Prompted - 1. You Disappoint Me

"I'll never, ever, forgive you!' She said as she pointed a shaky, accusing forefinger at me. "You disappoint me, Junior."

I let my gaze fall to my feet, noticing the contrast between my white toe nails and my black skin as if the feet do not belong to me. Sweat coated the back of my arms, folded in front of me as my fingers danced an erratic pattern at my sides. Shame blinded me.

I wanted to say something, to tell her that this isn't my fault. I wanted to tell her that I was born this way, that I had felt this insane attraction to the male form even before I knew that I could play with the organ between my legs. I wanted to tell her that it wasn't her fault, either. That, to the best of knowledge, homosexuality isn't hereditary. But even if it was, it shouldn't be wrong. How could something so real, something that feels good, be bad? Because our society considers it so? Because our government has bought the masses favor with a thoughtless enactment further criminalizing homosexual relationships?

I wished that I could tell her that falling in love with Sylvester was the best thing that happened to me, that we had big plans for our future, together. I wished that I could tell her that I hoped to have a better life than she and father did.

But when I finally raised my head to see her sobbing into one end of her 'buba', "I'm so sorry, mother," was the only thing I could manage.

And I really was sorry. I was sorry her life, her past had done nothing to prepare her for this: her only son's eventual coming out of the closet. I was sorry that she had been raised to see the love I have for Sylvester as an abomination. A combination of absence of homosexuality in the Igbo tradition and the emphatic disapproval by the Christian belief made comprehension of the truth impossible. I was particularly sorry for the helplessness about the whole issue.

Maybe I should have said something to diffuse the tension, to make things better. Maybe I should have told her that she ought to be proud of me, and of herself for raising a son that has found the courage to take a bold step into the light instead of charting the course of secrecy. Maybe I should have asked for her support, tell her that I couldn't do this on my own. But I didn't. That isn't what she'd want to hear.

The only words that could dry her tears and bring smiles to her lips are words I was incapable of uttering. Admit defeat. Live a lie: give in and get married to a woman; give her legitimate grandchildren that she could spoil. If I did those things, I would be the one uttering the words 'I'll never, ever, forgive you' to myself.