Fabio, the effeminate man who lived across the street is quite popular for his delicacies. He’s not a renowned chef like the ones you see on the internet, but in Chief Eze street, Fabio is quite popular and well demanded for. People across and beyond the street would all come from their various destinations, just to eat at his restaurant.

There was something about Fabio’s cooking that got people asking, wondering and questioning how he knew his way around the kitchen, unlike some men of today’s generation who don’t go anywhere near their kitchens, except to boil water.

The women who I often observe, have little or no issue at all with Fabio’s feminine character. They praise a man who can cook, because which lady wouldn’t want to be served a decent meal in bed by a man they know can cook?

The men are annoyed by Fabio. It were as if their anger towards Fabio’s effeminacy would boil whenever he addresses them like a female would, whenever he would chew his gum loudly and talk in a pitch, much higher than theirs. He was a man nonetheless, just different. These men, didn’t like ‘different’.

“Are you not a man, Fabio? Start behaving like one,” “Fabio, you disgust me so much,” “If I had a son like you, I’d break a bottle on his head to correct the nonsense,” etc. Fabio, didn’t seem to care about their force hatred, but instead he carried on with his business, because after all, that’s what it was. The very men who curse him with their mouths, stand in long queues, under the hot, scorching sun, just to get a decent meal for themselves, because perhaps the women they all buy food from weren’t nearly as good as Fabio.

“My mother taught me,” he’d always say, when asked about how he learnt to cook wonderfully.

I find it relieving that the responsibility of cooking, now, have mostly been taken up by men. My gender were against cooking, or anything that would involve them being in a kitchen, holding a knife, to cut or peel unprocessed foods.

There’s just something unexplainable, and ‘charming,’ about seeing a man, who knows his way around the kitchen, preparing a meal for himself, his friends, or for his spouse. He built the kitchen after all, so he should know his way around it. So, seeing Fabio, under a lethal sun, pounding, cutting, peeling, and frying foods, while singing gospel music as he did so, wasn’t as unethical and much of a hassle as some men made it seem. He made it look so easy.

Society, has a way of making you see things one-sided, and view things as though you’re looking through a pee hole. It’s not as broad as we know it. And the irony of this ‘so-called’ society of today, is that it wants us to point fingers, to call out names, to blame others for being different, but forgetting that we, the people, make up and are that society. And that alone, unintentionally makes it a ‘placeholder,’ for shaming and making others feel less of who they are, like Fabio. If it so means that we are the society, looking at it in that perspective, then there’s a root problem.

I could remember my mother, giving me some money to buy a decent meal at Fabio’s, some months ago. I could remember feeling a little unease by just being there, watching him serve the food. I wasn’t sure if to approach him or not. Surely, he would think I was one, out of the number of men that criticized him on a daily basis, but I couldn’t care less of who he was or does. I only admired his cooking skills.

The alluring scent of fried rice on a Friday afternoon, being served with a side of perfectly grilled chicken, creamy salad, and chilled fayrouz. He was as if a ‘chef god’ had fallen from the sky to give us good delicacies.

Even though you weren’t sure on buying a meal, the aroma of his fried rice always finds its way to your nostrils and eventually, your stomach. And before you could realize how you got the strength to walk down your three story apartment to Fabio’s, you’re already making a transfer into his Opay account. He was a gatekeeper and wouldn’t tell anyone his recipes.

“It’s a family secret.” He’d say blushing.

“Pele o. Na only your family get secret recipe.”

Fabio wasn’t always this open as an effeminate man. He recently began changing small things about himself. His voice now carried a higher pitch. He walked gracefully, almost like a woman. He often had gum in his mouth, chewing non-stop all day. A few years back, he was closeted. Perhaps he felt intimidated by society’s standards and its perspective on him—not just as a human, but more so as a man.

