The Friend know to the heart.....

The day after I collected my Statement of Result was Franklin’s birthday. He was scheduled to leave the day after and I wanted to do something special for him so, the night before, while he lay sleeping, I snuck out of bed and drove to a store, where I bought him Sauvage, a Dior perfume. When I returned, the gift wrapped in ribbon in a polythene bag, he was wide awake, sitting on the cliff of the bed. “Where did you go?” “Went out to get something.” “To get what?” “I’m sorry but I can’t tell you that.” “Why?” “Because it’d ruin the surprise.” “Surprise? Now, you must tell me where you went.” He adjusted. “You know how much I hate surprises, Martin.” I looked at the clock hanging on the wall. “It’s almost time,” I said. “Wait till the clock strikes twelve.”
I sat beside him, and we watched the hands of the clock tick. A minute before twelve, he turned to face me. “It’s time.” Gazing at the clock, with a smile on my face, “Not”—the clock struck twelve—“yet.” I went down on a knee before him and took out the gift from the polythene bag. Handing it to him, I said, “Happy birthday, love. Open it.” Quickly, he untied the ribbon, ripping apart the gift-wrap. Then, holding the perfume to his face, staring with wonder at it, he said, “OMG. Martin.” He took out the bottle from its case, sprayed it on the back of his hand and smelled it. “It scents so nice.” He hugged me. To see him captivated, the way the moonlight danced in his virtuous eyes, was all I could ever ask for.
In the morning, taking a dump in the toilet, he came knocking. “Franklin, can’t you tell I’m shitting?” He wouldn’t quit knocking so I walked to the door with caution, unlocked it and, with my back, walked back and sat on the toilet seat. He came in, locked the door, and sat on the brink of the bathtub, pressing his phone.
“You surprised me, this morning.” His eyes in his phone. “Thought you’d forget my birthday.” He looked up at me.
“How can I forget my baby’s birthday?” I smiled. “As a matter of fact, this is just the beginning.”
“No, Martin. The perfume is enough for me. Sauvage?—that thing is expensive.” He panicked.
“You are worth every penny.”
He looked to the ground, blushing.
Later that afternoon, driving him to a location I did not disclose, “Where are we going?” he said. “Somewhere,” I replied.
We arrived Finger Licking Good, Father’s favourite restaurant. “I have enough money on me,” I said, staring at the menu on the wall. “Pick anything you want.”
Running his eyes through the over-priced menu, he said, “Martin, I don’t feel like eating. Let’s go.”
“I know you feel I’m spending too much but, please, let me do this. Tomorrow you’ll be back in Kogi, and who knows when I’ll see you again.”
“It doesn’t matter, Martin.” He pointed at the menu. “Look, see the price for fried chicken. It’s outrageous. Let’s go to Shoprite and buy crusted chicken. Things are cheaper there.”
A myriad of customers flooded into the restaurant and I started to feel self-conscious. “You’re embarrassing me, Franklin. Please, just select something you’d like to eat.”
He turned to face the server. “I’ll have pounded yam and vegetable soup, with beef. Thank you.”
I, too, placed my order, and we picked a table and sat to eat.
“Please, don’t do that again.”
“Do what?”
“You almost embarrassed me back there.”
“I was only trying to save you cost.”
“I know but—” I leaned my elbows against the table, a piece of chicken dangling from the fork in my hand—“it’s your birthday. When have I celebrated your birthday like this? You’re always doing nice things for me. Let me do this one nice thing for you.”
His eyes turned soggy. He placed a hand on my hand and squeezed. I did not care that we were in public. The gesture was warm and true, and that was all that mattered.
Leaving Finger Licking Good, in the car, he turned to face me and said, “Martin, thank you for making this birthday one to remember.”
Hands on the steering wheel, I said, “I’m the one who should be saying thank you. So, thank you, Franklin, for being everything and more to me.”
As we rode down the asphalt near my home, he remembered something. “Oh, shit. I have to go collect a cake.”
“A cake? From who?”
