Sulphur

Gist

When Angela was caught kissing a boy four years older than her, boobs resting on his chest, everybody on the street heard it. The story spread faster than wildfire in Harmattan. Neighbours said she was shameless and the boys poked fun at her when she walked down the street. 

The news also got to the school. During assembly, the teachers reprimanded all the students as if they had been caught in the same act. But when their class teacher came to mark the register, she said, “Even if I don’t trust anyone, I trust Mary.”

Crush

I was born on a Christmas day, and I was named Mary-Ann but everyone called me Mary. I grew up having my mother’s big butt and narrow waist and because of the boys, my father thought I should cover them up with loose trousers and baggy shirts. But I loved my skirts short and tight, my trousers firm on my skin, and my gowns covering a bit of my thighs.

My mother was indifferent. She would tell my father, “She is only a young girl after all, and this uptightness might start getting ideas into her head.”

I was a well-behaved child and this was the only bone of contention between my father and me. But everything changed the day he came home after one of our PTA meetings. Mum served lunch—she returned early from her shop that day. They both smiled at me asking if I wanted more meat or stew, more this and that.

“Your class teacher told me how you have been outperforming everyone in class and you are a good child too. Ehn. Keep it up. I am really proud,” Dad praised me.

Mum rubbed my shoulders and poured me some juice. I was only doing what I was told and did not expect anyone to notice—not even my class teacher but it felt good that she did.

“Can you now see what I have been saying?” Mum said, her voice soft but firm. “All you do is worry about what she wears.”

“I am just doing my best to protect her,” Dad replied, a bit defensive. 

Mum chuckled. “Protect her from what, exactly?”

There was silence, then Dad shrugged. “Forget about it. We  should be celebrating.”

That was the last time Dad complained about what I wore. There were times he stared at my short skirt intently as if wanting to tell me to go change it.

“Be careful out there and come home early,” he would say instead and look away.

•••

I never cared about the boys. They called me snobbish, sayingI acted nothing like my name. 

“You have the body of a soft girl but you have a coconut head,” they would taunt. 

Maybe I walked with my head in the air or because I did not find their jokes funny like the other girls. When the girls gossiped—giggling excitedly about the boys who started sprouting beards or those whose Adam’s apple was jotting out—I stayed away from them pretending not to hear their gist. 

It was not that I did not notice Ola’s coy smile or Williams's lingering gaze, even when he was already dating two other girls in JSS2. But I was just not interested. The boys seemed so puerile. They would wrestle in front of the class to show who was more powerful, laugh too loud, and try to act all grown up while still stuttering around their crush.

When the girls spoke about the joy of seeing a handwritten note sprayed with perfume in their locker, with would you be my girlfriend? scribbled inside, I recoiled. I wondered what would excite anyone about that.  

“Don’t tell me you are not interested in any boy,” one of the girls said at recess. She stared at me blankly as if she could not process why any girl would not want it.

Sometimes, I wondered if I was meant to long for the same things they did. Was I weird or just wired differently? Was there anything wrong with me for not craving late-night chats or having a boy buy me lunch at the school cafeteria? But these girls saw it in a different light; they believed anyone who was not interested in boys was either pretending or strange.

“Who is your class crush?” Lade once asked, nudging me on the shoulder. I shrugged and continued studying my English textbook because I did not want to get into the conversation. 

How would I tell her that I did not see the boys as the prize they claimed they were? The boys could  call me whatever they wanted—coconut head, rude, snobbish—it made no difference. I didn’t care what boys who were yet to know themselves thought of me.

Sulphur

The church auditorium was full to the brim; air stale with a mix of dust and heat from sweaty bodies. We sat on plastic chairs that squeaked whenever we shifted on our seats. Ceiling fans rotated lazily but did not offer any relief from the heat. 

Pastor Andrew stood on the pulpit, sturdy but imposing in his Senator wear. Annual Teenager’s Retreat–Following Christ, was boldly written on the banner behind him. He gazed at us, with lips pressed tight as if disgusted at the height of our iniquities. The microphone he held gave a shrill sound that was hurtful to the ears.

“Praise God,” he said. 

We sat up and waited for him to begin the sermon. 

“Hell burns with sulphur and brimstone.” His voice filled the auditorium and his words seemed to block the cool air that came from the fan. A few teenagers shifted in their seats, setting off another round of squeaks. 

