annashay 
A young Nigerian man cultivates a relationship with a foreign sugar daddy in the hope of making money, but fate has different plans.
| Image generated with OpenAI |
You met him in 2012 from a ‘good-for-nothing’ Facebook group. His first message was ‘a pic of your dick.’ You rolled your eyes in disgust, but played your part, asking him for some dollars. He gave excuses, and you pushed him to a corner but didn’t block him. His username reads German, but he claimed to be an American; like every sucrose guardian, he is the age of your grandfather with a white, sagging face. He told you his work is with the government but withholds the details. You chat with him only when bored and wonder if you entertain him because you lack love from home. He is always ready to tell you how much he loves you and how he may die tomorrow if you stop talking to him. He calls you his husband, his African king, his Wakanda lover with skin of honey and voice of an angel. Sometimes you forget you have a sugar daddy until friends boast about how their sugar daddy in America bought them the latest iPhone, new designer clothes and bag, or how the sugar daddy has paid their rent for two years, then you go back to your chats with your own sugar daddy.
Hi, you’ve abandoned me.
My African king. I love you too deeply to forget you.
So why didn’t I hear from you again?
You are on my mind every damn second of the day. Even if I don’t reach out, I still think about your beautiful face and angelic voice. I love you, and that’s not even questionable.
Please stop lying.
I can’t lie to you. You are my source of joy and happiness. When I feel down, I just come online and I see your smiling pictures, and I’m good. I can’t wait for the day I have you in my arms as my husband. We will get married, I tell you. Oh, how hot it will be when we consummate the marriage. Where do you want for our honeymoon?
I’m too hungry to think of honeymoon. My exams are coming up, and I don’t have food to eat, talk not of money for exam fees.
My African angel, why is this?
Because I am poor, send me money.
Western Union will take a while, you know. And I’m too old to try these new applications for fear of fraud.
I gave you 5 options the last time. All are legit and fast. I will get the money immediately; try the first one.
No, love. I have your details. I will go to the bank on Monday and try a money wire again.
You don’t love me. You want me to die of hunger. Don’t text me.
You tried many tricks, but nothing worked. He seemed to be experienced in this. In fact, he said it to you in texts that you’d stop talking to him once he sent some money: ‘That’s how you all do.’ He wants to build something genuine and concrete with you that will lead to marriage. Something built on love, not on money. But you want money. What kind of stupid relationship exists between a white man of 49 and Nigerian youth of 24 except a ship that involves money wiring and conversion from dollar to naira? You want to contribute to the conversation when your friends are talking about what-and-what they’ve received from abroad lovers. You don’t care for old men. Heck, you don’t care for white men. The first time he sent you $100, it was after you ghosted him for three months and blamed it on the lie that your mother had died and you were in the village for the burial rites. The truth is, you were focusing on your final year exams and took actual time off from social media and its many distractions. You started giving him more time and attention, and the irritating phone sex request doubled. The first time you granted a FaceTime call, his balding head was a huge turn-off, so you cut the call and blamed it on poor network coverage. You asked for some more money to buy a better internet device.
When he messaged for you to meet him in Kigali, Rwanda, you thought it was a mistake. He’d been sent by his American company to settle a business deal in central Africa. As his sugar baby, he invited and paid your return ticket from Lagos to Kigali. You sat on the news for a week, considering all the possible turns of events. For one, he could be a serial killer who has done this several times and is now proficient. Lure stupid, unloved boys from their country to a place where they know no one, kill them, and sell their parts. He could be a human trafficker harvesting fresh boys from Africa into Europe or Asia for sex. Heck, he could even be a catfish. Maybe a policeman using a false profile to catfish unsuspecting gay men and extort their families of huge ransoms with threats to out them, leak their nudes, or prosecute them with the existing SSMPA law that criminalizes same-sex interactions and associations in Nigeria. Somehow, he managed to convince you on the trip, or you convinced yourself with one of the phrases you use to make bad decisions, ‘YOLO: you only live once,’ and ‘death will come even if you’re hiding in space or disguising in the grave,’ and ‘what will be, will be.’