The day he wore a crop top and a short woman’s skirt, I had to withdraw from going to his eatery for a while. Instead, I only observed his gradual change of wardrobe with each passing day. There was even a time he wore a bone-straight wig to sell food. He flipped, tossed, and packed it as though it had always belonged on his head.

The thing about an effeminate man is that he knows himself too well, almost like a butterfly that has embraced its colors. He will not hide who he is. Even when he makes others cringe terribly, he stays as open as a book. Effeminate men are bold—sometimes too bold, even for themselves.

I don’t hate any sexuality, but there’s something about seeing a Nigerian man in women’s clothing, behaving as though he were born and raised as a woman, that makes it quite a sight—most times, not in a pleasant way.

A man who lives down the street, and drives a black Lexus, occasionally visits Fabio’s eatery, and on most days, not to buy food. It’s a bit strange how he often tried to engage Fabio in a conversation each time he’d visit. They’d sit, hold long conversations, smile at one another and most times, the man would get a little handsy with Fabio.

It took me a while to understand that the man in question was homosexual, and it wasn’t just a friendly conversation they’ve been having. A conversation that often stretched throughout the day. Hours upon hours, gone by, just in one sitting, wondering if they felt no pain on their buttocks.

“Fabio, Fabio.. this one you look lovely today. Mhm? What’s happening?” The man would ask.

“Ah, it’s nothing oo. Just a normal boring day. It’s not even one of my best looks sef.” Fabio replied, brushing his hands through his wig.

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I was on stage, performing the biggest song of my life. An original song that I’d worked hard on. The producer had heard me singing, cancelled all the other songs and wanted me to perform mine instead. I refused but he wasn’t going to let it go, so I accepted to do it.

I sang my heart out that night and hit every one of my notes right. I could remember seeing my producer, discussing future deals with his colleagues. He looked at me on stage, smiling ear to ear. It was a perfect night. I’d sacrificed a lot to get to where I am.

Just as I was halfway through my song, I heard a gunshot from the alley outside. Everyone started to panic and run through the emergency exit. It was an underground bar, and there’d be criminals, waiting to rob people off their valuables.

I’d almost escaped with my producer, when I saw this little girl run towards the direction of the shooting. I had to go get her. I couldn’t just leave her to die. My producer yelled, his voice fading into the sound of people running and the restaurant in a ruckus. She’d ran outside and I followed, screaming for her not to.

As I ran after her, I saw her lifeless body, laying on the ground in the alley, a bullet through her innocent, little head. I thought I could save her, that I could make it in time to rescue her, but I couldn’t.

Before I could understand what had happened, I was shot. I was shot in a very inconvenient manner. How convenient that the robber had wanted to shoot me in the head and missed, so he shot me in the throat out of anger instead. I saw blood gush out of my neck. My hands refused to leave my neck, trying to suppress the blood spillage and I felt life drain out of my body.

I’d lost the one thing that was meant to bring me joy and fulfillment the same night I was to sign my contract. I saw that life flash before my eyes, while giving up. I let down my hands and my blood spilt down my dress, and unto the ground.

X

I woke up in the hospital, where I was told if I wanted to talk again, I should rest my voice box for nearly a year. I saw the disdained look on my producer’s face. I couldn’t explain myself and he didn’t dare ask what happened, seeing me in my condition. He just sat beside me, moping, searching my face for an answer he wasn’t going to hear. I cried. I cried because even though I watched the life we both wanted, slowly die and was washed down the drain, I was most upset because I couldn’t save that child.

I heard a woman cry outside my ward and when she and her husband had passed by, I figured they were her parents. I know her mother. She was a music teacher in the school where I taught.

I wanted to meet her then to talk music, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t brave enough with my voice and I endured 15 years of self-pity and labor, teaching children of all manners. It paid my rent and put food on my table but left my soul feeling crushed and empty inside. I knew if I wanted to feel a little bit of self-satisfaction, I should chase after what I wanted.