He peered at us as if looking into our hearts to see how filthy we were. If you averted his gaze he would keep looking—as if saying I caught you, you sinful child. 

“The Bible,” he continued, holding it up in the air, “is enough to guide us through our journey on earth and anyone who does the contrary will burn in hell.”

His words came with a deliberateness that gave us an unusual weight in our hearts. The sermon lasted for 45 minutes before he said, “Let’s pray. This is the moment where you confess your sins.”

During the prayer, Pastor Andrew closed his eyes firmly as if beholding God on His throne, pleading with Him to forgive our sins.

That was why the day Chinaza brought a big piece of sulphur to class to rub on her eczema, I could not take my eyes off it. It was wrapped in a paper foil, a light-yellow chalk with bits of shiny things inside it. 

“What are you holding?” I asked.

“Sulphur. My Mum said it will fix my skin issues,” she responded while rubbing it between her palms. 

I flinched. Was this not the sulphur Pastor Andrew told us about in his sermon? I wanted to hold the thing that had terrified me all my life and took a chunk out of it. There in my palms, it did not feel hot, it looked ordinary

•••

I grew up in the church and my entire existence revolved around it. I was used to the solemn hymns, night vigils, choir practice, and special services. As an only child, I kept to myself, unable to bond with the other girls in my class.

But then Cynthia came into the picture. Her family were the new tenants in the apartment next door. Cynthia was a petite girl who wore outfits that seemed to be made specifically for her. Every stitch of her clothing sat elegantly on her body and she walked with so much grace that it was difficult not to notice her. Her mother opened a tailoring shop in front of their house and I watched them from our sitting room window.

I wanted to be Cynthia’s friend. Something about her was different. But she already had her circle of friends—girls who giggled excitedly while walking home from school. 

One evening, Mum bought me a bundle of Ankara with a crisscross pattern, and I decided to take it to Cynthia’s mother. That would give me good ground to visit their home and maybe open the door to the friendship I always yearned for. 

The shop was wider than I expected. There was a large cupboard in one corner and a shelf with bundles of fabrics. The steady hum of a sewing machine filled the air. But Cynthia was nowhere in sight—she had gone for her Saturday lessons—her mother greeted me with a wide smile that gave her usually stern look an admirable softness. On the street, she walked with determined steps as if the world or anyone else could not stop her and if they tried, she would crush them. But in her shop—as she took my measurement, she chatted away with a casualness that amazed me.

When I got home, I told my parents I wanted to learn tailoring. “Our class teacher said it is good to learn a trade.”

They were surprised at my sudden interest but agreed. After all, I was doing well with my studies. When there were no church programs—I spent my after-school hours and weekends in the shop learning how to thread the machine and how to use it. Cynthia’s mum had two apprentices—girls who were already out of secondary school. They were nice but spoke little, there was always a lot of sewing to do.

Cynthia barely spoke to me too. When she got back from school, she scurried off to her friends where they solved their maths problems and other assignments. I watched her from afar, hoping for a connection. 

But everything changed one Saturday afternoon. Cynthia and her friends came back home complaining about a maths problem they could not solve. I was hesitant but I offered to help. She was sceptical about handing her book to me but she did eventually. I solved the problem quickly and they could not hide their surprise.

“Have you guys been taught in school?” Lola, one of Cynthia’s friends, asked.

“I am not even surprised,” Antonia asserted. “My cousin attends her school. He says she is the best student.”

That day, I stopped being just the girl who lived in the next house; I became part of the clique. Cynthia and I became close and spent most of our afternoons together. We became fond of each other just like I had hoped for. Although she had no interest in tailoring, she began to learn because I was learning.

The first day Cynthia visited me at my place, my parents had gone to a leadership program at our church. We studied all day in my room. After a lunch of beans and plantain, Cynthia removed her blouse. She had on a singlet that revealed her navel. 

“I am so hot,” she said, fanning herself, “I need a cold bath.” 

The sound of water filled the bathroom. We were playing, splashing water at each other and the bathroom felt smaller. I tried stopping Cynthia as she continued to flick more water on me but in the process, I slipped and held her waist to steady myself. Time slowed as her back rested on my breast, and her damp hair clung to my face. There was a pause, neither of us spoke. Her body felt warm against mine and a new feeling woke up inside me.

