And he meant that quite literally.
Even if they were not going to die that morning, those two had served their purpose. He was now awake and as was their usual MO, the time would probably say seven-thirty. Time to get up.
At the sound of some local artist doing his cover rendition of Americana, a hit by one of the Fuji kings, Pasuma, Ukeme wished he had found somewhere cheaper other than right by the Ojota main road to call home.
It was the price he paid for doing what he loved for a living. He had to settle for noise and crass music from untalented whiners.
As the guy hit a particularly high note, Ukeme slipped his headphones back on and gave a blissful sigh at the silence that followed.
He pushed off from his bed and headed first to the minuscule combined bathroom and toilet to brush his teeth. Then he moved to the mini-fridge he'd gotten as a gift from his friend Eze after he'd managed to get his first book published.
It was an anthology of short poems, and the money he'd gotten from the sale hadn't even been enough to buy the fridge, but neither he nor Eze had been concerned about that. Better to be published than not at all. At least it was one way he knew his writings were getting out there. Also, the occasional fan mail he got from readers who loved his poetry always made his day.
He grabbed the bottle of water he always left at the top of his fridge so he could remember to drink water first thing in the morning and downed it. Then, he reached into the fridge to snag an apple, which he bit into, even as he rolled out his yoga mat and prepared to do his recommended morning exercise.
He wasn't as buff as other guys he knew, but his body wasn't that bad. Plus, the few guys that had been interested in his body had appreciated the long, lean lines and the sparse hairs on his chest. Of course, they appreciated those lines in the most private setting they could find. There was no need to ask for a public lynching when it could best be avoided.
He started his workout easy: standing pose, and then dropped to an upward-facing dog. He leaned his head far back, feeling the stretch in his torso, and then dropped into a downward-facing dog, sinking into the pose, stretching out his arms and hamstrings, before moving into the rest of his routine.
Thirty minutes later and he was sweaty, just a bit exhausted, but done with the workout. A couple of brisk walks during the day and he would be able to maintain his shape. Which meant all that was left was his cup of coffee, a quick shower, and then he could get started on the day.
He walked out of his bedroom into the just-as-tiny living room and walked into the kitchen. A quick rummage through his shelves produced two sachets of Nescafe Creme Three-in-One—he needed to get more the minute he went into the market—and upturned their contents into a cup of hot, boiling water. A plastic spoon was all that was required to stir the contents, and he picked up his phone before settling into the work area he'd created in his living room.
It was small. It was snug. It was perfect.
Out came his laptop, and then he unlocked his phone and scrolled through. He took a sip of his coffee and nearly choked on the coffee as it traveled down when his eyes took in his Twitter feed.
What the fuck? Apparently, he was trending.
Along with that thief: Bola 'Blaze' Johnson!
His phone vibrated.
"Eze," he said, without bothering to look at the screen.
Eze was laughing like a loon.
"It wasn't my fault this time around." Ukeme sulked as his eyes took in each line. So many people had tweeted at him and copied Blaze, and others had tweeted at Blaze and copied him. The consensus, though, was that he was a money-grubbing asshole.
Please who is this Ukeme fellow? Coming out of the woodwork to harass my Blaze. Guy, you better watch yourself or I will be coming for you.
"That was the same thing you said when you put in a letter of complaint to the principal about the Biology teacher harassing the girls in SS2B," Eze said, pulling Ukeme out of the slew of tweets that were at the moment cursing the Collins lineage.
"They were fifteen-year-old girls and Mr. Ekunjobi should have kept it in his pants. Come on. Even you thought it was disgusting" Ukeme pointed out, scowling at the memory. Even now, he wished he could run into the man so he could punch the fucker in the nose. That would serve him right for taking advantage of little girls.
"We were fifteen, too," Eze said laughing. "I didn't think you would have the liver to go after the guy. Just like I didn't think you would tweet at Blaze, calling him a plagiarizing asshat."
Ukeme smiled. "Actually, I called him a plagiarizing ass-wipe with a self-conceived notion of self-importance."
