We were play-fighting when Bolaji knocked. I had to pry her hands away and scramble off her just so she could answer the door. It was one of our little routines—she loved pretending to be stronger than me, and I was happy to let her win, especially when she broke into a fit of giggles from tickling me. Zee, ever the tomboy, still played lawn tennis during semester breaks despite her delicate figure.
I first met Bolaji on one of the days I visited Zee. To an outsider, they looked like just friends—much like the way Zee and I were. On my end, I secretly hoped for something more, though Zee always insisted she wasn’t ready for a boyfriend; her independence was everything. I never pressed the issue, and perhaps Bolaji was similarly reticent. Zee usually filled me in on everything, so I assumed if he had romantic feelings, I would have known. Maybe, like me, he just kept his mouth shut.
That evening, Bolaji staggered in drunk, spouting curses as he slumped on the couch. I felt the urge to leave since it was getting dark, and finding a ride home later would be a nightmare. Zee, however, quickly snatched my tiny Motorola Blue and, after only a few seconds, handed it back—its screen still glowing with a new message:
“Don’t leave now. I’m scared.”
For a moment, the room fell silent. Bolaji halted his barrage of curses to mention he was hungry, so Zee shuffled off to the kitchen to warm up some rice. This was her grandmother’s house. It had more space than the usual cramped rooms we got as students and even a private kitchen down the corridor. She called me to help, but when I reached her, she simply enveloped me in a hug and sighed.
“I don’t know why Bjay’s like this. You saw him before he went out nau? I’ve never seen him so wasted—I don’t feel safe.”
Her tension was palpable. Play-fighting was one thing, but this was something else entirely. I stood there awkwardly, my hands hanging by my sides for what felt like ages until she wouldn’t let go. Slowly, I slipped my arms around her.
I exhaled softly, “You’ll be alright. I’ll just wait till he leaves, let’s just hope I can get a cab when I’m ready to leave.”
Amid the chaos of Bolaji’s drunken ranting about unseen demons from the living room, there was a strange calm between us. Holding her wasn’t unusual; she’d always cuddled on her couch when we watched movies. But tonight, it was different—there was an unexpected peace.
Her hair smelled amazing, just as it always did. In a moment of impulse, I buried my face in it, my nose gently pressing against her forehead as I rocked from side to side, trying to soothe her. Then, as if drawn by an irresistible force, she lifted her head and our lips met.
Whoa, first base!
I hadn’t anticipated that, least of all in such a spontaneous, heady moment. But I didn’t care—I kissed her back. I’d always imagined her kissing me, though I thought I’d see it coming, clear and deliberate. Here we were in the dark, our bodies moving as if they’d been in sync forever. Her breath hitched as I traced the narrow valley from the small of her back up to her neck with my fingertips.
She shifted on her toes, swaying precariously until we leaned against one of the kitchen walls. I bent down and scooped her up, and she instinctively wrapped her legs around my waist. I was losing my mind—how was this even happening?
Amid the turmoil inside my head, we kept kissing, as if time had slowed. I remembered Mary—the last person I’d kissed, the first—and how awkward it had been waiting for that moment.
Now, with Zee, it felt natural, intoxicating.
I couldn’t help noticing that she wasn’t wearing a bra. My hands, already wandering along her back, moved forward.
Second base.
Suddenly, she pulled away, her breath heavy.
“Are you okay? Is something wrong?” I asked in the dim light.
She managed a laugh between breaths, “No. Yes. No—everything’s fine. Just… the rice is burning.”
I groaned, “Oh s***. I have a terrible nose for these things, I had no idea.”
We both laughed. I carefully set her down as she switched off the stove. Miraculously, most of the rice was salvageable, so she gently scraped off the unburnt portions for Bolaji.
Returning to the living room, we found Bolaji missing—but not without a souvenir. A pool of vomit near the couch bore silent witness to his state.
“Bolaji!” Zee called out.
“Hey, I’m in the bathroom. Abeg, show,” he mumbled.
By the time Zee returned, she was laughing again—a light, infectious laugh that revealed her two front teeth, one of which was slightly broken. She used to say she’d fix it someday, but I secretly loved it just the way it was.
“How’s he now?” I asked.
“He seems a bit better, I guess,” she shrugged. “He’s apologizing for being completely f***** up.”
“Okay, just grab me a bucket and a rag. I’ll handle this mess while you get him cleaned up.”
I set to work mopping up the vomit, which reeked of shepe—the cheap gin sold around town.
Thankfully, Bolaji hadn’t eaten, so the cleanup wasn’t as bad as it could have been.
Before long, Zee returned. Bolaji was still holed up in the bathroom.
“He’s embarrassed,” she said. “By the way, how are you doing all this so easily? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were studying Nursing and not Mass Comm.”
She burst into her trademark giggles. “Don’t be silly. My dad’s a vet doctor and growing up on farms teaches you to handle all kinds of messes. Besides, someone has to do it.”
She felt safer after that, and as Bolaji began to sober up, I made sure we left together. The cab ride was quiet—a reflective silence that allowed us to process the night’s events. The cab stopped at Oru for Bolaji, while I continued toward my place on Mini Campus Road.
When I finally got home, a grin spread across my face. My cousin, ever the tease, couldn’t help but comment.
“Na woman house you go, abi? Have they finally rid you of your virginity?”
I laughed, “No, not yet.”
Iko, my cousin’s friend and flatmate, smirked. “Rubbish, so you’re still a virgin. Then why are you grinning like a barbequed goat?”
I was used to their banter. What I couldn’t stop replaying in my mind was how Zee had kissed me out of the blue. Lying in bed that night, I stared at the ceiling with a smile, while my cousins wondered what on earth had gotten into me.
If the friendzone were a prison, I’d just picked the lock to my jail cell.
Michael Scofield would be proud.
