Same Difference [A Queer Nigerian Experience]

2 | MAXWELL'S THE EQUATION

Morning classes at 8 were incredibly challenging. I arrived on campus a few minutes ahead of time and chose not to take the shuttle, opting to sprint to my class instead. I retrieved my phone from my crossbag, slung over my shoulder. I navigated to my Naija oldies playlist, plugged in my earpiece, and started grooving to the music. Afterward, I stashed my phone in my pocket, concealing it beneath my black tee.

The school was bustling with students making their way to their classes for the time of day. I recognized some familiar faces in the crowd, knowing that they, too, were headed to PHY112, just like I was. I couldn't help but feel a bit out of place as many of them were chatting and walking with friends, while I walked alone. It was reassuring to spot another lone student, carrying a bag filled with books. It reminded me that if I felt odd, there was always someone who was odder.

This was one of the rare occasions when I attended class on my own. I typically went with Sewa, but given our recent disagreement, I wasn't certain if we would be going together again.

As I approached the lecture theater, it gradually came into view, and I quickened my pace. I ascended the stairs carefully, being mindful of my phone in my back pocket. Given the number of students I had seen heading for physics on my way, I hadn't expected the entire lecture hall to be filled when I arrived. I pulled out my left earpiece to fully take in my surroundings and understand what was happening.

Did these students not have homes to sleep in? Everyone who entered after me ended up finding a spot to stand at the back. I knew that there must have been available seats hidden in the front rows, but I couldn't bring myself to descend those stairs and ask for a vacant seat, knowing it could easily be denied with the excuse that someone was already sitting there.

I settled for a space at the back, and I managed to find an open windowsill to sit on. I pulled out my phone before sitting down, unconcerned about the possibility of it staining my trousers. Fortunately, I was wearing black, so I could just dust it off. Since I had some time before the teacher arrived, I decided to browse my phone, revisiting Facebook. The day before, after two failed attempts to recall Mr. Utomi's password, I successfully logged into his account. I now had access to all his Facebook data, but it seemed like he hadn't used the app in three years. I guessed that even millennials didn't use Facebook as much.

One thing in particular caught my attention: the most recent person Mr. Tony Utomi had been chatting with was an account that had been deleted. This account had no profile picture and no name, only a series of messages sent by Mr. Utomi. I had spent the entire previous night reading through these messages, attempting to piece together what was truly happening. But the complete context remained elusive since I couldn't see what Mr. Utomi was responding to. Nonetheless, I filled in the gaps myself, which gave me a sense of understanding that they were involved with each other.

The rest of the conversations seemed rather mundane, and even though I was already prying into Mr. Utomi's personal life, I had no intention of reading any of those messages. However, it was clear that Mr. Utomi had an excellent taste in men. He appeared to be a part of an online Nigerian queer community, and as I went through their posts, I felt a connection. I had encountered a few openly queer Nigerian men, only on Grindr, but these gay men were different. Unfortunately, it seemed that most of their accounts were no longer active.

I received a message notification that made me slightly jump, though not enough for anyone around me to notice. It was from one of Mr. Utomi's friends who had seen his account online. I contemplated responding to it to avoid raising suspicion, but I had no idea how Mr. Utomi communicated, so I decided it would be safer to ignore it. I was so preoccupied with this that I didn't even notice when our teacher entered and began the lecture. When I eventually turned my attention back to my screen, I was perplexed to see that the friend's message had received a response. But, I hadn't typed out the reply – it was most likely the work of noone other than Maxwell.