my laziness or lack of discipline or whatever that I didn’t succeed all those other times I cried out to God, I wondered.
We got to the church. The pastor wasn’t around, and we had to wait. It’s one of those churches that don’t allow you to wear foot-wear into their abode, even though this one wasn’t quite fully celestial. I was worried. My mum had mentioned something like a bath. Would I get naked while they prayed for me? Would they bathe me? What if I actually had a gay demon, and then began to thrash about on the ground and my voice suddenly turned into the voice of HIM from The Power-puff Girls? Honestly though, the fear was real.
The pastor showed up some hours later from Lagos. He was kinda fat with some weird rings on his finger, and I wondered if they were his source of power. None of what I’d imagined would happen happened. Heck, I didn’t even kneel or anything. I was given a chair to sit on, and he said some words of prayer.
Then he told my mum I was in bondage. I looked at her face, and, men, was it heart wrenching. Her eyes were red with the tears she was trying to hold back and she looked like she was in pain, and I just felt terrible for being the one causing that.
The pastor said that only fasting and prayer can bring me out of that bondage. He gave me a fasting regimen which I could only break with fruits. Then he told my mum to ask me if I had made any covenants with any group like a cult or something. Lol. Like seriously? I actually laughed.
Anyways, we left the church and I still felt terrible. I wondered however what the point of prayer and fasting was though. Honestly I sometimes feel like I know a whole lot more than my mum does when it comes to faith and stuff like that.
The bible said that if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can move mountains. Right? So basically all you need is faith. There was a time the disciples couldn’t cast out a demon and they asked Jesus why and he accused them if having little faith, and that ‘this kind’ can only be cast out with praying and fasting. Most people would think ‘this kind’ refers to the demon, but it isn’t the demon. It was the unbelief the disciples had!
I told my mum that, with the hope that she’d get the message that even if I were to pray, I wouldn’t be praying to have some demon cast out of me. God answers prayers and she has been praying for more than three years. Perhaps she’s praying about the wrong thing. Maybe she and I should pray for the power to believe, not that the gay demon would be cast out, but that no matter what, sexuality or not, because of God’s grace through Jesus Christ, I should be made perfect in His eyes, and if He calls me home right now, I should make heaven.
But my mum is a big believer of working your way to heaven, even though it’s been clearly stated that our righteousness is like a filthy rag before God. You can’t believe in the Law of Moses and still hold on to the New Covenant of Jesus.
I dunno if I can be Christian and gay. I don’t know if I am deluding myself with that (I sincerely hope I am not). But I do know that my work with God is something personal, and my path cannot be like everyone else’s because we were not made to be the same. The argument of whether you can be Christian and gay is kind of pointless to me because it all boils down to personal conviction. If you think you can’t be, then good for you, and if you think you can, take that road.
Anyways, we got home and my mum tried to be in a good mood. One funny thing that happened was when the pastor said something I’d already told her in the car. I told her she was afraid. I could feel it. She denied it. But then the pastor said the same thing. So I guess that’s why she tried to be in a good mood. Fear makes her grumpy; same with me.
The next morning, she woke me up, and began to drill me. I tried to tell her that the reason why the pastor couldn’t tell when I entered the bondage was because there is no bondage. This is me. Since I’ve been a kid, I’ve been attracted to dudes. She refused to hear that one. She seems to always gloss over it, and her focal point is always when I had sex. That’s Day Zero for her for when it comes to when I actually became gay. It’s annoying. She said the sex I had was a covenant I made and yada-yada-yada, that to get out of it, I had to denounce everything about being gay; which basically means that I have to go back to my drab closet and get rid of all the wonderful friends I’ve made who are gay and all that. Yeah, right.
One thing I keep in mind is that my mum loves me very much and she’s handling the situation as she knows how, which is a staunch Christian approach. She’s trying to protect me from many things apart from the apparent destruction of my soul. She’s trying to protect me from the stigma that would arise if people found out. She’s worried that it could be used against me when I go for jobs and stuff, that perhaps blackmail may come into play. She doesn’t want me to stain the family name too. She wants to protect me from the dangerous lifestyle that easily gives HIV. She just wants me to be the best person I can be, and she just doesn’t understand how I can be gay and still be awesome. I’m pretty sure if she was brought up differently, her approach would be different. But the only thing is that it’d still be full of love and concern for me. Though I sometimes want to cry and I wonder why things couldn’t have been easier, I realise that she hasn’t shut me out both literally and metaphorically. I’m still under her roof and she’d still give me two pieces of meat if I ask for it, and she’s given me pocket money for school and still laughs at my jokes, when all I could get is stony silence and maltreatment. My brothers and dad are handling it the best way they know. My dad is well-learned, so he probably understands more, and my brothers are in the same generation as me, so they’re mostly not bothered. Maybe I’m just lucky to have a family like mine, because of some of the stories and comments I see here. Whatever the case is, I am grateful.
I’m doing the fast, but I’m not praying for God to stop me from being gay. I know He can if He wants to. I’m more interested in getting closer to Him right now. So the Psalms verses the pastor gave me to read and all, I read them but not with a mind to break my ‘bondage’ and all that. I read them to know God.
I don’t believe the bible is a book of fairy tales. Reading through the Book of Revelations and Daniel, and comparing them to history and even present times is enough proof for me that something powerful and mysterious surrounds it.
