Seams: The Next Decade - Episode 4
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-Gozie was truly awed by this one. They’d been to several spas in the last two years, but he’d never seen one so extravagant he had nothing to critique. The tea set he drank out of was crafted out of redwood and was near impossible to hold by the handle, so he held it by its rim like a shot glass as he took in the door.
It was made from wood panelling, lacquered to give it an unnatural gloss and protect the artist rendering of a Japanese countryside with blooming cherry blossom trees shedding their prized flowers. Standing in the corner was a sculpture of a pair of dancing kitsune, their half-human bodies wrapped by furry tails. Embossed on the furniture, massage beds and the wooden bowls that held essential oils were stylized lotuses, in line with the name of the spa, The Lotus Society.
Any more and this place would have been pretentious, but this, this was just the right amount of audacious to inspire awe.
The door to the changing room slid open to reveal Chibuzor, swaddled in towels and brimming with mischief.
“You like?” he asked Gozie.
Gozie, still consumed with the decor of the massage room, gave a perfunctory thumbs up.
Chibuzor made a face. “Na wa! What does a man have to do to get proper appreciation around here?”
When he realised Chibuzor was still waiting for a response, Gozie put his teacup to his lips and made a show of taking a noisy sip.
“Well, your delivery could be much stronger. If Destiny Child's 'Cater To You' was playing in the background, just maybe I'd overlook the fact that you're bald by choice and walking around with a forested crotch.”
Chibuzor clucked. “And you think me, I will remove money from my account at the end of the month and pay you? Okay now.”
The door opened, startling both of them. Behind it was a diminutive Filipino woman in a starched blue uniform, a paper-thin kimono belted over it with an Obi belt. She looked both of them over before bowing slightly to Chibuzor.
“My apologies sir, I’ll let you finish with your guest.”
It took Chibuzor a few seconds to assess the situation and zero in on why she was acting so strangely. He cackled, realizing the look on her face was an embarrassment.
“Umm, sweetie no. Gozie is my manager, like a Chihuahua but more useful. He goes where I go.”
He dropped his towel to reveal a black thong and walked over to assume the position on the massage bed. Gozie watched in amusement, sipping his tea. The woman’s gaze flitted between Gozie and Chibuzor, stupefied by what she was seeing. Chibuzor beckoned to her and patted the massage bed.
“If he didn’t force me to, I’d never remember to moisturize, let alone honour spa appointments. Go about your business and pretend he is a talking flower pot or something.”
The woman stole one more surreptitious glance at Gozie before crossing the room to join Chibuzor at the massage table. Her initial apprehension gone, the woman took charge, moving him until he was prone on the table, his head buried in the headrest. She was firm but quick, her fingers moving swiftly, guiding waves of pressure up his back. He moaned despite himself, earning a chuckle from Gozie, who he could hear slapping away at his tablet. He let himself melt into the table as she kneaded the kinks out of his broken body.
“You’re not allowed to fall asleep.” Gozie’s voice drifted into the halfway place he’d been kneaded into, “we still have your itinerary to sort through.”
He mumbled a response, barely able to think of anything other than the numb pleasure spreading through his body.
Gozie, used to this, continued unbidden. “Other than filming today and Thursday's meeting the people at Grey Velvet and Friday's ambassador appearance for Samsung, the week is looking pretty open. So you might want to finally decide on a day to put this interview with Panlam.”
Chibuzor tried to raise his head, but the masseuse pushed it back into the headrest.
“Work is not allowed during a massage.”
Chibuzor cursed under his breath and raised his voice so Gozie could hear him.
“I was clear that I wasn’t doing that.”
Gozie highlighted the task on the spreadsheet. “Tell that to your publicist. Kike’s already called me twice to ask if you'd asked me to schedule it already, had to lie that your week is swamped. She asked to remind you that…”
“...time is of the 'essence'. Yes, I know.” Chibuzor cut in, “She acts like I haven't been more successful at new media than anyone she knows in Nigeria. I just don't see the point in sticking my neck out for Panlam. She's…”
“May I ask that you stay still?” the masseuse asked, even though her tone suggested that was anything but a question.
