Only on the Weekends, page 20
Over the past week
K has posted new photos
And videos of them.
Weights at the gym.
Basketball at school.
Football in Victoria Park.
I know it’s not our park,
But it’s the park where we would walk loops,
And talk for hours.
Now I don’t know what to say to K.
My mind feels like
It loops and leaps.
I don’t think K would
Cheat on me.
But I’m sure
K doesn’t think I would
Cheat on him.
“Are you and D a thing?”
K looks at me, like I’m a bee
That’s just stung him.
He looks hurt but also ready
To punch me
Like Muhammad Ali
In the poster on the wall.
“Not this again,” groans K.
“Don’t deflect!” I yell.
“Just answer: Yes or no?”
“No,” K says coldly.
“Don’t lie!”
I reply, through gritted teeth.
“Even before Dubai,
You were always with him.
At basketball. At the gym.
Just look at all this.”
I whip out my phone
And show K his profile,
Like a compact mirror
In my shaking hand.
“Are you mad, Mack?”
K says this so curtly.
That’s when I know,
I’ve got this badly wrong
And K is mad at me.
He calls me by my name:
I’m not his Cupcake anymore.
My phone hand drops to the bed.
We fall silent, while
Yesterday’s Gone plays on.
“What do you think of me?”
Asks K, finally.
It’s such an open question:
It makes me feel nauseous.
“I think a lot of things about you.”
I suppress the sick feeling in my stomach.
“If you’re refusing to answer my question,
Let me ask you a different one:
Isn’t D more your type?”
“What the fuck are you
Talking about? My type?”
K looks around his room,
Like we have an audience,
Even though
There’s no one else here,
Just posters of men with muscles,
Footballs, basketballs,
Microphones, and boxing gloves.
K’s man cave.
His gallery of masculinity.
For a moment, I wonder
If he sees what I see,
But I don’t think he does.
K continues:
“I don’t have a type.
I have you.”
Maybe this was meant to
Reassure me.
But it doesn’t.
“There are no photos of me
On your social media
Or even in your room.
And your precious team
Don’t know about me.”
“That’s how it has to be.
Not everyone needs to know about us.
I thought you understood that already.”
“That was before
You started posting photos and videos
Like this with D.”
“Why are you so obsessed with him?
He’s just a friend.”
“Yeah, a special friend
Who came to Dubai
And met your mum.”
“Why does it matter
That he met my mum?
I don’t live with her.
I live here with Maz and Uncle O.
This is my home
And you’re a part of it.
I’m just an awkward visitor over there.
I don’t feel welcome.
My stepdad don’t like me.
It makes my mum uneasy.
I wanted D with me
To make it bearable.
To make it feel casual.
I’m sorry I wasn’t clear
About him coming.”
“Did you keep it from me
’Cause you knew I’d be upset?”
“Maybe.
I didn’t know how to bring it up
And in the end
I realized I’d left it too late.”
“It’s never too late
To tell the truth,” I say.
“If you and D are a thing
You can tell me now
And I won’t be angry.
I just want you
To be honest with me.
Please, K.”
I know my face looks
Like the pleading face emoji.
I can’t tell for sure
If this is natural or an act.
I should be the one
To tell K I have feelings for Fin.
But I deflect instead.
K closes his eyes
And rubs his temples.
He breathes deeply.
When he finally opens his eyes,
He says,
“Mack, I’m not happy.”
Is he about to dump me?
I wait for him to say it.
“I’m not happy being in the closet.
But I’m just not ready to come out
To everyone.
I’ve made some progress.
I told D I’m not straight.
He’s the only person I’ve told.
With Maz and Uncle O
I never said the words.
They saw you and me together
And I didn’t need to say it.
With D it was different.
He had no idea.
He thought it was a prank at first.
He kept looking for a camera.
When he realized it wasn’t a joke,
He thanked me.
He thanked me for trusting him.
And it felt so . . .” K’s tears flow freely,
Which sets me off, too.
I’m relieved
He’s not breaking up with me
And overwhelmed by his story.
I go to hug K.
But he puts up a hand,
As if to say: Wait.
