I know, I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone. It was inferred owing to who you are or at least who you present yourself to be. It was inferred that this – us – was not meant to slip into our real lives, to escape our phones, wander beyond our minds or anywhere outside us. Yet we broke that convention. You said you told a close friend about me without mentioning my name. I wonder who this friend is. Are they a she or a he? I doubt they’re a they. I don’t think your circles are that liberal, though your dick is. I, on the other hand tweeted about you. I didn’t sit my friends down to tell them. I know you were concerned about them knowing. First of all, my friends hate you. If those bitches knew, I’d never see the end of it. So no, I didn’t tell them. Besides being too protective of you, I’m not the guy to allow third parties into my relations. I find it weird. Yet I’m writing a whole essay about you. I’ll just tell everyone this is fiction.

I did tell a friend, I must have forgotten how to pronounce your name. It was that night we drunk texted. After my play rehearsals, we drunk and talked about guys like you. That reminds me of Who Is Fancy’s Boys Like You.

I try try try.
To follow the rules.
I break every one of them with boys like you

This is you. Unlike you, I don’t care about the rules. Exactly why you were drawn to me, you said it. So have other guys. I’m not just unconventional, sometimes I wear it. I flaunt it. And when I do, guys emerge to congratulate me upon my apparel. It is also how they tell me they’ve seen me. I am a dare. As basic people sneer and slur, lovers of art, you and other guys are dazzled. The things men like about me are the same things they hate me for. They’re femmephobic as though my femininity isn’t what they need to reaffirm their masculinity; to convince themselves that I’m not really a man thus they’re still into women while I am a man for that is what makes their phallus bump blood to the corners of their body. A man can want you and still hate you. He will hate you for wanting you and will attempt to get into your life for either or both. I feared you’d hate me. After you savored me and didn’t want to stop. After the subsequent stings of regret burning on your tongue made you detest the sweetness of the pineapple. After the flavor of my flesh was nothing like my body and face. You said you feared we’d fall in…

We agreed not to fall for each other. We had a duty to caution the other when he was doing too much; things that would make us cave in. So, when you asked about my days, I refrained from saying too enough. Such would dissolve you into my life and inevitably grant me a lease in a chamber of your heart. I feared you’d hate me if we were uncovered. That’s why I didn’t mind the disappearing messages. Although I’m careful with my mouth, these phones aren’t as careful despite their passwords and biometric locks. I didn’t want anyone to find you in my phone. It would be revenge porn but worse, for a man’s nakedness would rather be on the internet than him being exposed that way.

I never understood our dynamics, how I ended up with a guy like you or you with me. We were a Charles Dickens coincidence. You texted me all those years ago to censure me. We bartered stares at Makerere. Years later, we followed each other on Twitter, liked each other’s tweets. I searched for and found your Instagram, left it in my search history intending to follow you later that night. Do you know my nerves twisted when I saw your follow request that very night? I tweeted about the signs, I asked the world if I was deranged. You tweeted that I wasn’t. My nerves pulled even harder, I was a mare tethered by its nerves that were infected by you. I suspected you were playing with me. We continued tweeting each other. Your tweets were too subtle but they were spelt for me. Then you tweeted that we can’t do this and I tweeted asking what you meant. Seconds later, your name popped up on my notification bar. It wasn’t a like, nor a retweet, it was a message. The tethers broke and the mare fled out of me, it twirled around my room, sprinkling black glitter dust off its sable body…

My friends thought it was some other guy because the twitter algorithm had his tweets aligned with mine on that day. Delusionally, he thought your tweets were about him, and he tweeted back *insert laughing emojis* Anyway, I wanted it that way, I needed a fall guy. I often argued against him on twitter for people to think something more fueled the constant virtual disagreement. And it worked, even my friends thought it was him. You see how I was planning for us? He’s not even my type. I think you’re my type; guys like you. I don’t know why I allow myself to carry your burdens. I already have shackles of my own.

What was it about you? It wasn’t enough that you wear trousers like mine. It was you, your life, who you are, the impossibility. You were not just forbidden, you were extra forbidden. I think the idea of our story aroused me, not that it’s novel, guys like you have been like me to the point Hollywood high school shows made it a trope.

You always looked like you can break, literally. It gave you a vulnerability that I respected. It removed you from wherever you are in society, from how different you see the world under your long lower limbs, and brought you down to me. It made you real. I see your lissom nakedness walking around, within those walls we first met. Those measly ass cheeks glued onto you like they were served by Kikumi-Kikumi restaurant women who mastered the art of smearing matooke on most of the plate to convince the customer he has been served plenty. The scattered three hairs on your chest. The fine discomfort of leaning against your exo-asternal ribs. There’s a chance I liked you for looking like that, in case they came snooping, they wouldn’t catch us because you’d fold and pass through the window railing to leave me behind. The offence is by two, therefore without you – not guilty!

