That Lonely Black Boi

[3] All-American Style

|Imran Adebayo Ibrahim|

"Stop hogging the bathroom; we all need to take a bath," that familiar, annoyingly rude voice yelled from the entrance of the bathroom. I've always said it's inhumane to use minutes in the bathroom, but I had to violate my statement, all thanks to Daddy D'z BBQ ribs that Jamal ordered.

It took us hours to rearrange — paint — and customize the house to my mother's liking, something about bringing Nigeria with her to Atlanta and feeling at home, that we forgot hunger was a thing. After Isha prayer, no one could cook, so my stepfather thought the best plan was takeout.

Takeout is cool in movies; I never knew my experience would be gross and painful. I didn't spend minutes in the bathroom but hours.

After much groaning and grasping my tummy, I gave up and thought of taking loperamide afterwards to ease my gastralgia. I proceeded by taking my bath the American way, the soothing body lotions and whatnot. And that was when I saw them beauties: Zayd's shampoo collection; he had like five different brands of shampoos, no wonder his hair never messed up like mine.

A little bit of his shampoo on your hair isn't stealing, I thought, before pressing two drops each from all bottles and gently scrubbing them on my hard hair. Instantly my hair became soft and well-conditioned; I opened the shower and allowed the lukewarm water to roam free on my head, wasting as much water Jamal paid for — something I couldn't do at home without my mom yelling and lecturing me about young children dying of thirst in Somalia.

After minutes of hot water frenzy, the whole bathroom smelled like Zayd Raymond's hair, and his fragrance lingered within me. I unlocked the door, facing Zayd who stood languidly against the wall, waiting and chatting with someone on his phone — his girlfriend maybe, because he kept smiling to himself.

I cleared my throat, "I'm done," announcing angrily.

He scanned me tip-to-toe again, this time it was awkward because my towel was the only thing covering me. It was wrapping loosely around my thin waist. And my small — under-grew abs were exposed, same as my chicken wings for an arm. "I'm impressed—" he laid his fingers on my bare shoulder "—people will kill to have a waist like yours." He complimented.

Did I actually got a compliment from The Zayd Raymond?

"I can see your pelvic though," he chuckled, telling me indirectly I was a walking skeleton. He entered and shut the door, leaving me to stand in front of the occupied bathroom, cussing at him in whispers and yet again, the door swung open. He stood, sniffing the air surrounding my hair like a pervert.

"Did you use my shampoo?" He inquired after a long sniff.

I hissed right at his face and walked away; I owe him no explanations and his father technically told me to feel at home. Using his shampoo made me feel at home, and that was the beginning for him.

*

The drive to school was a very awkward one. Jamal and Zayd kept speaking Atlantan slang. I felt like an outsider, alone as they said their 'no cap,' 'fye,' and 'shawty.' It would surely take me years to fit into this puzzle called Atlanta. I couldn't even imagine what lies at the new school I was going to.

It should look a lot like the ones in the CW series All American; I imagined, but I don't think Damon Sims and Simone Hicks are high schoolers. All I could do was stare at the black and shiny asphalt as the car sped off them.