Editor’s Note: In partnership with The 2023 EIO Workshop, Isele Magazine publishes the works selected by the facilitator, Esther Ifesinachi Okonkwo. Nnamdi Vin-Añuonye’s “Are You Still Reading This” is one of the selected works. 

Faciliator’s Note: Vin-Añuonye’s “Are You Still Reading This”, a story about unrequited love, generous in its honesty and easy humor, is written in a believable epistolary form. There’s not a corner this story refuses to enter. We find shame, desperation, carnality. We also find a mind surprised at itself: that human condition of knowing better and doing worse.

To: Chibuoyim001@gmail.com

Cc/Bcc, From: Daluchim@yahoo.com

Subject: Rizla 

Oyim, this story is about the boy who almost killed me. But before I jump into the story, I want to know how you are doing? How about your handsome Yoruba-American demon? Are you guys still together? Well, forgive me for not telling you about this earlier. I needed time to process it all. Only weeks ago, I was playing Billie Eilish and Hozier, crying myself to sleep. You know how I get over these things.

I imagine your face squeezed now in mock-irritation, your hands flustering as you say— “Ha! Dalu! Why is this letter so, so long? Even Marima Ba could never o!”— your gruff laughter bouncing off the brick walls of your bedroom in far-away Mississippi.

Everybody called this boy who tried to kill me Rizz. As in, short for Rizla. They said he never bought his own weed. Instead, he went around the lodge, looking for and then saying to smokers, “Guy, I get rizla o?”  He would then wrap the weed and hijack the smoke session.

I don’t remember the first time I met him. Still, I can’t deny that he had been somewhere in my head. Oyim, do you remember the day you asked me while we gossiped over a WhatsApp voice call, “So, tell me now, do you finally have a boyfriend, a man?” And I responded— “Yes oh. There’s this guy”—even though Rizz and I were not even friends? Remember I sent you a view-once copy of a picture of his I’d saved from his profile on our lodge’s group chat?

“A specimen!” I’d written underneath the sent photo.

“But is he one?” you asked. “I actually remember seeing him around the lodge that year, looking all thuggish and macho, always in company of the bad boys.” 

I laughed at how you stretched the word bad. I didn’t know how else to react. But it felt good to say that I finally found someone. I laughed, too, because you couldn’t tell that this guy only came to my room when he needed stuff—shoe polish, drinking water, pressing iron, and the constant one-thousand-naira cash because his bank app wasn’t working. Cash that he never returned. Otherwise, we barely spoke.

Then one lazy Saturday morning in June, I was standing at the general balcony, high on a new supply, observing everything as nothing, extra giddiness in my belly, loud music playing from my AirPods. Oyim, remember when we were about ten or so, our innocent hypocrisy as we threw away our faces, cursing under our breath when we walked past smokers? Well, look at us now. Haha! 

Bored, I was about to go back to my room when my eyes caught Rizz walking in from the gate. Maybe it was the weed, or even fate, but I waved at him with a smile so wide you’d think we were the best of friends. Surprisingly, he smiled back, and mumbled something I didn’t hear. I waited as he walked upstairs, soaked in sweat, his jersey polo clinging to his chest in a bear-hug, exposing hard, visible nipples. I swallowed. He must have seen me staring because his lips stretched into a knowing smile, exposing his otherwise perfect dentition if not for a slightly larger front tooth. He then said, “I dey come from gym.”

I nodded, asked why I haven’t seen him around, to which he replied that he now mostly stayed at his girlfriend’s lodge just along the school junction; that here, this lodge inside the school premises, had no life. Unsure about what he meant, I nodded again.

“How far now? Wetin you keep for me? Eh, why you dey find me?” He said, pulling off his polo to fan himself with it. I think I caught him wink.

“Nothing o,” I said with a smile that lingered longer than was necessary, and began to walk away. My steps measured, unsure but unwavering. He towered behind me, his gait so sure of something I hadn’t yet known.