Actually, he'd called him more than that, Ukeme thought, as his eyes scanned the series of tweets he'd released the previous night.
Ukeme Collins @writingcollins
Just because someone has money doesn't mean he can run roughshod over those who don't. Who the fuck do you think you are?
*~*~*
Ukeme Collins @writingcollins
@BBJohnson You're not any better than your thieving father. Stealing the oil of my people. Desecrating the land and then wanting us to shut up with polluted rivers and dying marine life. Fuck you!
*~*~*
Ukeme Collins @writingcollins
@BBJohnson Otaare is not your original idea and you know it. Why not just go ahead and admit that you stole it from a writer who spent months slaving over those words?
*~*~*
Ukeme Collins @writingcollins
Nothing says big thief like robbing the poor who don't have anything to begin with. And yet society will praise them as billionaires who have worked hard to earn their money. Worked hard? Ha!
*~*~*
Ukeme Collins @writingcollins
And for everyone blinded by @BBJohnson and his fame and his rich family and the money we all know his father stole, check yourself! When was the last time you got mad at a bad treatment?
*~*~*
Ukeme Collins @writingcollins
Sometimes what we need is a full-on rant otherwise no one will take us seriously. They will continue to take and take and not feel bad about it. You feel bad? Good!
*~*~*
Ukeme Collins @writingcollins
He's intelligent? Please. Intelligence is actually writing your bloody work. Not ripping off of others. I'm sure there are others he has stolen from as well…
*~*~*
Ukeme Collins @writingcollins
Someone releases music for a living and spends his days grinding on chicks in music videos doesn't mean he's intelligent. Quit comparing little boys to Fela Anikulapo Kuti. Fela is a legend. Who the fuck is Blaze?
He winced at that final line, but was distracted by the sound of Eze laughing. "Only you. Only you would decide that it's a good idea to attack a man who's not only a celebrity but also the son of one of the richest and most powerful men in Nigeria—strike that, the bloody continent."
Ukeme's smile faded at the sound of Adegoke Johnson. "Well, you know how much respect I have for the likes of Adegoke Johnson; the bloodsucking parasite."
That seemed to sober Eze up and he sighed. "I know. And believe me, I get why you're so pissed at him. In fact, I too would dance on his grave, should they announce his death. "But," and Eze drew the 'but' for so long, Ukeme wondered what the fuck the man was about to say and whether or not he was prepared to hear it. "Blaze might not be like that. I've heard rumors that he's a pretty decent…"
"And rumors is all they are," Ukeme cut in and his eyes zeroed in on the recent message someone had DM'd him on Twitter. What the fuck?
He began to read.
"Except the rumors say he's hot."
Ukeme rolled his eyes, suddenly wishing that Eze was right across from him so he could see how utterly ludicrous Ukeme thought it all was. Hot? Please.
He minimized his DM page, tapped on his YouTube app and pulled up Blaze's "Runs Girls" video, eyes sweeping past the girls grinding on the cars and on Blaze. Ukeme's eyes were on Blaze, on that
lithe figure dressed simply in jeans and a shirt, none of the excess jewelry that most modern performers liked to swim in. No, Blaze didn't have any of those trappings, but his Rolex was worth more than some people paid for their cars, and those shoes were the customized Yeezys. But all that drifted away when he smiled and those twin dimples popped, transforming the face from gorgeous to breathtaking, seconds after which it was Blaze's turn to flex and grind, ass squeezing and bouncing in a way that took his breath away.
Ukeme swallowed, and then closed the app, banishing the video from sight. Sure, the man was one of the most gorgeous men he'd ever seen, but whenever Ukeme chose his lovers, he made sure they were people he could respect. "A pretty face is not the end-all and be-all," he said.
"Sure. But sometimes, an angelic face does show an angelic heart," Eze replied.
Ukeme snorted. "That is the cheesiest thing I've ever heard you say," he chortled.
"Sometimes it's warranted."
