The birth mark at the back of my neck was from cigarettes stubs that Baami pressed on my neck when I first came to this world. They said I died a lot of time, more like a premium Abiku, I’m sure you must have heard about us too.
We are the ones they name Remilekun, Durojaiye, Durosinmi, Durotimi, Malomo, Kuti, Kokumo. Most especially Kokumo, which Maami elongated to Edumarefunminieyitikokumo.
Maami said the last time I came to this world was a year and a half ago, that Baami was so angry with how fragile, pale skinned, bluish eyed, and almost totally lifeless I was that he burnt me with cigarettes till I gave a shrill loud cry before I died. I don’t know if I should hate Baami for causing me pain on my death bed.
I thought they lied. They created stories to scare me, how could I have been Abiku omo oloosa terigbaso when I’ve lived more than two decades now. Why do mother still tell these tales to people like it will fetch us more money?
Why does Maami always make me wear this strange looking beads — there’s one on my left foot, she said it will prevent me from walking into devil’s death traps. I laughed, only if she knew how many devil’s traps I walk into daily. I remember the day I even had a threesome with Lucifer and Lilith, a story for another day.
The two tiny beaded strings on my waist leaves strangers bewildered — I still think I’m the only boy who walks with waist beads. But that’s not the reason I’m writing this piece to you.
Last night, Adanne came back to our room late, she brought three others — two girls and another boy. More like she knew I always loved it when we play in group. Although I should have just excused myself and probably cooked noodles then sleep.
But, of what use is a circus that came late to the fanfare? What started as a truth and dare game had me cruising through my third round of fellatio and lap dance, after all Adanne and I are roommates and the whole self contain is ours to use as we deemed fit. Ogged my waist beads and like a tautened rope they gave way, the beads hitting our tiled floor like pebbles drumming on a stretched Ilu Bata. At first I wasn’t scared, I’ll probably sweep the floor the next morning and string them together.
This morning I woke up with a swollen chest and painful tachycardia. I told Adanne to call Maami and she said she’s on her way here, the journey from Ibadan to Ile-Ife will take a century, so I’m scared. I’m scared that I’m losing my head and the more I tried to be comfortable, it gets worse.
I’m scared Maami will be too late again, and this time there won’t be a father to burn me with cigarettes before my breathe truly becomes air.
© Ololade Edun.