Inside my room, I rolled out a fat blunt from in-between a stack of books lying on the plastic table.

“You dey smoke?” He asked, sounding really surprised, and then dragged out a chair to sit on. I looked him in the face and lit the blunt. I took a long drag and puffed before passing it to him, a swirl of smoke blowing away. Oddly, the mixture of surprise and excitement on his face made me quite pleased with myself.

“Mad! I no know say you dey smoke o. The Dalu wey me sabi na only book, book, book!” He laughed.

I chuckled. Whatever.

 I wonder now what it was: if it was the weed working overtime, or if it was my desire nudging me forward, snuffing out the air in the room so that my heart raced in my chest as I sat next to him, close enough to smell the musk sweetness of his sweat. I fixed my eyes on his rolled-up shorts, which exposed his hairy long legs. I let my fingers rest on them, slowly traced lines on his skin, until I reached his bulge. With his head rested on my pillow, his eyes shut, and his lower lip tucked into his mouth, I could have withdrawn; this was Rizz, bad guy Rizz, and this was wrong. Unsafe. But Oyim, rather than slap away my hand he took off his shorts instead, with such speed, such urgency, leaving the shorts tangled together with his white boxer pants carelessly sprawled on the floor like a badly unwrapped parcel. My friend, believe me when I tell you that his body was art! All I remember each time I think of that moment was that he grabbed me closer, pushed me face down to the bed, pinned me with one leg, and in one swift motion grabbed my Nivea body cream, and before I could think to protest— that I had no condoms, no lubricants, and was lowkey worried that it simply won’t fit—this guy had dug in. Slowly, painlessly, and so masterfully. Rizla was needy, hungry and greedy. And I didn’t stop him. I wanted him, that much was clear. A desire born out of fascination, and the excitement of getting down with this guy whose legs scored perfect goals during soccer, whose masculinity oozed from across the room, whose mannerism left zero hints. He was the kind of guy who left his cum inside other boys, but thumped their backs like jolly good fellows when they exchanged pleasantries in public. The kind we prayed never to be with.

Later, I carefully avoided washing my bum. Rizz had dumped traces of himself that I was unprepared to wash off, let go of. But it suddenly occurred to me that Rizz had eaten the last plate of my spaghetti while I bathed, drank my Chivita juice, and walked out of the room like nothing happened. And I was hungry.

#

Days after, all I could think about was his dick. The way it hung low when flaccid, veined, heavy, initially making me worry that there was no way in the world it would fit in. I thought of my legs crossed behind his back, my hands cupping his firm ass, urging his thrusts, stroking his hair, looking right in his eyes, and asking him to do with me whatever he pleased.

Oyim, if I had told you then, maybe you would have been able to save me. Well, you were so busy settling in, worrying over this and that and having so little time; I, on the other hand, was also busy putting myself into a situation I imagined would be fun and spicy when you eventually heard. At least you’d stop teasing me about being ‘a secondhand virgin’.

You’re getting impatient, I know. But hold on, my story only just began. Oyim, I think my memory is cracked at this point, like a bad video tape. Nasa says it’s a trauma response. Repression, or was it suppression? 

Well, I promise to tell all I remember. Rizz and I had exchanged phone numbers after that first day and talked over phone calls. Never on WhatsApp, because, like he said, his girlfriend occasionally read his chat. I wonder now what he had saved my number with. Was it sweet, like, B, as in Baby boy? Or Boss D, as in, Boss, his preferred salutation, and D for my name Daluchim. Each time when I called, he would go, “My boss! How far now? How e dey be?” 

I know, Oyim. I know. Please don’t judge me. Now, I’m honestly not sure why I ignored the signs. I could have stopped then, reminded myself that I was loved at home, didn’t have to play second fiddle, that I never even had any business calling him especially as he appeared to never have the airtime to call or call back, no business being with a guy like him. I could have stopped when I no longer ate the things I used to, simply because I didn’t know when next he would knock on my door and which food would upset my bowels. I wanted to be available and ready for whenever Rizz showed up. For him, I created a space in my life, small at first, yet slowly and steadily fueled by this emptiness in me for a partner. This space I created for him became an infinite pit, pulling and nudging until it swallowed me whole.