We were the same height, but it felt like something bigger was standing between us. Cynthia turned to face me and I could feel her breath on my face. With no warning, she kissed me softly on my neck. I did not know if she was playing—like it was a brief joke. But she kissed me again, this time her lips lingered. My heart skipped a beat and my stomach tightened. Her lips moved to my face and she kissed every part of my face till her lips met mine. 

My body responded on its own accord—I hinged closer and kissed her back. We entered the bathtub and kissed again. I longed for more, yet I was afraid. We cuddled silently in the bathtub and I watched as the water overflowed and spilled onto the floor. 

After that day, Cynthia visited my place whenever my parents were away from home. We kissed and cuddled and between solving maths problems, had moments where we got wrapped up in each other's touch. There was a strange ambience around us—a tension, but we chose not to talk about it. We continued and kept it as our little secret.

The year we finished secondary school, Cynthia told me her family was moving to Lagos. The last day she came to my place, her movement was sneaky. She came with a backpack, but when she dipped her hand inside, instead of books, she brought out a dildo. She smiled nervously and said she was given by a friend—maybe one of her mother’s apprentices—I can’t remember.

My heart raced as I sat on the bed. She used it on herself and gave it to me. “Try it, you will like it.” She sounded odd—like her sense of self was almost gone. I was hesitant, but I felt a strange surge of curiosity and trust. And I did. 

After that, she brought out her phone and we watched women do things to each other, trying to follow along. It was awkward but pleasurable. When the video ended, I lay still on the bed feeling filthy.

The week Cynthia and her family moved, something died inside me. I felt I crossed a line I didn't even know existed. But I could not tell anyone. My parents didn’t notice something was amiss—they were lost in their everyday work routine. But when I thought about the things we did, I felt like I was carrying a weight on my shoulder—a filthy secret I couldn’t let go of.

With Cynthia, our Whatsapp chats did not go past kiss emojis. It was as if everything that happened that year only happened in my head—like a secret I carried alone.

Zara

The day I found Zara smoking weed in the room, I was shocked. We had lived together for eight months and I never knew she smoked. The music was loud; she sat on the edge of the bed like someone trying to get out of her body. I stood mouth agape for a few minutes before she saw me. 

I had seen her bring weird costumes to the room, I had seen her recite lines that read like incantations, and I had seen her speak to imaginary characters—could this be one of the roles she might be playing in their new drama? When she noticed my presence, she tapped the end of the roll against the wall and sprayed the room with her body mist. 

“I was only trying to clear my head,” she said and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind her. 

Dad had payed for  this room of two in maintenance at Obafemi Awolowo University and Zara was my roommate. We lived in Ife but he insisted that going to school from home might distract me. For the first few weeks of living with Zara, I kept to myself. I spent most of my evenings in the common room, attending group discussions or just reading alone. 

Zara was free-spirited. She was loud, confident, and popularly known as one of the hottest babes on campus. Whenever she called her friends, her laughter reverberated across the room. Sometimes, I hated it—her loudness, and how carefree she was. But I told myself that we were just different. Whenever she danced in her weird theatre arts costume—twerking and twisting her waist, I could feel something shift inside me—something yearning for freedom. She lived the kind of life I wished I had.

Later that evening, Zara returned from one of her rehearsals and collapsed on the bed with a long sigh. I stole a glance at her from my Physiology textbook “Tired?”

“Of course.” She clicked her tongue, “The rehearsal was mad.”

“You should take your bath and rest,” I said and continued studying.

“Mary,” she called, shifting to face me. “Do you ever get tired of reading?”

I swallowed my spit, confused about what response I could give her. “I don’t have any option. Medicine requires long hours of study.”

Zara rested her back on the wall, wiping off her makeup.

“You are too serious,” she teased. “You should try to have some fun. It won’t spoil anything.”

I smiled nervously, but the words struck a chord. When she invited me to one of her rehearsals the next Saturday, I agreed.

The theatre was crammed with people, unlike the orderliness I was used to in Medical classes. Zara was the lead character—she stood at the centre and her voice resounded across the room. I watched her become someone entirely different and I wondered what it would look like to be her.

When the rehearsal ended, I wanted to take a nap. But when we got to the room, I was wide awake on the bed while Zara’s soft breathing filled the room. She was already asleep. I stared at her, lost in thought. 

My phone vibrated, jotting me out of my thoughts—a text from Mum reminding me of a special Sunday service I needed to attend that week. I sighed and sent a response, then wandered back to my trail of thought. 