Chibuzor raised his head to meet her eye and show his admiration.
“You’re an impressive lady, but sadly I listen to no one.”
He pushed off the bed, leaving her elbow-deep in massage oils and stalked over to look at Gozie’s tablet himself. His screen was choked up with a stream of messages from Kike and a concession that Chibuzor’s involvement would be settled by day’s end. He gently killed the screen.
“Nna, Panlam and I have nearly a decade of bad blood between us, and I don't think I'm a good enough person to not get petty if I do interview her. I'd much rather not have that on my conscience.”
“Are you being sarcastic?” Gozie asked.
“If I was, you’d know,” Chibuzor replied.
The masseuse, having waited an appropriate amount of time, came to usher Chibuzor back to the massage bed.
“Sir, at the Lotus Society, we consider a client leaving the massage bed as an indication that they wish to end the session,” she said, as she dripped oil on his exposed thighs. Chibuzor clucked at her.
“Gozie, please what were you saying?”
Gozie walked over to the bed and put his phone under the headrest. His phone was flashing with a new message from Kike.
“I know I've not been around Kike as long as you have,” he said, “but even I know she never begs. And she sounded beggy last night when she called.”
Chibuzor sighed, the massage was supposed to be relaxing but all he felt was tension.
“I know, that's why I've been avoiding her calls. Desperation turns Kike into a whole different monster.”
“She said as much.” Gozie agreed, “She also said this would elevate your career, and from what I know of her, she doesn’t make empty pronouncements.”
“I know!” Chibuzor hissed, clenching his jaw.
Gozie raised his hands in mock surrender.
“You asked, I'm just offering an opinion. When you’re done, I’ll be downstairs getting a pedicure.”
Chibuzor listened as the door to the massage room opened and shut. He shut his eyes, tried to feel the calming effect of the jade roller the massage therapist was kneading against his spine. He hated that Kike was right about him being petty and childish. He hated that he already knew his resistance was futile, she always found a way to make him do what was right for his career.
“Fuck!” he cursed under his breath.
#
The ride from the spa was so stressful that Chibuzor swapped seats and let Gozie drive. The studio they were using for the week was at Lekki Gardens and they had to stew in the dreaded Lekki traffic for two hours before they finally crossed the Jakande roundabout and breezed the rest of the way. The studio was compact but state of the art, the lighting and set, ready before they arrived. All he had to do was costuming and a light touchup while Gozie shared the brief with the director.
“Please no makeup, he’s in a mood today.” Gozie whispered to the makeup artist as the stylist helped Chibuzor into a svelte jumpsuit.
He stayed silent while the stylist accessorized, and waited until the Gozie and the director had agreed on art direction. He wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone but the camera. He sat in the chair and fumed as the Director of photography adjusted the lights.
“He looks washed out.” Nengi, the director, whispered to Gozie.
“Just leave it,” Gozie replied, a little defeated. “He got a peel, even though I told him it would fuck up his face for 48 hours at least. He didn’t want makeup, felt it would mess up the peel.”
Nengi was upset and did little to hide it. “My makeup artist is the professional in this situation, not him. He can make his preferences known, but ultimately we decide what is sufficient.”
She gestured to the makeup artist, who approached the set, brushes at the ready. Chibuzor bared his teeth at the makeup artist, who froze, unsure of how to proceed.
“I swear to God, if she touches me with those brushes, I’m leaving and going home.”
Gozie sidled past the makeup artist and walked on to the set. He took Chibuzor by the arm, digging his fingers into his flesh and put his lips to Chibuzor’s ear.
“The live cast from Samsung's end is starting in 20 minutes, so unless you want pictures of your face complete with eye bags on the internet by tomorrow morning, let the makeup artist do her job.”
He let go of Chibuzor’s arm and rejoined Nengi offset.
Chibuzor tried not to sulk as the makeup artist worked on his face. Few people could talk sense into him, and none like Gozie. It had always been their dynamic, even as children growing up. The 12 years between them meant he treated Chibuzor like his child, indulging his excesses, but also parenting him with the kind of firmness that neither of their parents ever managed. Their dynamic had eased since he came out, but even now Gozie brooked no nonsense from him.