Three months in, and Rizz still came around. In fact, quite often. His guys in the lodge began to raise questioning brows, but nobody dared to voice anything. And he didn’t seem to notice or care. The day when you eventually remembered him and asked, I told you with a proud smile that we were now lovers. Lovers? How exotic.

I didn’t tell you that each time we saw each other, we smoked and afterwards, had sex. Sometimes thrice before he would leave. After each visit, I was left feeling emptier than the last, my body, my heart, yearning for him. For his withdrawn air that made me hungry to decipher his thoughts, for everything and nothing that he offered.

On the other hand, school results were dropping for the first semester of my final year; again, border scores: 68, 69. My CGPA went farther away from my intended first class, and I discussed this with Rizz over the phone one day. Only after the call did I realize that he, a second-year student of the music department, definitely was not interested in hearing about my grades (which, I must say, were excellent by his standards). What did he care about the faculty of law and four credit load courses? Boy just wanted to smoke anything and fuck everything. I knew. Yet I so badly needed someone in my life, someone I could talk to, nag about, and cry on, that I became blind to everything else.

But nobody can completely blame me. You see, once I told Rizz I was lonely, he began to spend more time with me. He even slept over sometimes, abandoning his girlfriend. And on those nights, whilst he was thrusting and moaning, I couldn’t stop wondering which lie he fed her; if she could imagine the unbelievable things we did to each other’s bodies. 

Rizz began to peck my forehead and hug me tightly before leaving. Each day, he came straight from the classroom to my bed. I would impulsively buy weed, food, snacks, anything he wanted and didn’t. I think now of my helplessness, of this need to please him. It felt like walking on tiptoes, noiselessly, holding my breath, scared, as if my ultimate undoing would be watching him return to his regular life, to her.

On the nights he stayed awake watching a football match on my flatscreen, anger filled my chest. I wondered how he could not see how little time we had. One night, NEPA didn’t restore power until midnight, and I stayed up fanning away the beads of sweat rolling down his chest. God, I’m ashamed to think I was such a fool. This reminds me of a quote I read some time ago: “You think you’re too special, too big to beg, until love pushes you down to your knees.” I can’t remember its origin now, but, how apt! I’m unsure this was love. Could it even have been love? Did I love Rizz? Could I possibly have?

By the way, Oyim, you see why I told you I need a new phone as soon as possible? This silly battery I charged just minutes ago has run down again and there’s no power. 

*

Re: Rizla

Oyim, Kedu? Power has been out for three straight days; can you believe that? I apologize for leaving you in suspense jare.

Again, my memory here is foggy. But I’d try to recount as much as I can, even though it churns my stomach and causes my heart to beat wildly. 

At this point, there was no formality, but Rizz and I were technically together. After all, dinner dates and shit like that were not made for boys like us. We were fucking and saying I miss you to each other. Rizz was simply mine. And I was his. Even though it was as if the core of my existence was to care for him, to smoothen out the rough edges of his life as kindly and as desperately as I wished somebody would mine. So when he began to ask me for things (again), I willingly provided: paid for double tickets to campus concerts I ended up not attending and not asking what happened to the leftover ticket; takeout foods from fancy restaurants, weed, more weed; money for school projects, haircuts, a polo, a shirt, a phone repair, a wristwatch, once, a floral perfume I hadn’t imagined he’d never wear. I convinced myself that giving to him was my way of showing love. And that was okay too, no?

There was this time he had come to the faculty during my break-time to ‘see’ me and we were just sitting at the canteen, talking, when I noticed his eyes wandering from one girl to another. It pissed me off, I won’t lie, because I thought: dude, I am right in front of you! But what did I say to him? Nothing. Instead, I playfully told him to stop being an idiot and to look at me joor. I said this laughing in a voice that emerged only around him.