Later that week when I visited home, the expectations were even higher. Dad had told everyone about my visit. In church, I felt eyes boring into my back.  

 “She is currently studying medicine,” Dad said as he grinned widely while addressing the youth ministry. “And she still creates time for the things of God. Tell me why God won't bless her.”

There was a thunderous applause and the teenagers came to me after service.

“We want you to be our role model,” they said admirably.

But a nagging feeling was eating me on the inside. 

Some of them followed me home. In the dining room, Mum served a plate of jollof rice. She beamed and rubbed my back. My hand shook as I lifted the spoon to my mouth and some grains fell to the table. I hoped they did not see my trembling hands, the awkwardness, and how I focused on my meal and avoided their gaze.  

“Mary, you are such an example of holiness,” one of the girls said, smiling at me. “And you have a beautiful family.”

I smiled back as my eyes rested on the sculpture of Jesus that hung in a corner of the sitting room. Dad brought it home the year I turned 14. When everything was either black or white and there was no grey in my once solid faith. Now, I had people who looked up to me—people who did not know that I was not the person they believed I was.

I sat there, smiling and nodding as I asked about their studies and plans for the future. Then, we read some chapters from the bible.

•••

One afternoon, Zara came back from an intense rehearsal looking all sweaty. I was in the room, studying for a test that was scheduled for that week. 

“Hello, bookworm,” she said as she walked to her cupboard to gulp down a bottle of water.

“Hehe, I am studying for a test,” I said, responding to a WhatsApp message from one of my colleagues.

She asked if she could use my phone to work on an assignment because she was out of data and I obliged. But when she finished up and handed me my phone, she stared at me strangely. She kept staring at me for the rest of the day while she arranged her clothes in the wardrobe and while she prepared dinner. When I told her I was going for a group discussion later that evening, she nodded and avoided my gaze.

When I returned to the room that night, I met Zara seated in front of the standing mirror. She did not shift to look at me while she greeted me and even when she said, “Your search history. Are you… I mean are you? I saw it.” Her gaze was fixed on my reflection in the mirror.

“Shit,” I mumbled under my breath.

“Lesbian porn?” She turned to look at me. 

“What exactly did you see?” I asked calmly but my heart thumped loudly in my chest.

“Are you?” She paused. “Do you have a thing for women too?”

I stood there staring at her blankly, not that I was trying to hide anything but the words felt so heavy in my mouth. I nodded faintly, not sure if she saw it at first but she stood up, walked up to me, and smoothed out my wig with her palms. 

“I am not judging you.”

I stood there and stared at her blankly.

“You just found your tribe.” She hugged me briefly, then she went back to sit in front of the mirror.

•••

The first time Zara invited me to a Lesbian club, her friends did not approve of it but I didn’t care what they thought. The club, to my surprise, was very close to school, around Mayfair. A different world under my noset. We got to a provision store by the road and Zara entered first. She walked towards the wine rack where the attendants were minding their jobs, and no one asked what we wanted. Zara opened what I thought was a large wine rack and there stood the Lesbian club. 

It took a minute before my eyes adjusted to the dim light. This is what Dad would call the den of daughters of Jezebel. But for the first time, I could walk freely without worrying about anyone pointing and judging. I stood at the door while Zara and her friends went to get drinks. A stripper was dancing at the pole in the middle of the party,  another was at the end, and another was close to the bar. Wherever you turned, you would definitely see a stripper. To get in, you needed a pass; a trusted member could invite you so Zara was my pass. She slipped past scantily dressed bodies and waved as she walked. Everyone knew everyone. It seemed like a secret society. 

The only male in the building was the barman who Zara said was gay. Straight men were never allowed into the club. I didn’t know how to behave so I stood still, waiting for Zara to bring me a drink. I tried to look comfortable as I had promised earlier not to sell myself off as a newbie. While I waited, a petite girl walked up to me. She smiled and pecked me on the cheek. At the tip of her tongue sat a stud tongue ring. 

She rested her hand on my shoulder, “Hey you. Do you want to dance?”

I shoved her hands off gently and went to another corner of the room. She smacked my butt while I walked away. I felt defiled but did not know how to react. Then, she went to meet the other girls and I could hear her tell Zara that she would love to have my contact. 

That evening, when we got to the hostel, Zara asked why I behaved like that. 

"I don't know," I replied.