K wipes his eyes
And regains his composure:
“It felt good to tell someone.
Someone that didn’t need to know
Someone I could’ve easily kept hiding it from.
Once I told him I’m not straight
I could explain why I feel awkward
Around the team.
I could to talk to him about childhood stuff,
Cultural stuff, religious stuff.
It was such a relief.
He’s had similar experiences to me
Even though he’s straight.
You’re right, he’s a special friend.
But I swear there’s nothing going on,
Romantically or sexually,
Between D and me.
He’s just a really good friend.
And I’m a rubbish boyfriend.
But from now on, I’ll tell you everything.”
Even though this is exactly what I want to hear,
I fear I can’t make the same promise to K.
“So, if Didier knows you’re not straight,
Does that mean you’ve talked about me?”
I realize how self-centered I sound
The moment I’ve said it.
K rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, I’ve talked to D about you.
Just like you talk to Maz
And your boys about me.
When you told me how Femi and Sim
Were cool with you being gay,
It made me want that.
I wouldn’t have come out to D
If it wasn’t for you.”
K leans forward
And kisses me on my forehead.
It feels like sunlight pours into me
From where his lips touch.
The sunlight flows through my face,
Down my neck, to my shoulders,
Fills my chest and the rest of me.
It’s the first time K has done this,
And it somehow feels even more intimate
Than a kiss on the lips.
K leans back and smiles.
“W-what was that?” I ask.
“It just felt like the right thing to do,”
He says timidly. “Was it all right?”
It was more than all right.
I feel aglow with K’s light.
Maz knocks on the open door.
“Hey, lovebirds.
My dad said to tell you
The koshari’s ready.”
I’m sat at the kitchen table.
Uncle O’s koshari fills my belly
As it has many times before.
The palpable difference is
I’m not here as Maz’s guest anymore:
I’m here as K’s boyfriend.
It’s like I’m tethered to him
By some invisible thing.
“So,” says Maz, with a head tilt
And raised eyebrow.
“What do you lovebirds have planned
For next weekend?”
“Actually, next weekend I’m going on a hike
With some kids from my Glasgow school.”
“Wow! You really are walking more.
Good for you, habibi,” says Uncle O.
“Try not to fall this time,” laughs Maz.
Even though it’s a joke, it stings a little.
“I’ll try,” I reply flatly.
K takes my hand under the table
And squeezes it gently.
Saturday Evening
Before I head back to Glasgow,
I pop over to the London house
To pick up the walking boots
Dad bought me
For our failed hiking attempt.
I left them behind, since I was certain
I wouldn’t use them again.
I look at the scar on my hand and laugh:
Am I setting myself up for more pain?
I can’t believe Fin convinced me
To go up another mountain.
What will Fin have me do next?
Scuba dive? Bungee jump?
I think back to K’s words
From before the move:
I wanna be with you.
I also wanna be a bit more like you.
That’s how I feel about Fin.
It’s so confusing.
I think back to K’s words from today:
From now on, I’ll tell you everything.
I should’ve told K it was Fin
Who invited me on this hike.
Instead, I said I was going with
Some kids from my Glasgow school.
This is true:
Cleo and Ross are coming.
Is it better or worse
That Fin knows about K?
Fin knows I’ve got a boyfriend,
So it’s okay to hang out with Fin.
As long as I don’t kiss him,
It’s totally fine. It’s not cheating.
As I step through the front door,
I kick a book-shaped package.
I bend down to pick it up.
It must have been hand-delivered,
Because it simply says:
Mr. Fadayomi in thick black pen.
It’s my name too.
It plausibly could be for me.
I rip it open eagerly,
Like a birthday present.
But today it feels more
Like pass-the-parcel
At someone else’s party,
And I’ve hesitated, waited
For the music to stop.
There’s just one layer
Of thick brown paper
To get through before
I hold the prize in my hands.
Hands that shake.
I hold a notebook
With a name
Handwritten on the front:
Yetunde.
The mother returns.
Mum’s name.
Mum’s notebook?
When I open the cover,
I discover
A loose piece of paper.
A letter for Dad.