"Except in this case," Ukeme answered, his eyes narrowing as he pulled back up the message he'd received at five-fifteen in the morning. "Do you know who Sukanmi Williams is?"
"Blaze's cousin," Eze replied, without having to think it through. He paused after he said the connection. "Why? I never would have pegged you for someone who would know that name."
"He sent me a DM this morning, asking me how much I wanted to leave Blaze alone."
Ukeme expected expletives. Eze screaming a "how dare the fucker". Instead, his childhood friend asked, "How much is he offering?"
And if not for the fact that he was still stunned at the amount, he probably wouldn't have replied. "Thirty million naira."
Eze whistled.
Ukeme felt the sudden need to throw up. It was the only response that his numb brain could come up with at that moment.
chapter two
Bola dropped onto his bed with a sigh. He was exhausted. He'd spent the morning fielding calls from his rep, his label, some family members who probably just called to gloat, and even some artist friends who called to offer him a show of support.
The entire shebang had tired him out, and he'd been close to just switching off his phone and ignoring them until it all died down.
The only good thing though about all the calls had been the fact that he hadn't gotten any from his father. It meant the old man was still in the dark.
And Ukeme Collins. Sure the man hadn't tweeted anything else since spilling his vitriol all over social media the previous night, but people were still retweeting him and making comments.
His phone beeped. It was a notification.
Bola ignored the new notification and instead pulled up the text Sukanmi had sent him, containing Ukeme Collins' number. Bola's thumb stroked the edge of his phone as he stared at the number and tried to decide what he should do. On one hand, he did believe what he'd told Sukanmi. There really wasn't a big deal in anyone calling him a fraud. It was something Nigerian celebrities dealt with all the time, whether they were musicians, movie stars, or even the on-air personalities whose fans split between following their lives and praising everything they did and reminding them that they weren't 'true' celebrities. If Bola was offered a thousand naira every time someone called him a fraud or told him he was just playing at being a musician, he would own his own property on Banana Island.
Bola chuckled wryly and shook his head. He did own his present house. Thankfully, he'd bought it with money he'd made from his music and not his father's money.
He'd invited his father to his home after he'd made the purchase. His father had given the house a quick look around and informed him that now that he'd gotten himself a house out of his music deal, maybe it was time he became more serious with his life. Start using his law degree and begin his journey towards being a respectable member of the Nigerian elitist society.
His phone vibrated, jerking him out of his thoughts to stare at the screen.
Speak of the devil and he doth appear.
"Ekaaro, Daddy," he greeted.
His father grunted the way he did every time Bola greeted him "good morning" in Yoruba. He followed the grunt with: "I got a call from a business partner this morning. He said something about our name being branded about on social media. Do you have any idea what he's talking about?"
See, that was the thing with his father. The old man had probably taken his associate's words to heart and immediately logged on to see for himself what the issue was. Right now, he was just fishing, laying a line and wondering if Bola would take the bait.
Twenty-four years of living with Adegoke Johnson had taught Bola some things, however, the primary one being to face things head-on. Things really couldn't get worse than they already were. "I do. Some writer's just ranting. Claimed I stole his work and is accusing me of plagiarism. It's not a big deal."
His father said nothing for a long while. The only thing that stayed Bola's hand was the fact that his father did this all the time. He would stay on the phone, breathe down the receiver and not say a word. It was only the breathing sounds that gave it away that his father was still on the phone and hadn't walked away from the conversation. "I see. It seems to be gathering quite a crowd for an issue that is not a big deal."
"Nigerians like putting their nose in matters that aren't their concern. It's what makes their day," Bola mumbled. "It's really no big deal, Dad."
"Except it's something that happens to you a lot." He paused and even if he hadn't continued, Bola knew what he wanted to say next. "If you'd decided to go into law, some writer nobody knows or has ever heard of wouldn't be accusing you of such nonsense." His father snorted.