“A friend of mine.” He arched a leg on the seat. “Remember the person I called when we were trying to find a solution to your ID card problem?”
“Yeah. Although you did not disclose the person’s identity.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get to see her. Can you please turn around and head to Zone 2?” He took out his phone from his pocket and read the address to me.
“Is there something I should know about this friend of yours?”
“Someone is getting jealous.” He smiled at me. “Let’s go, you’ll meet her.”
In a baby-doll dress, her ebony hair plunged over her shoulders, she waved at us from the second floor of the plaza, and we climbed the stairs and walked to meet her. Seeing Franklin, mirthfully, she threw herself in his embrace. “Birthday boy.” She playfully pinched his chin.
“Meet my friend, Martin. Martin, meet Gloria.”
She stretched a hand towards me. “Nice to meet you.”
I shook her hand. “Same.”
Then she backed me and went into the confectionary shop with Franklin. Standing alone on the balcony, I felt jealous. Gloria had a sunrise-gold complexion, saccharine lips, velvety eyelashes with clear brown eyes, and a dainty nose. Minutes later, Franklin appeared with a cake covered in white and blue frosting.
“Sorry, it took so long.”
I gestured with my shoulders that it was fine.
As we walked down the balcony towards the staircase, Gloria came out of the shop. “Franklin! Call me and tell me if you like it!”
“I will!”
As we rode home, I could not believe how jealous I felt. I started to imagine Franklin and Gloria getting married, leaving me gay and alone. “So, care to tell me who”—I looked at the cake—“she is?”
He laughed. “Gosh, I don’t believe you.” He shook his head sideways. “Martin, look at me.” My eyes were on the road. “Martin, I said look at me.” I turned to face him, glancing at the road from the corner of my eye. “I’m into you.”
I returned my eyes to the road. “Sometimes I wonder what your sexuality is, Franklin.”
He took my face in his free hand and turned my eyes to face him. “My sexuality is you, Martin.”
We arrived home. Total darkness. We got in the living-room and the lights came on. “Happy birthday!” Mother and Father screamed, with a cake and a bottle of wine on the dinner table before them.
Tears trickling down Franklin’s face, I took the cake from his hands and placed it beside the other cake on the dinner table.
“Let us play some Igbo music for our Igbo brother,” Mother said, approaching the television.
“Tune to One Gospel,” Father told her as she pressed the TV remote.
“Thank you, ma. Thank you, sir,” he said to my parents, prostrating.
“Why are you thanking us?” Father walked towards him, put his arms around him and squeezed. “A friend of Martin is a friend of the family.”
“Not just a friend, a son, daughter, daughter-in-law, anyone,” Mother said, and we erupted in laughter. “Ehen! See one Igbo song.” (It was Chineke N’ke Igwe.) She increased the volume of the television, took Franklin’s hands, and we danced around the living-room with him.
Later that night, we lay face up in bed, staring at the ceiling.
“I will miss you.”
“Don’t worry, after camp, we will see again.”
“I wish we lived in the same city.”
“Me, too.”
We folded into twin fetuses and breathed through the same umbilical cord.
In the morning, reversing out the gate so I could drop Franklin at the airport, Father hurried out and approached Franklin, who was seated in the passenger seat. He squeezed money into his hand. “Use it for your transport from the airport back home,” he said. “Thank you very much, sir,” said Franklin. “Martin, please, drive carefully,” Father said to me. I nodded.
At the airport, his rucksack slung over his shoulders, his boarding pass in his hand, Franklin looked at me as though we were departing to meet no more.
“Don’t don’t don’t,” I said, seeing tears in his eyes. “You said we would see after camp so, please, don’t cry.”
“Okay, I won’t cry.” He wiped the tears from his face.
I opened my arms to him, “Come here,” and he came into my heart.
Seated in my tiny cubicle at the Ecological Fund office, drafting a goodwill message to be addressed to The Chairman Committee on Environment and Habitat, I shake my head, nostalgia and regret heavy in my heart, as I remember watching the aeroplane take off that day—the day Franklin flew away. I couldn’t stop crying.
M.Ogah