Black Armbands

HE ASKED YOU to jump. Your heels throbbed, and you hadn’t been able to feel your scrunched toes in the last thirty minutes, yet you crouched and launched yourself into the air. You did it because it was Tayo; your tongue always forgot the route to the roof of your mouth whenever Tayo asked for something. 

Your too-small flats popped off your feet first, freed by the force of your stretched body from the pressure it had suffered all morning, and when your now bare feet found earth again, you lost your balance in exchange, landing on the burning asphalt. At least, now, the cap was in your hand. The cap that had gotten stuck to a branch of the gmelina tree when Tayo played his game of throw and catch as you both walked to class. The cap was not even yours, but you skinned your knee—slightly—to get it back. 

Tayo snatched it right out of your hand, not one second later, and you picked yourself up off the ground. He did not thank you, and it did not matter to your love-fogged brain. 

The first time you petted a puppy, your heart lurched in your chest, and your stomach tightened until you feared something would rupture in there, but your hands remained steady as you sank your fingers into the blanket of fur that felt very much like your aunt Niyi’s couch fabric. 

You forced your lips to let out cooing sounds you prayed Tayo would mistake for genuine admiration instead of the fear that bubbled within your chest. 

You did this because of Tayo who had said he couldn’t stand people who didn’t like dogs, and even worse, feared them. You did not care for the origin of his stance. Instead, you forced yourself to get over your sixteen-year-long phobia within the seconds it took you to crouch down at Tayo’s backyard. 

Because it was Tayo.

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ON ONE THURSDAY evening, as you washed dishes with the vigour of one expecting payment. It would have been obvious to anyone who watched you that Tayo was woven into the very act somehow. Luckily, no one was watching. You were home alone. Your father was on an out-of-state trip, and your mother went for a church fellowship you would also have been at had you not squeezed your face like one withholding lime juice in their cheeks. You lied to your mother that your stomach ulcer was at it again. 

“Take your medicine and drink lots of water, Nne. If you feel better before I get back, do the dishes”, she said. You almost blew your cover as excitement sprang up from your gut. You bit back the squeal it travelled on. 

You would have done the dishes anyway. Out of guilt, and as a precaution. If you stayed out with Tayo, late enough for your mother to return from the fellowship to a house empty of you, the ulcer patient, and untidy at the same time, your punishment would be a lot heavier.

You still felt guilty after doing the dishes, so you swept the living room—lifting chairs, tables, and whatever else harboured dirt—and into the corridor. Everywhere gleamed when you got into your bathroom and scrubbed the dirt and sweat away, giving special attention to your underarms. You wanted to smell heavenly when you met up with Tayo and your citrusy bath gel took care of that. You slathered on the baby lotion Tayo liked to smell on you—he’d once said it reminded him of when his younger brother was a baby, the only time he’d had peace at home. You added deodorant and hoped your sweat glands would behave themselves. Just for the evening. 

It was not exactly a date you prepared for. Not realistically. Tayo did not have eyes for you in that manner, and going to a football viewing centre hardly counted as a date. But your head was in the clouds, and you let yourself sink fully into the delusion. 

You imagined Tayo hugging you in the height of excitement when his team scored a goal or won the game. You imagined the excitement taking a more interesting turn, the hug turning into a kiss—not the innocent touching of lips that happened as a mistake the day his dad got him a blackberry. He was going for your cheek and you’d been oblivious, turning just in the nick of time to have his lips meet yours. Now, you imagined a different type of kiss. With dancing tongues and butterflies, mad with desire. 

You sighed dreamily as you locked the front door and made your way to the next street.

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YOU WERE A Manchester United fan because Tayo was, and whenever he would talk about football and how good “the boys” had played in their last game, you agreed as if you knew a thing about it. At least you knew who was playing who that evening. You’d googled it, then googled pictures of the team. You’d spent hours matching names to faces over and over, like you had an exam to write on them. You had never studied that hard for an exam. 

Now, you recited the names. Wayne Rooney. Something Bailly. There was a Mourinho, but you weren’t sure if he was a player or a coach, and Tayo’s favourite, Paul Pogba. You’d heard that name so often, you didn’t need to recite it to remember.

Your lips split into an easy smile when you spotted Tayo waiting impatiently at the mouth of the zinc-constructed shack. You’d only ever seen it in passing, and normally, you would have squirmed at the thought of sitting in there for ninety minutes, but there was Tayo. 

When the game started, you found yourself staring at the players in motion, whose names you had not an iota of recollection. You prayed that Tayo would not ask anything that would unveil your ignorance. You watched the camera pan out to get a full view of the field, your confusion compounded. Now, there were just a bunch of little men chasing a ball in what looked like a chaotic race to you. 

You let your eyes unfocus and allowed your mind to roam. It was a gift you’d always had—the ability to disconnect and hide out in some part of your mind that was memory, imagination, and sometimes, both. You could sit in a hall packed tight with out-of-control monkeys, and you would not even notice the moment you disconnected. You were grateful for the gift, and where you retreated to was entirely constructed from wish-fueled imagination. 