He considered mentioning that his subconscious might have been inspired by Ukeme's performance at Bogobiri. The thought came with a guilty pang. Fuck! Surviving on words was hard enough. It was even harder in Nigeria, where the artists that were celebrated were the ones who made brainless secular music that people grooved to in the club. To think that one of the best songs he'd ever written was possibly stolen from another writer who was struggling to survive made his chest hurt. But Bola held his tongue. No need to give his father even more ammunition and the opportunity to move on from his favorite talk about when Bola would get his ass in gear and become a lawyer. His father's second-favorite point was all about Bola spending his time with those artist types who perpetually had their heads in the clouds.
His father wasn't a big fan of the arts.
"He probably wants money," his father continued. "A nobody, accusing you of something like that? He's calculated how much Otaare is worth and was hoping that he'd be able to cash in. I'll call Oni—"
"—No!" Bola cut in. "There really is no need to bring him into this. Barrister Oni is busy enough as it is, and this really is a trifling matter."
His father fell silent and Bola's heart raced. Anxiety suddenly had him feeling hot. Very hot. He picked up the air conditioner remote and lowered the temperature. "You think someone making libelous claims against you is trifle?" his father asked, sounding disbelieving.
"No. I just think it's something I can resolve myself. There's no need to bring in a Senior Advocate. There will be a lot of backlash, plus everyone would think you're trying to utterly crush the opposition by bringing one of the top legal minds in the country to resolve a small issue. Also, Sukanmi is helping me."
He tossed in Sukanmi's name, hoping it would calm his father down a bit. Sukanmi might be his manager and an entertainment jack-of-all-trades that did everything from managing him to promoting his work and even giving a second legal eye to whatever document he had to sign, but he was also his father's favoured nephew. Not to forget the fact that Sukanmi was also a businessman, a title his father respected. Immensely.
"Sukanmi's involved?"
Bola heard the shift in the voice; the contemplative tone that was his father's way of announcing to the world that he was close to changing his mind. "Yes, he is. He's reached out to Ukeme's friends and we've been able to get his phone number. One phone call and everyt
hing will be resolved," Bola said, then held his breath and prayed to every single deity his ancestors had ever worshipped to convince his father to listen to him.
Adegoke Johnson gave a deep sigh and sucked in air through his teeth. "Okay then. If Sukanmi's involved, then I can trust you will handle this matter together."
Bola released a sigh as silently as he could so his father wouldn't be able to hear. The tension that had settled on his shoulders when his father's name had popped up on his screen started to fade.
"Make him an offer first. See if he's willing to take it. It's a waste, but at least it would keep this whole matter from dragging on and taking the Johnson name in the mud along with it. If he proves obstinate, then we take it to Oni."
His father hung up and Bola blinked at the beeping tone indicating that the call was over. He should have gotten accustomed to his father's way of ending phone conversations, but it still surprised him every time. Just as much as he was always lost every time they had a face-to-face conversation, and his father ended it by getting up and walking away, with not even a word of goodbye.
His father's words about not dragging the Johnson name in the mud rang in his head. Bola covered his face with his palms, rubbing hard.
Fuck.
It was words like those that always ensured that he stayed as buried in the closet as possible. Sukanmi knew Bola liked men, had fucked men, and wanted to only fuck men, and he was okay with it. Although Sukanmi was bi—and could understand the attraction— he was one cousin in several scores of them, and he was not Adegoke Johnson.
His father had nearly burst a gut when Bola told him that he wanted to be a musician and was not going to put his law degree to any use. He'd calmed down, yes, but it was obvious he still hoped that Bola would come to his senses to toe the straight-and-narrow.
But to come out to his father and admit that he was gay? It would be like taking the Johnson name to the very public and always-crowded Balogun market, showing his ass out for everyone to see, and then taking a solid dump all over that highly-exalted name his father had worked hard for. A name his father had spent over forty years building. A name that wouldn't save him should an angry cousin or homophobic aunt decide to tell the authorities about it. Because nothing would give the Nigerian Police more joy than tossing a Johnson in prison for the recommended fourteen years. Especially because Adegoke Johnson wouldn't pay a dime to protect his son from being made an example of.
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