 “Dey talk, I dey hear you o,” he said.

“But you’re not looking at me!”

“Oya, sorry. What were you saying?”

An hour or so later, while on my way to the mini-mart to pick up a printed file, I saw him heading towards the school gate. He was walking with a girl who also turned to me as he did. In that quick moment, I scanned her features. Then sighed. I realize now that what I felt in that moment was relief, a distasteful kind of relief because, by every physical standard there was, I considered myself better than her. That day, as I approached the mini-market, all I could think about was Rizz, his sure and sturdy gait, his eyes when they caught mine, the small smile he flashed at me, but particularly of his right hand carrying that girl’s handbag, and his left holding a transparent nylon of takeout. The extra cash he asked for was to buy lunch for that girl, his girl? My heart fell to my stomach. You should have seen my face, Oyim.

“How many years will it take you to photocopy that paper, eh? Hurry up please!” I said to the salesgirl at the printing shop, and ignored the shock on her face as I walked away. That night, he did not show up nor did he answer his phone when I called. Suddenly, the MTN number I was trying to call was not reachable, and soon, it was switched off. He would blame the weather, the network provider, even me for not believing him. I’d say I’m sorry, even though the rational part of my mind said, this is bullshit.

The next time we met, he kissed me for the first time. It was slow at first, as though he was unsure, the way you’d taste for salt, for temperature, afraid not to burn the tongue. Then he went hastily, deep, like he didn’t mind coiling into me. Greedy again like he always was. That was the magic. I never mentioned the other day, nor that my expenditure for the month was tripling with him in the picture, nor that I was uncomfortable with his multifaceted life. I decided there and then that I was ready to share him, ready to win him. And so I consoled myself on the days he didn’t show up. When he paraded around campus with her sashaying beside him like the chosen bribe, I consoled myself that I was the real deal after all. Even after I heard a group of boys hailing him—“Odogwu!”—as he walked past one day, after a one-night stand with a strange girl whose cries rang through the still night, I steeled myself from thoughts of despair. 

On this Tuesday evening, while I was in Nasa’s room, Rizz came looking for me. He often predicted where I was. In fact, he told me that was one of the things he liked the most about me—this availability, this predictability. Now, I hate that I liked that he saw me that way, especially when I couldn’t say the same about him. We were walking back to my room when he announced that he was going back upstairs to quickly grab something he had forgotten. I said, Okay. When he showed up back inside my room, he was beaming with smiles. From the bathroom where I made sure to sit with legs wide apart and clean and clean and clean, until the water ran clear, I noticed that Rizz had already drawn the curtains, and also moved the bed away from the door so that the neighbors couldn’t possibly hear. On the speaker, Young John’s “Sharpally” was playing. Rizz was concentrating and smiling at something on his phone. He said “nothing” when I asked what was funny. I was just about to wash off when he murmured, “I dey come” and stomped out. Long minutes later, he was not back and he was not picking his calls. I sighed. I was done and certainly not in the mood for his bullshit, so I wore my nightgown and decided to go back to Nasa’s room.  I needed to talk to someone about him, about everything. Someone who won’t quite get it but would listen, nonetheless. I imagined she would have screamed, “It’s a lie! Dalu, I can’t even believe it. Rizz as in the Rizla I know?” when I finally tell her everything.

I was a second away from knocking on her door when I heard his voice. Then I saw the room light go off and then back on immediately. Off and back on immediately. A sound like a playful shuffling of feet. I pressed my ear harder on the door, my heart already in chaos. 

 “Rizla, what are you doing in my room? Dalu is not here.” Soon, “Wait, does he even know you’re here?”

But I know Nasa well, and I could hear something unconvincing in her voice. I knew she was just one more protest away from falling at his feet in total surrender.

I knocked.