The flight from Lagos to Kigali lasted for about four hours and change; this was your first time in an airplane and your first trip out of Nigeria, so you sat up counting the minutes. Sugar daddy booked you a ride on the Move app; the driver picked you up from the airport to the hotel in an ominously quiet ride. Serena Hotel, the name read from a billboard hung on its tall building wall, surrounded by lush green landscape architecture. The evening was young, and the breeze was cool. Premature darkness was descending on the plain as you walked from the car through the glass front door of the hotel reception with your pink language box and white tote bag, phone in hand. You found a seat in the reception sofa and texted him. He sent apologies; he was running late but would send someone to check you into his presidential suite. A young man walked up soon after, wearing the same uniform as the other staff, but his beauty was outstanding, like the sole bright star in a moonless sky. His face was pimple-free, and from the shine on his black skin, you could tell it must be soft to the touch. His eyes were oblong shaped, funny but cute, like the hard seed of date fruit. His eyelids were darker, as if coated with mascara. A straight, petite nose linked his eyes and his mouth, making the cupid of his lips more prominent. He had a well-trimmed goatee and short moustache to match. His hairline was a bit shy but present. As he walked closer, you noticed the abundant, famous East African forehead, but his was in a cute proportion to his already beautiful face. He had the height to match his athletic build – you just knew the body was toned inside that baggy uniform.
“Can you hear me, sir?” He’d started to make sign language, thinking you were deaf.
“I can. Hi.”
“Are you Mr. Hendrik Giot Pritchard’s guest?”
“Yes,” you silently apologize for drooling.
“Come with me.”
He took your luggage and led you through the elevator to the suite, opened the door with a card and gave you the card. His perfume harassed your nose pleasantly, and you made a mental note to open a conversation with that.
“Welcome to Kigali, and please feel relaxed. We have a bar and restaurant downstairs; this card gives you access to a complimentary dinner that starts at six. We have a jacuzzi and a pool right outside. Also, we have a gym on each floor of the hotel; please feel free to use any. If you have a question, any of our staff will be delighted to help you answer them. Again, welcome to Rwanda,” he made to leave.
“You smell edible,” the words fumble out before you can catch them.
“Pardon?” He broke into a shy smile.
“Forgive me, I meant to say you smell nice.”
“Thank you.” He made to leave again.
“How did you know I’m visiting Rwanda?”
“You look Nigerian.”
“How so?”
“I know a Nigerian man when I see one. The accent is a dead giveaway.”
“Ahan, I am speaking English just like you; what accent?” You caught yourself and paused. “Oh, I see it.” You both burst out laughing, and he turned to leave. “Wait, what’s your name? I’ll want you to answer my questions when I’m down.”
“My name is Rugambwa Nkurunziza. I’d be delighted to answer your questions; however, I’m sure your man friend won’t be all happy about that.”
Of course he was talking about your sugar daddy. He was no fool; an old white man and a young, hot Nigerian boy in the same suite meant only a few things. You became overpowered by shame and watched him leave in silence. You slapped yourself with both hands to wake up from whatever pit you were falling into. How could you be so smitten by this man you’ve just seen? You only ever read about love at first sight, but never experienced it. Heck, you’d not really experienced love. All your past relationships always involved people confessing their love for you. Their hotness or looks determined your answer back. The first person you ever dated, Ifoma, from high school. You thought you were in love, but she was just always available. She bought lunch every day and was your regular girlfriend, and that meant you got to be around her. Maybe she mistook that for affection and, consequently, love. It was she who asked the question, and you, unaware of your sexuality at the time, said yes. You two were the cutest couple until you wrote your WAEC exams, and that phase ended. The second relationship you were in was with Musa Ayuba, a 6’4″ basketballer and poet. You two were freshmen, and he was the eye candy of your department, so when he came up to you with the question of being his boyfriend, you were ecstatic and answered affirmatively. But then he cheated on you with all the girls and boys in the university, from 100-level students to final-year students; he really didn’t know where to stop. It was from thence you vowed never to be with a bisexual man, ever. The third and most recent, Theophilus Ukwu, a married gay man, was the worst. You met him at 300-level in university when he came as a guest speaker for a seminar organized by your department. He was a successful actor, but you’d never seen him because you preferred reading books to watching TV. When he was called on stage at the seminar, all the girls were screaming, and two even fainted – or pretended to. He was a big deal in the Nollywood industry and recently married. When he messaged you on Instagram the following week, you were shocked. You told your friends, and they cheered you on. You started dating and meeting in expensive hotels in Lagos Island, and it was going fine until you got a text from his wife, threatening your life unless you let her husband be.