Chibuzor’s phone rang, strains of Beyonce’s ‘Single Ladies’ filtering through his phone’s speakers. That was Kike’s special ring tone. He mouthed for Gozie to take the call, but that one let ring unanswered. The phone rang again and Gozie silenced it and slid it into his pocket.
“Jesus Christ Gozie!” Chibuzor swore. “This very reason is why speakerphones were invented. Please answer the call.”
Gozie did as he asked, turning on the speaker so everyone could hear.
“You know my life would be a lot easier if you didn't avoid your calls after promising me shit.” Kike said.
Chibuzor faltered, he could sense the rage underneath her calmness. “Yeah, about that. The thing is there was this…”
“Please don't lie to me Chibuzor.” she said, cutting him off. “Gozie, please ask him not to lie to me.”
“Please don't lie to her.” Gozie repeated. It was clear whose side he was on.
“I'm not lying,” Chibuzor countered, “I'm just considering what's in this for me, other than me getting 'bigger' than I already am. Panlam doesn't seem like an upgrade to me, no matter how you slice it.”
A heavy sigh came through the speakers as Kike gathered her thoughts.
“Then do it for me, as a favour, a chore, payback for the times I've saved your ass. You still know how to do that right, considering you're now this big shot Influencer person.”
“Low blow Kike. That was ‘dregs of the gutter’ low.”
“Just say yes,” Kike replied, barely missing a beat, “Do the interview and I'll be the upstanding citizen you want me to be.”
The makeup artist finished and untied the bib over his costume. He followed her off set and took the phone from Gozie, putting it to his ear.
“On one condition, I'll do it in my own time and my own terms.”
Exasperation tinged Kike’s voice. She sounded tired of persuading him.
“I already agreed to your terms. But this is time-sensitive, you're either doing it or I find another way to fix it.”
“Friday, give me till next Friday,” Chibuzor said, trying to buy himself time.
A pause on the other end. “Give Gozie the phone please.”
He reluctantly handed the phone to his older brother. They talked for a few minutes, mentioning something about suits and steaming before he ended the call.
“What did she say?”
Gozie shrugged. “Jack Daniels has an event tonight, she’s called forward to pull a suit from Rhobes for you. So you need to get started with the shoot.”
He started to ask what she said about Friday, but the look on Gozie’s face told him he’d run out of goodwill. He returned to the set and let his mind sink into the depths of his subconscious, leaving only the performer to pace through the content he was there to record.
#
Chibuzor sulked in the corner of the Uber he and Gozie shared. The Rhobes suit he wore was a blush pink and almost luminous in the glare of oncoming traffic as they inched towards the FilmHouse Cinema complex. Gozie, used to his tantrums ignored him, working deftly as he scrolled through the comments on Chibuzor’s Instagram. The suit had come by courier just as Chibuzor finished filming and he’d convinced Nengi to let her makeup artist do a touch-up and shoot professional images in the suit. The edits Nengi’s still photographer airdropped to them were fantastic, but with the internet, you could never predict how an image would be received.
“Can I see?” Chibuzor asked, leaning in to look at Gozie’s iPad.
Gozie turned the screen away from him.
“Are you sure? It’s mostly hate mail.”
“Vanilla or violent?”
That was their code to differentiate if an image was getting negative feedback because people disliked the fit or because someone in the comments had either pointed out his sexuality or suggested his outfit emphasized it.
“Apparently, someone on Nengi’s team posted a boomerang of you shouting at the makeup artist.”
Chibuzor gestured for the iPad, and Gozie handed it over. He scrolled for nearly 20 minutes, reading each comment and deleting the ones that he felt were too volatile to leave up, his forehead creasing deeper with each minute that passed. He eventually killed the screen and handed the iPad back to Gozie.
“How can all of that be just from today? This picture went up barely 3 hours ago.”
Gozie reopened Instagram and searched for a handle, then he turned the screen to his brother.
“Instablog.”
Gozie leaned forward and tapped the driver. They were a few feet away from the entrance.