I’m currently back in school. The fast for this month is over and I celebrated with a big bowl of oats and milk. The pastor spoilt my stay at home because my mum whipped up some pretty good meals and our ever generous Igbo neighbour gave us some Igbo soup that I didn’t get to eat. I love Igbo soups. It’s nothing like the oily, peppery things Yorubas make. I’d be so happy to settle with an Igbo man who knows how to make all their vegetables. It’d be good for us; all those leaves and fibre would basically make us self-cleaning. Lol.
Anyway, I’m preparing for my re-sit and trying to quiet the amount of distress I tend to have as exams get closer.
Immediately my brother dropped me off at school and left, things sort of started to go mildly wrong. I tripped and that caused my fabulous slippers to cut. I’m yet to take it for repairs as I write this.
Then I lost my original iPod earphones, which I stole from my aunt’s house at Lekki. The loss of earphones can be quite tragic to me, especially when they’re expensive, quality ones. But I tried to not let this loss bring me down. I geared myself to buy the two hundred naira ones, but for some weird reason, I kept forgetting. I’m glad I didn’t buy them though, because it turns out my earphones had fallen out of the car and the porter had seen them and picked them up. He’d seen me searching for them, but didn’t say anything. Bastard. I’d seen them on his table, and after thanking him for picking them up, I left. Maybe he didn’t tell me because he wasn’t given cash by my brother; you know some people can be like that.
Oooh! The month-end weekend was shitty, but I had a shittier weekend before it. I was in Lekki then, and we’d gone to church that Sunday. I was contemplating stabbing a function I was to attend with my aunt, to have a random hookup with some guy who was close by. But I decided against it. My stay at Lekki had been kito-free, and I didn’t want that luck to run out. I just felt generally uneasy about the guy, and you know how they say we should trust our instincts. I’d be in unfamiliar territory too, and that didn’t help matters. So I followed my aunt to her function, with her niece who’s like a second cousin to me or something. (I’ve never really gotten how they work that shii out)
First my cousin put me in a bad mood by saying she’d lost my earphones. But then she found them. I was quiet for most of the journey, just feeling a bit sick and hungry. We got to the function and I happened to make a new friend who also plays the guitar, and we sang a few tunes on his guitar while I tried to gauge how gay he was. My gaydar (though not very efficient) didn’t buzz. Anyway, after playing some tunes and being bitten by some gangster mosquitoes, I headed back in to use the toilet. I have a shy bladder, so I skipped the urinals to go use one of the cubicle. I really didn’t mean to shut the door; leaving it slightly ajar was the plan. But the door swung and I tried to control it with the handle, only to find out that there was no handle and it banged shut in my face. I was effectively locked into the toilet cubicle.
I took a piss. Thankfully, the toilet cubicle had a window to the outside and I leaned on it, wondering if I could risk jumping through and soiling my clothes. I wasn’t claustrophobic yet, so I decided to wait.
Minutes passed and there was some commotion outside as some of my aunt’s workers showed up, but they were busy trying to get into the building, and so didn’t hear me calling out. Then a dude caught sight of me and I told him my predicament as he came closer, but the nigger insisted he had to be inside and left me there. Like dafuq.
Thankfully, almost immediately after, I heard the toilet door open and I asked the person that came in to help me out. He did and we both laughed at how silly the whole thing was. I rushed back to my seat and was glad to find my iPad was still where I’d left it.
Soon, we set off for home, but my aunt had to branch at another place, and I was back to being sulky. I wanted to stay in the car, but my cousin insisted that we get down to get something to eat. And just as I was getting down, I heard it. SPLAT!
I looked down to see my phone lying face flat on the gravel floor, and I felt my heart sink. I picked it up, and sure enough, a nice spider-web design of cracks had spread across its once unblemished surface. With a sinking feeling at the pit of my stomach, I unlocked the phone, and thankfully its touch-screen function was still intact.
There was a lot of sorrys and my cousin felt bad for almost forcing me out of the car, and it was said how certain decisions, though small like deciding to go get food, could cause very terrible things, and I tried not to be so heartbroken about the cracked screen. I was succeeding as we ordered some chicken and chips from Freedom Park. I wanted some alcohol to get me a bit lightheaded and hopefully put me in a better mood, but they were out of the light stuff, and since I hated the taste of beer, I stuck with Malt.
The cracked phone screen was forgotten as I chowed away on the delicious meal, with us making jokes and whatnot. Then the bill was paid and we stood up to leave. That was when the insult was added to all of my injury. I forgot there was a beam on the chair of the picnic table, and in my bid to get out, I lost my balance and fell to the gravel floor. Uurgh! It was totally embarrassing and from the looks I got, I think the people around me thought I’d had one too many, and my relatives laughed a bit before saying sorry and whatever. Chai! Imagine if I’d actually had alcohol…
On a few occasions, some people have been like, “So this and that you wrote in your journal actually happened?” And I’m like, “Dafuq? You calling me a liar?”
It makes me wonder though. I mean, my life is okay. It’s not fabulous like Dennis Macaulay and him being a lord in his city. I don’t go on trips abroad and shii like that. But my life is interesting. Maybe it’s also because of my ability to blow my emotions out of proportion, and things that would leave other people mildly irritated would have me seething. Anyhoo, I don’t make stuff up. The info might have been modified a bit, like names, and some facts may have gotten mixed up as tends to happen when trying to recount a story, but to the best of my knowledge, I’ve been quite honest here.
Well, that’s it for now. Do have a splendid Sunday, guys. *pets cat lovingly*
Written by James