You met sugar daddy on the bed, shirtless, when you came out of the shower. His face lit up and his skin turned red. He came in when you were singing loudly in the shower, so you didn’t hear the door opening and closing. He was shorter in person, with a protuberant belly like a dishonest Nigerian politician. You smiled to hide your disappointment, and he started crying.
“There is the big, beautiful smile I love; come here.”
He drew you into a hug that lasted for what seemed like hours, all the while rocking side to side. When he was satisfied, he released you, pushed himself on his toes, and kissed your forehead three times with wet lips. He then went down on one knee.
“My African king, I have loved you since the very first chat, and I’ve nursed that love till this day. Will you marry me?” He said with a silver ring that he magically conjured from nowhere. It must have been in his palm all along, for he was wearing only boxer shorts.
“No, yes. I mean. This is too early,” you stuttered, trying to raise him to his feet. “I feel jetlagged and hungry.”
“My bad, let’s go eat. C’mon, dress up. I have a reservation with some friends at Inka Steak House just around the corner.”
As you both walked through the reception to the luxury taxi waiting outside, you bowed your head, avoiding eye contact with Rugambwa’s judgy almond eyes, but he wasn’t there. You felt relieved but also disappointed. You wished to see his beautiful face again. The ride was short, and sugar daddy was staring into your soul and smiling the whole time. The food at the steakhouse was lovely, but their meat was underdone; however, you munched on, desperately trying not to show it was your first time at a steakhouse. Griot’s friends Ashely and Fridrich were a couple, both in Kigali working as ambassadors for the Swedish government and representatives of the United Nations, respectively. The conversation almost bored you to death. They talked about their diplomacy activities and Griot’s business meeting with Rwanda’s own 100 Hills Distillery. On multiple occasions, he asked you if you were fine, and you gave him a half smile in the affirmative, which made him smile big. He was having a local beer, and as that kicked in, he became a happier version of his happy self. But none of this made you happy until you saw the familiar silhouette. You excused yourself from the table, lying you needed to take a leak.
“Ah ha! I knew it was you.”
“Hello again,” Rugambwa smiled back.
“You work here too?”
“Kigali is not for the poor man, so we have to work two, three jobs. I’m on night shift here and day shift at the hotel. How are you enjoying your visit to Rwanda?” He puffed cigarette smoke into the air.
“Boringggg,” you sang the words.
“Old men are boring, old white men are worse.” He took a long drag. “You should try younger men. You’re too handsome to be having boring trips with white grandpas,” he puffed, bending his lips to the left while maintaining eye contact. You became destabilized and fought for words, but your brain lost contact with your tongue. “See you around,” he threw the last of his cigarettes to the ground and pressed it with the tip of his shoe. “My break is up.”
“Wait, you must give me your number, or Instagram.”