Dear Tejumola
This is the first item
of many
I wish to return to you
and Mackintosh.
I have the larger things
packed up and waiting:
Yetunde’s sketchbooks
and all her paintings.
I can arrange
to send them all to you,
but I wanted to check
if that’s what you wish.
I’ve tried to reach you
by email,
and Facebook, too.
Are you ignoring
my messages?
I asked my cousin
in London to find out
your address.
I’m writing
with a heavy heart
to inform you
my father has died.
I can accept
this may not mean
much to you,
since there was
so little love
between you two.
You must understand,
my father stubbornly believed
you stole his daughter.
He would never
accept the truth:
Yetunde left and stayed away,
of her own accord,
long before she fell ill.
My heartbroken father
would always say:
“That wicked man
stole precious time
with my darling daughter.”
I don’t share his point of view.
I miss my big sister
but I never blamed you.
I never thought it was right
for my father to ask you
for Yetunde’s work.
I don’t believe
he would have done so
had he known
it would mean
never seeing his grandson.
How is my nephew?
I would love you, both,
to visit our family home
because it’s your home, too.
I will always regret
not standing up to my father
at the time.
I was young
and wanted to be a good son.
I also wanted to hold on
to my big sister.
I’m so sorry
for what was taken
and kept from you
for so long.
I pray for you
to forgive me.
Yours sincerely,
Akin
On the Back of the Letter
There’s an address
In Lagos, Nigeria,
As well as an email
And a phone number.
To contact Akin
Is not my call to make:
That’s Dad’s decision.
And
Maybe I shouldn’t have looked
Inside this notebook
But
I’m so glad I did
Because Mum’s poems
Are addressed to me.
Take Note
Take note, my son.
I have left for you a legacy of word and sound.
Do not look for me in lyrics alone.
Listen with curiosity:
I am the smooth and steady stroke of the snare drum.
I am the bass guitar setting rhythm.
For you, my son, I am the needle finding the groove
of whatever song you choose.
New Message to Gem
MACK: Are you with Dad?
GEM: No, I’m not.
He should be at the flat.
Are you okay, sweetie?
MACK: Can we talk?
Gem calls immediately.
I tell her about Mum’s notebook.
Pages of poems addressed to me.
The letter from Akin addressed to Dad.
“Ah, I see,” says Gem.
She doesn’t sound surprised.
If anything, she sounds annoyed.
“Did you know about this?” I ask.
“Akin emailed months ago.
Teju refuses to engage with him.
He asked me not to, either.”
“Why?” I ask, baffled.
“He said he didn’t want to
‘Reopen old wounds’
Or words to that effect.
Despite being a director,
Your dad isn’t very direct
When it comes to talking
About his own feelings.
Especially about Yetunde.
I gave up encouraging him
To go to grief counseling.
He threw himself into work.”
We’re silent for a while,
Before Gem continues:
“Mack, I know it’s a lot to ask,
But can we keep this
Conversation between us?
Let Teju explain in his own way.
Think of what he’s already lost,
Not just what you have to gain.
I know this must be hard for you,
But don’t forget:
Parents are people, too.”
Back in Glasgow
I enter a silent flat
But can sense in the air
That Dad is here.
I wake him and deliver the notebook.
I explain how I found it.
He sits up in bed, bleary-eyed,
He reads Akin’s letter,
Probably wonders if this is a dream.
Maybe it is the end of a nightmare.
Dad lets out a gust of air
From his nose, a raging bull:
“Even though he’s dead,
I can’t bring myself to tell you
All of the things
Your grandfather said.
The way he insulted me,
When I was grieving.
What he threatened to do
If I didn’t give him
Everything she’d written,
Sketched, and painted.
Every piece of art she’d created.
He said he would
Find a way to take you from me.
I know now,
That wouldn’t have been possible.
But I was grieving
And he was so convincing
And I just couldn’t risk losing you.
Once I realized what I’d given up,
I felt like such a fool.
I couldn’t face it.
I’d betrayed your mother’s memory.
What makes it worse is
He never exhibited
Or displayed her work.
He denied your mother her legacy.