“You also do not know why you blocked that girl on Twitter and why you ghosted Chidinma. Why are you like this? Why do you want to live like a coward for the rest of your life?”

“Maybe I was born to be a coward.”

•••

Zara told me how she used to be a church girl until she caught her father sleeping with one of the choir members when she was 12. They did not know she had returned from school, her mum was on a trip to their hometown. She slipped out of the room before they noticed her. That afternoon, her father drove them to church in his car; he hummed his favourite hymn and tapped on the wheels as if he had just witnessed the triumphant entry. The same year, her father was ordained a deacon.

I watched her speak as she tinted her hair by herself, her back turned towards me—I was looking at her face in the mirror. Her anger brewed for many years, against the church, her parents—a cheating father and a mother who seems to condone all his excesses. She had boldly told them about her sexuality and how she wouldn’t keep living the lie they believed in. The hair colour was like a stamp affirming her transition.

But I had no anger against my parents or the church, so I did not have a reason to fight their long-held beliefs. Zara had every reason to be a rebel but I had none.

Esther

Pastor Collins preached about the agony of hell that Tuesday evening, spoke about the city of Sodom and Gomorrah, and spoke about what the world was becoming. At that moment, I caught a flicker in the eyes of a lead singer in church and our gazes lingered on each other. I saw everything, the guilt, and the weight resting heavily on her shoulder. The way she twisted her fingers, I knew or I thought I knew.

After service, we had a brief conversation while we avoided to make eye contact. 

"Do you want to grab a drink tonight?" she asked.

"Yeah. Sure, we still have a couple of minutes before everywhere turns dark," I responded.

We walked silently to the eatery down the road, and out after-service banter from the church began to recede gradually. We didn’t know each other, yet it felt like we did. She sang a popular Christian song under her breath.

“They preach that you could come with your filth, God loves you,” I said.

“He does.”

“I know… But why do I feel like I am cursed and God does not want to have anything to do with me.”

“It's hard to keep up with this two-faced lifestyle. But God loves us. He does.”

She told me how her mother found out about the first girl she dated. They attended the same school and were best friends. They kept their secret until that afternoon, lost in the sheet they had created out of their pleasure, they were caught. Her mum had flogged her as if exorcising a demon, placed her on a strict curfew, and took her to a new school. She learnt to conceal her tendencies and to live the two-faced life perfectly. Her mum believed it was teenage exuberance but some things never go away.

After that night, we shared our struggles and the word of God. A couple of nights later, we kissed and held hands while she walked me to the road where I got a cab to the school hostel. Many times, we would chat deep into the night. On one of those nights, I requested that I visit her at her place, but she declined. 

“Anything could happen.”

“But we are on our journey of celibacy,” I retorted and she agreed. 

I saw her sitting silently on her sofa, typing away on her system. She glanced at me awkwardly when I complimented her place. The decor was minimalistic and the walls untouched. Everything looked pristine and organised like the home of someone who was fleeing from something. 

“Do you want to eat anything?” she asked.

Before I could respond, she jumped out of her seat, went into the kitchen, and came out with a tray filled with chips and Hollandia yoghurt. She opened it for me, sat beside me, and kissed my ear. "You smell so nice."  

“Thank you.” I smiled. She bit her lower lip while I watched her discreetly. I wanted her to kiss my ear one more time and kiss my lips. I wanted everything just this last time. But I only stared at the cup as if that was all that mattered in the world.

“Do you like the cup? It was a present from my fiancé. He broke up with me when he found out I was seeing another girl.”

“Do you still like him?” 

She paused before she answered. "We were supposed to get married the month it happened."

 A few months later, I watched her prepare for her flight to America scheduled in a couple weeks. She had gotten a role with a big firm and a change of environment was all she had been waiting for. Maybe she would find God, find herself, and learn to live. Boxes. Boxes. Asking if I wanted this or that. I stood still, nodding my head. But she did not look at me. She threw the things I would like into a box she called mine and taped it up. When she was done, she moved the boxes to the side and stared at me. 

“Are you alright? You’ve been quiet.”

“Yes.”

She touched my face. I was crying. We stayed in the dimly lit room, kissing and cuddling. Then, we retreated and lay on the bed, our backs turned towards one another. I tried calling and texting her during the week but none of them went through, so I went to her place the next weekend. Did our special knock. She didn't answer. A slim old lady walked by and told me that she was gone. That was it.

She'd left.