He took your phone, typed his IG handle, and followed himself. When he handed the phone back to you, it began to ring; it was sugar daddy. His speech was now slurring as he asked your whereabouts and requested your presence. You got back to the table when they were paying the waiter. Like every other Rwandan lady you’d seen, she had an abundant forehead and talked through her perfectly white teeth, introduced by a huge gum. When she saw the tip they left her, she smiled widely so that all her gums and teeth were exposed in full glory. The ride home was an unpleasant one; sugar daddy was tipsy as hell, and he had his hands up your shorts throughout. You made a mental plan to feign sickness if he asked for sex, but for how long before he noticed that his whiteness disgusted you? You led him to the suite, guiding as he swayed this way and that. Once you placed him on the soft bed, he dozed off, and you blessed the Lord. After tucking yourself into bed, you went straight to Rugambwa’s profile on Instagram. He was a talented fashion designer and had his business page linked to his main profile. You liked all 53 of his pictures and proceeded to his business page to like. You held yourself from sending the first message, but you searched for his name on Google. You didn’t know when you fell asleep looking at his picture. Sugar daddy woke you up the next morning with a wet kiss on your forehead.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to wake you up. I’m sorry, I was just leaving for a meeting at the Kigali Arena; it’s not far away, but I won’t be back until 7pm,” he whispered.
“It is fine. Have a nice day.” You stretched.
“See you, love. I left some money on the side stool,” he pointed. “Just have fun till I come and don’t miss me too much.”
“I’ll try.”
He kissed your head again, and you went back to sleep. Once the door shut, you reached for your phone. 10:00am. You checked your Instagram for a message from your new crush, but nothing. You took a quick shower with a plan to head down and see him. He was not findable, so you asked one of his colleagues. She had Betsy on her name tag and looked surprised when you asked for Rugambwa. She told you he wasn’t working that day; you thanked her and went back to your suite.
Hey hi, you tested, and immediately three dots appeared above the screen; he was typing back.
Hello oga.
Are you avoiding me? Is that why you decided to take an early off?
Avoiding a fine man like yourself should be deemed illegal and punishable by some oily spanking.
Well, I find you guilty, you simp. Submit yourself for some good spanking. Devil emoji, naughty emoji.
Too bad I can’t be seen at my place of work on my off days.
You can show me around Kigali and we end the day with the spanking. What say you?
Sharp! Meet me at Bwiza Riverside Estate.
You got a ride on the Move App to his location. You kept smiling involuntarily throughout the journey on the hilly but spotlessly clean streets of Kigali. You called him when the ride reached the estate, and he immediately stepped out of the gate, as if waiting on you. Your smile was full and coy. He gave you his right hand for a shake, a firm shake, then he led you into his apartment. He lived in a flat big enough for a family of six. You complimented the art works with geometric patterns that accented the white walls. Imigongo, he called them. He explained that they were made of cow dung, natural pigment, and ash, and they had deep sentiments in Rwandan culture. The painted pattern of the imigongo was used to decorate the walls of a Rwandan noble’s huts, and the pots were used as storage but now symbolize Rwandan history and culture in art.
“Do you want to eat out or cook in?”
You wanted to say I’d rather have you in me, but you swallowed a yawn and said, “What can you cook?”
“I can make okra soup.” He was waiting for your reaction, and when you shot him a look of surprise, he explained. “I used to work for a Nigerian boss. Mr. Tayo. We dated briefly and I learned to sew under him.”
“Why did y’all break up?”
“We didn’t; he married a Ugandan lady and moved there permanently. People from here marrying Ugandans isn’t news. But what was news is, he was dating me and planning a wedding at the same time. Even had the guts to ask me to be his best man.”
“I’m so sorry. I’ve had my fair share. I thought I was in a relationship until I got a wedding invite.”
“Savage!” He laughed.
His watery okra soup was soon ready, and it was paired with matoke, a starchy pudding made from unripe bananas. You lied when he asked for a rating. You didn’t mention how weird it was eating soup and matoke instead of eba or fufu, or how he added a whole river into the pot of soup. After the meal you both stared at each other awkwardly without words until he suggested an activity – a date. Outside the gate, he hailed down two bodaboda bikes. You collected the helmet from the stretched hand of your rider and climbed the bike as he ran behind Rugambwa’s bike. The destination was a painting café with an insane amount of imigongo covering every wall space and on shelves. You were handed a canvas, which you had to first paint white as the background, then the mixture of cow dung and ash was molded onto the canvas with the fingers. The instructor explained the job of the wood ash is to bless the mixture but most importantly, reduce the smell from the cow dung. You two grabbed locally brewed beer and chatted while the artwork dried out. You exchanged life development goals and childhood stories. He told you about how his late Ghanian maternal grandmother married his Ugandan grandfather and how his mother married his Rwandan dad. He confessed how he had always fancied marrying a Nigerian. You teased about his family being the ambassadors of the African Union, and he guffawed.