When the first roar of excitement came, like a wave in a previously not-so-quiet ocean, you snapped out of your reverie and prepared to shout too, but it quickly lost its strength and went out sad. You partly listened to Tayo complain to the burly man, nearly the same age as your father, who sat to his left on the crude wooden bench you all perched on like pupils of an unmaintained public primary school. The world you’d built up in your head called out to you and scrambled its words like your disrupted satellite television on a rainy day. You were back on the grounds of the University of Calabar, walking hand-in-hand with Tayo and hearing him say he’d always loved you. Stuck in your cloud castle, you knew there would be a sheepish smile smudged all over your face in real time because even though you could shut the world out, you knew nothing about stopping your face from betraying your thoughts. It was a good thing the game held the attention of all around you hostage,  and it was not long before another wave washed over you. This one was stronger and did not break in seconds. You darted your eyes quickly to Tayo to confirm the look of excitement on his face. Established, you joined in the celebration, getting up from the bench, hurt from sitting on it, and jumped with your fists pumped in the air. Tayo only spared you a few seconds of shared excitement before turning his attention back to the screen. The replay was over and the game continued. No hug. No kiss. 

You sat back down awkwardly. Heated conversations flowed around you. Arguments about who should have done what, who needed to get off the field, who was most knowledgeable about the game and who was “an absolute dunce”. You thought of your mother who could possibly be home now, her tiny lips would be pursed in annoyance, making them even tinier. She’d walk from room to room twice, to confirm that her eyes were not playing tricks; to confirm that you and your stomach ulcer were indeed not at home. Then she’d sit on her favourite armchair, her feet tapping to the angry beat within her. 

You would probably receive welcoming slaps as soon as you got through the door. Two, in quick succession, on either cheek, as was your mother’s favourite style, but after that, it would be a long lecture that would go into every part of you, causing you to bloat all over. Your cheeks would swell. Your chest too. Your stomach would not even dare think of food. You’d go to bed and wake up extremely sad, and it would only get worse when your mother revealed the punishment she’d come up with at night. Whether she dreamed it up or consulted with her husband while you slept, you could never tell, but it would be strong enough to cast a cloud over your whole day—or week. 

Suddenly, you wanted to be on the way home. You wanted to hear only the flip-flop of your rubber slippers slapping the ground as you hurried home. You began to wonder why you’d believed it was a good idea in the first place. You could no longer stay in your thoughts. They were full of your mother’s angry face, and you couldn’t stay in the room either. It was too hot, too loud,  and too draining. You started to squirm in your seat. Then, like a sign from heaven, there was a loud explosion, and you immediately were on your feet and struggling with as many wanting to leave the shack. Some wanted to find where the sound had come from, but you wanted to head home straight.

You grazed your arm on something. It stung. Your ears tingled from the explosion and your heart went mad in your chest. Your feet were weak, but they moved. It was only when you were out in the night sky that you allowed yourself to breathe. You remembered Tayo. You looked around for him and saw him after a few frantic seconds. 

“What was that?” You asked, as if he were not beside you when the sound went off. 

“Transformer. That’s what these guys outside said.” He didn’t seem shaken like you. It was not unusual for pole-mounted transformers to malfunction. 

“Tayo, I want to go home.” 

“Relax nau. The game will soon be over, and I’ll walk you home.” 

No, he’d walk you halfway, because his house was closer than yours. 

“I want to go now.” 

“Because of the transformer that has already stabilised? You fear too much.” 

“I don’t care. I’m leaving.” 

You thought being firm would make him change his mind and follow you; that perhaps he would run after you and beg you not to leave, at least. He did not.

“Fine. See you tomorrow,” he said. He left you and headed back into the viewing centre. 

You were annoyed and a little scared. You never walked alone at night, and your mother’s rule was always to be home before you needed to use a torch. Yet, here you were. You were more afraid, though, of returning to Tayo and staying out even longer. So, you started your walk home, and just when you were about to turn onto your street when you heard the next explosion. You turned in time to watch a live wire drop on the zinc construction; the same one you’d been inside just watching a sport you did not enjoy. Something happened to you that hadn’t happened before. You could not describe it. Your stomach churned; you rejected what your eyes saw. You turned around and forced your feet to keep walking until you got home. 

Your mother did not welcome you home with slaps or even a tirade. She was observant, and by your countenance, anger took a backseat, fear springing up within her. 

“What is it?” She asked blankly. “Where were you?” Worry coated her voice with each question.. 

“Football. Tayo.” You breathed the words out and resumed your walk straight to your room. You dropped into your bed fully clothed, your flip flops touching your bedsheet for the first time.

You didn’t wake up around six for morning devotion or eight thirty, like you would after catching a post-devotion nap. Your mother did not bother you either. Your body and mind kept you locked in seemingly endless rounds of sleep, providing dreams you forgot as soon as the next one began. The dreams themselves did not even make sense, but your unconscious was determined to keep you from waking up. 

Eventually, you awoke around noon. There was no punishment. No quarrel. Your mother only asked you to come eat something, but your stomach felt full, and your body, limp from excess sleep.  Thoughts from the previous night hovered on the fringe of your mind; too quick for you to grasp, yet returning. You kept reaching and reaching, but your mind would not think.

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TWO DAYS LATER, you held the Vanguard reading the report. There were about thirty casualties, some dead, at the football viewing centre; the same one you had been to that night in April, desiring to be looked upon. The transformer had exploded twice, dropping that high-tension wire on the zinc construction the second time, electrocuting the victims. The victims, you thought. Tayo was a victim, and you’d watched him be one. You read on Linda Ikeji that his favourite club, the one you’d tried to learn their names, decided to wear black armbands for their next game to honour the victims.  You knew there were only eleven players, and even with the substitutes, they could not represent all of the victims. There were enough armbands but not enough people, and you wanted Tayo to be an armband too. You willed him to be the one on the arm of his favourite player, even though you would never see it because you never again watched a football game. But maybe it would be a small, very small, consolation to Tayo, the boy who never kissed you.

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Henrietta Lehi is a Nigerian creative writer on days when she is not playing around with other forms of art. 

Cover credit: Ebumnobichukwu Agu.