“Can you park here?”
The driver turned off the road. They sat in silence for a minute, giving Chibuzor the time he needed to centre himself before the driver unlocked the car, letting them into the street.
“Do you want to go?” Gozie asked.
Chibuzor shook his head. Gozie straightened his tie and pulled him into a hug.
“You don't have to go to the launch thing at Palms tomorrow either, I'll call them to cancel.”
“Thank you,” Chibuzor whispered.
Gozie patted him on the back and started for the entrance. Chibuzor returned to the Uber and watched as it re-joined traffic leaving Gozie to mingle on his behalf.
“Where to now?” The driver asked.
“Let’s just drive for a bit.” Chibuzor replied.
They drove around the lit streets of Admiralty, past the water and the bridge and the toll, into the heart of Ikoyi. He pulled his phone out, fiddled with it, and put his Airpods in. The phone clicked as the call connected.
“Fabulous boy. Hundred days.” Tariebi said.
“Hey Tari.”
“You never call me this late. What’s wrong?”
Chibuzor sighed. “How did you handle it? Just dealing with people who hate on you when they have no idea who you are?”
“Which one? They’ve been quite a few incidents, remember?” Tariebi replied, laughing.
“You once told me trolls were why you quit modelling and started creative directing.”
“Oh. You're not thinking of quitting are you?”
“I... I don't think I have the balls to live like this. With all this hate from strangers.”
“Live like how? You're the truest person I know, online and off. That's why millions of people around the world are drawn to you, and your videos.”
Chibuzor tugged at his suit jacket, he felt like a fraud.
“But is it me they're drawn to or what they think I am or I represent?”
“The Queer thing?”
“Don't say it like that, like it's something stupid. This is my life we're talking about.”
“I didn't.”
He took a second to find the Instablog page and direct messaged Tariebi the video from earlier. He waited till she saw it.
“Today I got at least a thousand comments on a post that wasn't even on my page, of me getting touched up by my stage makeup artist before I went on screen. I didn’t give her permission to make a video of me, and she sent it to Instablog. Who the fuck does that?”
“Oh wow!” Tariebi said, he could tell she’d seen the post.
“Two-thirds of those comments were of people calling me a faggot and asking me to die. Some even went as far as threatening to kill me themselves.”
He lowered his voice, suddenly paranoid that the driver was listening over the loud music blaring in the car.
“I'm terrified of strangers walking up to me, I live in fear that one day, the person screaming my name across the street might not actually just want a selfie. When I meet people, my eyes go first to their pockets, then their hands to see if they’re carrying or hiding any weapons. I didn't want any of this.”
“I’m so sorry Xhiz, this must be terrifying.”
“It is.”
He waited in the music suffused belly of the car as she worked through her response. When she spoke, it was measured.
“When the incident that made me quit happened, I kind of just made up my mind that none of this was in my control. I didn’t see the point in marrying my private life and all the baggage I grew up with, and the glamorous person I'd become. Becoming a creative director was my compromise, leaving the limelight but doing what I’m good at. Do you think you can walk away from all of it?”
“I want to, but I can't. There's a one-third of the attention I get that is positive, they're even scarier than the people who hate me. Sometimes I feel like I'm queer baiting with the way I publicly skirt the line but never quite cross. But I guess someone has to do it. Obviously not like Bobrisky…”
“God, no.” Tariebi interrupted, chortling.
“I know.” Chibuzor agreed, “But someone has to do it, show that there is a way to exist without falling to either extreme. And it has fallen to me, somehow. Who'd have thought I'd become a Naija sex symbol.”
“With all the shit you did in University, I'd have been surprised if you didn't.”
“Jesu! Don't remind me. I'm sorry I'm bothering you, it's just that deleting death threats off my Instagram profile gets to me sometimes.”
“That's why I'm here. Your fairy gay mother.”
“Thank you, I guess.”
“Mhmmm.” Tariebi murmured. “Any more places left to go sell your soul for coins?”
“Just one.”
“Knock them dead.”
Edwin Okolo is a New York Times published Nigerian writer and journalist based in Lagos