When the imigongo dried, it was time to color the ridges. You painted yours red, orange, and yellow, while Rugambwa painted his green, blue, and purple. So, when placed side by side, they formed colors of the rainbow. As the paints dried, you both decided to try a local dish; he knew a place, and you booked a ride on your phone. The ride was long, and you could see urban buildings of the city fade into a countryside landscape of green bushes and untarred roads – the hills were constant though. You would later learn this is Gitarama, Rugambwa’s hometown, just by the ear of the city. You had the tastiest fish soup with an accompanying casava meal, and you two climbed a small hill to watch the sunset. You heaved a heavy sigh.
“What do you want to say? Say it,” he gently cooed.
“How did you know I had something to say? Can’t I breathe again?”
“Out with it,” he said, staring into the recessing sun.
“I. I don’t know. I feel kind of funny. I haven’t felt like this ever. Like a first-time father who is mad excited about being a dad but dead terrified about the responsibilities in front of him.”
“I get.”
“You do?” You looked into his eyes, fearful you might get lost in them.
“Yes. I get, it’s terrifying.” He took your hands into his and continued. “This is scarry territory for me as it is for you. But my grandma always said to do that thing that makes you scared, for in there lies the greatest reward. She used it to make us do farm chores and carry heavy loads, but you get the gist. Look, I don’t want to say the words, for fear that it might be too early. But…” he went silent and looked into your eyes. “You get?”
“I get!”
You smiled a sheepish smile. He pulled you into a kiss, and you lost control of all your senses but touch. The softness of his lips on yours – not wet and slimy, just soft and nice. The firmness of his grip around your waist and the gentle warmth emanating from his body. Heaven. The ride back into town was in silence, but sweet silence. You two were inseparable, damming the lingering eyes of the cab driver. Nobody existed in your world but Rugambwa. Back at the suite, sugar daddy was already waiting for you. He’d sent some texts, which you ignored. But he was not mad at you. He was his usual jolly self. He was on the couch in his boxers, munching on burritos when you walked in.
“Hey love,” he greeted. “Where have you been? I was worried for a minute.”
“Took a long walk.”
“I brought some burritos for you. Tastes excellent; you should try it.”
“I’m not hungry.” Your face was a canvas of confusion. You walked halfway into the bedroom and stopped. Turned. “We need to talk.”
“What about, my African king?”
“I met someone here, and I think I’m in love.”
“Thanks for being honest with me, my love. I felt the disconnect since the first day you arrived in Kigali. I guess I did something wrong.”
“No. You did nothing wrong. I. You…”
“You don’t need to explain. I still love you. I can see how easy it is for one to fall in love with your beautiful soul, Angel, trust me. I am so honored and happy you told me.” You both sat without saying anything, but the presenter on the TV blabbed along in the background.
“Can I go see him?”
“You can do whatever you choose, Love. I won’t hold you here against your wish. But I have one thing to ask. Give me one last kiss.”
You obliged. He held your head in his fat hands and deposited a wet kiss on your forehead. You proceeded into the bedroom to pack some clothes and text Rugambwa.
I’m next to yours; don’t sleep. Smiley face emoji. Winkey face emoji.
Sharp! he texted back.
As you stepped out of the hotel reception into the waiting cab, it felt like the stupidest yet surest decision you’d made. A million butterflies replaced your intestines, and you longed for the soothing feeling of Rugambwa’s touch and the reassuring calmness of his voice. To distract yourself from questions in your head you asked the driver to raise the volume of the soft rap music. You focussed on one thing alone. The fine man that Rugambwa is and the promise the night holds for the both of you.
