Let this be your undoing – Olúwasèyífúnmi Adédayọ̀

I

The newcomer announces his arrival with music—a thumping bass that pulses through the walls, ruining your study sesh. After much deliberation, since no one else seems willing, you decide to confront him. He finally hears your sixth knock—a miracle, really. The dude who opens the door fills the frame, his chest broad and sculpted, as though he were carved for a life far grander than the dingy corners of this dorm.

Your resolve wavers. Instead of complaining, you smile, introduce yourself, and extend your hand in a gesture of how glad you are to have him as a neighbour. He beams and says his name is Ayodeji. The handshake drags on longer than it needs to, his grip firm yet warm. You catch yourself wondering if it means something.

On a rethink, you keep your distance, unsure if you’re reading him right. Still, thoughts of him take up more space in your head than you’d like to admit. The next night, as you power through studying with his music still blaring, it abruptly stops. The relief barely settles before a woman’s moan cuts through the silence. Your shoulders sag. You’ve overthought again. The music resumes, louder, and you push the disappointment down like you always do.

II

A few nights later, with exams behind you and boredom creeping in, you open Grindr to pass the time. You share your photos with someone whose username—Assbruiser—makes you snort. He takes too long to respond, so you type, “Not interested or just slow?” Minutes later, a knock at your door makes your stomach tighten. No one visits this late. You inch open the door to find Ayodeji holding up his phone.

Your message stares back at you. “Got something to say?” he asks, smirking, and before you have a chance to say anything, he steps in. Without being told, he sits on your bed, which groans under his weight. You hesitate by the door, heart pounding, watching him scan your space with raised brows. “Hmm, so tidy. That’s unusual,” he says, then silence falls, only the ticking of the wall clock punctuating it. An eternity passes before he gets up, and you move aside, thinking he’s about to leave. Instead, he bolts the door, and you know the night has taken a different turn.

III

What follows is a routine of submission. Night after night, he comes into your room, demanding you to kneel, relax your jaws, or keep them tight, making it dripping wet. You obey, even when the taste of him clings bitter to your tongue, even when shame presses heavier than his hands. He does nothing else, just leaves afterwards.

Often, you want to say no to him, resisting his prod for you to go down, but something in his power holds you in place. On the night the scales fell from your eyes to your true worth, you shake off his grip around your head and look him straight in the eyes.

“You’re selfish,” you snarl. For a moment, his mouth hangs open.

“You don’t get it,” he mumbles, looking past you, as if he’s trying to find something just out of reach.

You almost feel sorry for him. Almost. Then he sneers, calls himself bi, muttering that your lips are the only thing driving him crazy. You snap, surprising yourself with how fiercely you slam the door behind him. A week—perhaps two—passes without a word between you, and then, one pitch-black night, he reappears at your doorstep, eyes sulky like a poodle’s.

The second you open the door, he’s in, pinning you against the wall, his mouth devouring yours. Objections scorch in the heat of his mouth. In a flash, he’s on his knees, freeing your rigidity and wrapping his lips around it, making you gasp. At first, you close your eyes, then open them to stare down at him. His bobbing head, he on his knees, sends a wild thrill through you.

IV

The night Somto, your best friend, catches him in your room, Ayodeji’s face hardens at Somto’s high-pitched voice, his loose wrists, and swaying hips. Right then, he gets up and leaves. Somto watches him go, then turns back to you, arms crossed.

“Back like you never left?” Somto begins. “That guy’s in full denial of what he is, yet he dares to look down on anyone who isn’t like him? Boy, please.”

You square your shoulders. ‘Not everyone needs to scream it from the rooftops.’

Somto lets out a sharp scoff, rolling his eyes. “Hiding it like it’s some dirty secret? That isn’t being careful, honey—that’s being ashamed. Wake up!” He snaps his fingers, fast, as if it’s meant to jolt you from your complacency.

V

What began as a typical Saturday spirals into a catastrophic descent. A loud argument from Ayodeji’s room startles you awake. You’re barely out of bed when the shattering of objects—glass and plates—as if they are being thrown at the walls—begins, and you feel a surge of fear like never before. Stepping out into the corridor, you see your housemates surrounding Ayodeji, who’s being yelled at by a lady whose fist is clenched around his bunched-up shirt.

She’s his girlfriend—no one needs to tell you. You’ve seen her wearing his polo around the hostel and heard her through the thin walls. Out of nowhere, her eyes zero in on you, then dart to the scrawny housemate—the one who’s always skulking near everyone’s door, ear pressed for juicy gossip. One nod from him and you know you’ve been outed. Before your brain can register it, she releases Ayodeji and charges toward you, slapping, scratching, and shouting accusations of you sleeping with her boyfriend.

The word “homo” burns worse than anything. Your housemates freeze in shock for a moment before springing into action, prying you both apart. Ayodeji doesn’t flinch, his eyes on the floor, refusing to meet yours. He looks small now, standing motionless like an onlooker observing your undoing. After a moment, he retreats to his room, shutting the door behind him.

A few of your housemates offer hollow apologies, convinced the accusation can’t be true, as they did with the ones she made against two female housemates in the past, based on gossip she’d caught wind of. But none of it matters. You’ve been here before, and the familiarity of it all suffocates. You’re back there again, forced to your knees before your stepfather, your mother’s gasp from the doorway freezing the blood in your veins.

You see your mother in the girlfriend’s fury, your stepfather’s smugness in Ayodeji’s indifference. He stood by, watching your mother’s rage draw blood, calling you the devil’s pawn, the reason for his downfall. Not him. Not the way he held your head in place or the sting of his rough hair scraping against your face

You wonder what would have become of you if those thugs had appeared—the ones who came for the crossdresser down the street and left him battered. A single word—an accusation—is all that’s needed to have them show up, fists ready to deliver their twisted version of justice. You run your trembling fingers over the fresh scratches on your arms and face. They sting, sharp and undeniable. You wonder how long it will take for them to heal—or if they ever truly will.

Bio:

Olúwasèyífúnmi Adédayọ̀ writes fiction and poetry. He writes because every now and again, the urge to put pen to paper takes hold of him. His work has been featured in a handful of literary journals—Entropy Squared (100 words), Poetry Potion, Shot Glass Journal, Brittle Paper—and he hopes to see his writing reach even more platforms in the future. You can find him on Twitter @aboycalled_seyi