What I wanted was to be a musician. Now being put in a hospital as a result of my forever gone voice, I felt this hole in my heart. My voice wasn’t the only thing that I’d lost that day but my soul too. If I couldn’t sing, then I was now a burden to my producer and a worthless piece of trash that he’d never look back to negotiate a deal with anymore.

After I was discharged from the hospital six months later, I could talk. Not fully. Not enough to be engaged in a conversation with. I could only say a word after another. I couldn’t speak louder than a certain advised range. So soft that it could barely pass for a whisper.

I felt miserable the next few months. “How can I answer the phone now?”, I thought. I spent about a week, then two, and soon a month engaging with a vocal coach the doctor referred me to, and to my surprise I could converse for a longer time than before.

I thought about why God allowed me lose my voice, while he was aware that I was trying to save that little girl. Why did that robber miss his shot and went for my throat instead. Why did he miss his shot? He should have just killed me, instead of putting me through this pain.

How and why did he think shooting my throat was the best option? Was that God’s plan for me? If so, why? I stopped praying, I didn’t need to. I was upset with God, and he’d best understand that.

X

I was laid off from teaching until I was fully healed. I couldn’t sought for a new job with my present condition, no one would hire me. I can’t be involved in any job that’d require me to talk to an audience, it wasn’t good for me just yet.

I spent a month looking for a job, but I couldn’t get one because everywhere I went people pitied me and didn’t want me going through any discomfort or the other, so I stopped looking and thought about starting one myself. I just knew I should but hadn’t thought of what business it’d be.

The strangest thing happened to me, while I slept. I felt a gentle breeze on my face, and a hand slowly caressing my throat. It was as if fingers lighter than feathers themselves, had rested upon my throat. And for the first time since my accident, I could talk again. I could talk like before. I even tried shouting, and I could do that without feeling sharp pains in my throat. I quickly called my producer, Jerry, and explained it all to him.

“But can you sing?” Jerry asked, curious.

“I don’t know, I haven’t tried.” I said, my voice shaky, exhaling deep as my heart began pounding.

“Well…?”

I tried to sing and nothing came out. I couldn’t sing. I’d lost my voice, and my producer got a front row seat to the embarrassment. He knew I felt like crying. He knew I didn’t take the feeling of regaining my voice, only to not be able to sing, very well. I hung up when he tried comforting me. I fell to my knees, crying, asking God to take away my voice completely, because this wasn’t the life he promised. I cried out until my voice was sore and now, cracked like I’d caught a cold. All the people I’d usually engage with, were shocked to hear me talk again, and not whisper.

I went back to my life as a teacher. If I can’t sing, I might as well not die trying. Two weeks later, I got to know that Mrs. Klein, the school’s music teacher, had resigned from teaching at the school and had now become a stay-at-home mom. I couldn’t help but feel her daughter’s death was my fault. And now, because she’s no more, her mother had been reduced to what she is now.

X

I thought about what’d happen if I decided to teach music. I felt this tingly feeling inside, and noticed the goosebumps on my arms, just by thinking about it. That was it. That was my breakthrough. Though, not with my voice this time, but other's. I could become the music teacher, and hearing that come out of my own mouth was all the hope I needed to hear.

I left my desk, took my bag and went to the principal. I managed to convince her to allow me teach the children music, after a few back-and-forth about whether my voice had recovered fully or not. I explained that I wouldn’t be the one singing, just guiding them through melodies, and rhythm. I could play the keyboard and the guitar, so I figured I might as well get the job doing what I love, even if I won’t actually be doing it.

I found a gift, singing, and even though that’s gone and I might not ever get it back again, that’s okay. I found an even better one—teaching it. This was God’s plan for me. He didn’t abandon me as I’d thought, and I know he was the one who restored my voice. But only this time, it wasn’t mine. It’d belonged to someone else. A girl who might need it more than I ever did. Wherever she is, I hope she will make the best of her years with it. It’s her turn now.

Cate.

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