I knocked again and the door flung open as if on cue. Nasa looked like she saw a ghost. If Rizz was embarrassed, I couldn’t tell. I stared at him. I couldn’t understand it, Oyim. This nigga’s cum was still warm inside me, and as usual I didn’t wash off after he finished. I liked his smell on me, liked him inside me. So what had I done wrong? He wasn’t horny like that he-goat told you then when you caught him cheating. Rizz wasn’t, because I mean….

So I just stood there and stared. My heart pounding so crazily in my chest that it hurt. Finally, he found his voice and asked Nasa why she had opened the door without asking who was knocking. See what she has caused now. It was right then, swiftly too, that I gave him a slap so hard he staggered. His face was a concoction of shock and pain. He began to say something about me always jumping to conclusions. Did I even know what he came here for? Why was I overreacting? 

Do you remember how we used to say that a knot has gone loose in a person’s head whenever they did something erratic? Yes! All the knots in my head fell off! I grabbed him with a speed and force that surprised even myself, and then I slapped him again and again and again. Nasa was running her mouth, explaining how he had come back to ask for her phone number after we left from her room earlier, how he had texted her all day saying that me and him were nothing, that I was just a crazy fag who wanted to fuck a fine boy like him, how she was the one he really wanted; and then, how she decided she was going to talk to me so I don’t get into trouble messing around with a dangerous homophobe like him. She needn’t tell me how he must have pushed open her room door when she half-opened to check who was knocking, probably thought I was the one because I know Rizz, his strength and persistence and all. How he was begging her to go down with him just before I walked in. Then Nasa locked the door and put the key in between her breasts. She was fuming. She called him a devil for wanting to set her up, for attempting to ruin our friendship. I just stood there shaking. I was hurt, Oyim, so I kept asking: Why? How? What did I do? What have I not done? My head was hurting, my chest felt so tight I couldn’t breathe, my ears rang, my head was woozy. I began to cry because I didn’t know what else to do. My anger was a furnace burning everything tender in me.

“Dalu I’m sorry? Please. Can we just go out and talk?”

This was the first time he was speaking to me in proper English, and it pissed me off even more. Then he dropped to his knees, and I lost it. First, I have been imagining what was never there between us, giving and giving until there was nothing left to give. And now he was suddenly the giver of something even if only an apology, right down there on his knees, playing the sorry victim after plotting to fuck me and my friend on the same day? I slapped away his hands with my leather slippers, then landed it on every part of his body I could reach. Oyim, I have never been this furious in my life.

For days, I didn’t know what to make of it. I still don’t. In fact, later, I spent time online reading articles and opinions on why a guy could be so sexually insatiable. I learned a term for it: hypersexuality. Oyim, imagine a bisexual hypersexual guy. Exactly. Nasa looked at me those days like I had gone mad. Perhaps, I did. Even if only briefly. I cried often. I felt sorry for myself, for hitting him, for thinking that I must have broken his heart, for everything really. I think of that night often, of mucus running down his nose after he had cried for so long begging me, telling me that he didn’t know what got into him.  Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if he turned around and beat me to a pulp. Maybe even spice things up, you know, tell the guys who would come running that I was forcing myself on him, and was just upset that he was moving after a girl who happened to be my friend. How easily they would have believed him, how convenient it would have been, that I, ‘that girly gay boy’, wanted him. He was Rizz after all, fine boy Rizla, so why not? When I think of this, I’m only left with the conviction that maybe I was not just a plaything to him, not just another ass-hole for him, another boy to be fucked behind closed doors and drawn curtains, a boy whose hands would never be held in public. I was more. I had to be more to him. Maybe not in the ways I desired. But I was. Yes, I was. Right? Or am I delusional? Oyim, am I being delusional?

About the Author

Nnamdi Vin-Añuonye is a law graduate and storyteller. A participant of the 2023 E.I.O Creative Writing Workshop, his work was shortlisted for the JF Powers Prize for short fiction and Awele Creative Trust Award. His short story, “You must be astonished by my good fortune” won the 2023 Wilson Okereke prize for short story. He lives and writes from Lagos, Nigeria.

*Feature image by Jakob Rosen on Unsplash