Laying parallel to you on the that bed, I felt immortal, now I try to recollect those hours and I don’t have enough. You said I was not what you imagined, you thought me to be sassy. We both know you meant girly. The truth is, you also expected a bitch! The one you said you occasionally saw at Makerere whose fashion you liked but he looked mean as fuck. I thought about coming with attitude the next time we met, strutting around and speaking like the author of my tweets that daunt you. I think you’d love that Kennedy.

I, on the other hand don’t know what I expected. I already knew your hard guy persona was an act. There are things I don’t understand about you. Things I didn’t understand and didn’t feel it was my place to ask. You can’t win with men, you just can never. And it’s okay, for the war with you is a war I didn’t want to win. Within those walls, you asked me many questions, questions whose answers I didn’t have for you. I was worried you wanted to read the whole book in one sitting then go, leave before I destroyed you. So, I didn’t answer, even when I wanted to. I’d like to believe I gave you something before we returned to earth and rejoined our opposite paths. You were surprised by my niceness, you said you’d be calling me sweet Kennedy. Very cringe and teasy, yet I didn’t mind. For meeting you, put words to a face, gave emotions a voice and connection a frame. It was a miracle to be in the same room.

After that text you sent, I didn’t think we’d ever share air, even more in those circumstances, like in Eden.

I was starkly reminded about the things that will turn me into the person I want to be and my undeniable, force filled passionate connection with you is not one of those things. It threatens the little status quo ive tried so hard to build over the last couple of years and however much I want you, us, its something that’s going to destroy me. I can’t have it all and I finally accept that. I can’t have it all and remain sane

that, inspired In Eden, we sinned.
I read your paragraph.
Where has that English been?
when we flirted, it was,
“you’re sexy” “you’re so hot” on repeat.
now you use big words
so sharp,

they cut,

I bleed.

           “…however much I want you, us, it’s
           something that’s going to destroy me.”


you thought words would snuff out our flame,
a thousand fire brigades couldn’t succeed.
I know it’s a man eat man world.
when I imagined you eating me,
I didn’t mean like this.
So, embrace your demons
come tame this monster
forget your creed
listen to your heart
succumb to your dick
you’ll repent our sin.


I don’t believe we’re sin. I only used the language you understand. Do I look like a sin? Boy, I’m proof you’re blessed. All those break ups only to come back knocking on my door days later. That drunk texting night when you passively said the things you wanted, unsure I’d acquiesce. You underestimate how much I can like someone.

Perhaps it was your name. I cannot hear Calling Your Name by Jon Batiste and not go back to the first time I listened to it, upon your recommendation. I’ve always liked your name, I liked saying it within, and outside, in my room. That was the only time I’d say it, not when I’m ranting to a friend about you or when I’m calling on you, for we hardly used our voices. I liked it. I imagined moaning it. There’s a beautiful sentence that was here. In its lines, I used your name’s meaning to allude to what happened to us. Unfortunately, however much I tried, I couldn’t achieve the subtlety required and so I deleted it. But I could never delete your traces from my arteries.

You may think I hate you, most people think I hate them. They don’t know me. We casually say I hate this, we hate that person but we know what hate really is. It is more than that. I couldn’t hate you even if I wanted to. I was hoping you’d give me a reason to. The problem with that plan is you’re not a bad guy. I saw that you and I are not so different; just two young men trying to figure out ourselves while aspirations, family, society, tradition, religion and this government tax us. Secondly, you gave me a new phenomenon, and were kind despite everything. The latter is not it, everyone I’ve trusted my body with has been good to me. I don’t know why. Do y’all see that beneath this assertive unfriendly guy is a fragile boy who if treated otherwise would shutter? Has the world trounced me so bad, it gifted me the ability to discern nice guys? Maybe I’m too strict like you always said. I was waiting for you to be funny so I can walk away.


I once posted, Everything that we left unspoken will never be said from “Raincatchers” by Birdy. You liked that post. This is everything I left unspoken. You were not Prince Charming, you were the guy who made me feel things or as I like to say – made things feel me. I read somewhere that when you’re loved by a writer you’ll never die. Me loving you is a motion I’d vehemently argue against in court, notwithstanding all the above, and win. Which has me thinking, when I love, won’t I write a library. I remember your countenance after you read In Eden, we sinned. I still think you were pretending you hadn’t seen it on my twitter page earlier. I doubt you’ll ever be written about like this. You once said who needs a mirror when you have Kennedy to affirm you. You no longer have Kennedy so this is a piece of me, which is given for you. Keep this in remembrance of me.