Portraits 6: Michael

Hello StoryTellers! Portaits is in full swing and so far, we’ve enjoyed the different perspectives of these everyday people with intertwined lives. A few posts ago, we met Chidi (read his story HERE), the rich kid with a badly-kept secret. Today, we delve into the mind of that secret, a certain ruthless man named Michael.



The scared little rascal.  He’ll be back. They always come back. He’ll fight an inner war with the Pentecostal bull-crap he’s been fed all his life and he’ll finally decide dicks are good for him. Maybe I was a little bit too harsh. I shouldn’t have growled at him like that. But then sex is also about who’s in control, and I only just tried to show him who was, and decidedly let it slip from me for a moment. You have to take delight in the little victories; know when to hold ‘em and fold ‘em. In time, the boy will be mine; a little toy wrapped around my hands. Can’t be dwelling on this, I have other business to handle. This fine apartment so complementary to my life won’t maintain itself.

I strip and toss my clothes on the couch, underwear too. There’s a certain way I feel when in the nude. I can’t explain it. But when alone, I’ll rather be nude. I grab my cell and punch numbers. There are shipments to be tracked. Money to be paid into accounts. Favors to call in. Debtors to hassle. I love this game of money and power and sex. Especially because I never play by the rules. The conventional is boring. And if there was anything I’ve grown to become, it’s not plain and bland. The regular life was never meant for me. So if society said this is the convention, my instincts are wired to really just go against it.

Friends, who really knew me, often asked, maybe to tease, or maybe out of honest curiosity, how and when I knew I was gay. I’d laugh and stir my drink, or gulp down a bottle of natural spring water which I took with me everywhere, of which I owned half of the company, or drag on a cigar. These people looked at me like I was some sort of specimen. In return I put up a good measure of theatrics for them.

“You are gay. You just don’t know it yet.” I’d say and give them a mysterious gaze.

Uneasy ‘hahahahahaha’s would in turn fill the air. But if I really wanted to talk and open up, I’d have taken them back to boarding school, to cold nights when I missed my mother, and sisters and all I ever wanted was to curl up and cuddle beside another boy. Some things come to you naturally. Some you are prodded into experiencing.

Funny enough my first couple of relationships were non-sexual. There was Collins, who insisted I didn’t call him ‘Senior’. He protected me from the bullying and abuse of his classmates, made sure I got off easy when caught with the wrong crowd of my juvenile mates in something unlawful. When people asked, I told them Collins was my school father. Understandable. But who then was your school mother? Because all the other school fathers had girlfriends who then became school mothers to their boyfriends school sons.

Why does your Collins not have school wife?

He bought me biscuits. Always let me eat his lunch. What did I care if he had a school girlfriend or not. When Collins was graduating and leaving me behind, I’ll never forget the words he told me.

“I love you Michael. But our kind of love, our society is not yet ready to accept. So we would continue to run, and hide and live in shadows, afraid to love truly and openly, but someday we would stop hiding and stop pretending. Understand that there are others like you and I. I’ll try to always be here. If I’m not able to be, you’ll find true love. You are not alone. You are not a sick person, you do not need deliverance.”

I was 13.

I didn’t fully comprehend at the time.  Thinking about it now, perhaps I was too worried about who would defend me from the next set of supreme school bullies, the new SS3 students who it seemed always tried to surpass the heights of bullying that the preceeding set reached. After Collins, there was Seyi, the first boy I ever kissed. I was a groomsman at his wedding 6 years ago. Somehow, he had drifted away over the years. His marriage was fine, it seemed. It was amazing how much he would endure and suffer because he was afraid to be himself. Content to live for society rather than for himself. What does it matter, Michael? We would all soon be done and gone and just become another statistic, and another headstone. Sorry, obituary ad, nobody actually uses headstones nowadays.

‘In Gratitude to God for a life well spent…’

How ironic.

What was a life well sent if a person couldn’t wave their penis in traffic as they so pleased?

This thing I do, especially with the kids, is simply helping them discover themselves. Like what Professor X did with the Mutant kids. I know I sound a tad self-righteous but really, what I do is serious. But this is how you would feel if you helped rich and powerful men experience degrees of liberation from the prison that heterosexual marriages had trapped them in. I’m merely a facilitator, I help young confused, curious boys find confused, curious men.

I have gained quite the reputation. It happens, when you’re good at what you do. Some of the boys are ‘sent’ to come see me; others come of their own accord. I hardly bother with those ones. Except a few who were exceedingly charming. I just believe if I never heard about you and you had to be sent my way, maybe you weren’t just choice enough. Probably a climber. Or worse, a hustler. I get paid to facilitate the thrill of the chase, so naivete is a big deal. Some men you meet, a brush of the shoulder, a shake of hands, the way they held their glass at a party, and you just know. It’s body language, always subtle, like a whisper. My patrons are men who operate by secrecy. They steal. They cheat. They destroy. And despite many being ‘happily’ married, they sleep with men.

Chidi’s a fine asset, and usually, I would reserve him for some of my best patrons. But I’ve been lonely for a while and sometimes you have to get greedy and keep the best for yourself. I’ve missed the feel of a boy in my arms, while I feed him grapes and tell him stories of boardroom cut-throat deals and give him faux-wisdom on the codes to live life by. I need someone to teach, to instruct. He’s going to be that person. He’s going to be my muse, and my joy. My trophy. I’ll parade him in my circles and when they ask about him, I’ll say ‘No. This one is for me’. Then they’ll say find me one now. Just like this one. And I’ll laugh, and say don’t worry, and promise them, “I get you for mind.”

My phone rings.


So soon? I didn’t expect to hear from him just yet.

“Come online”, he says.

“I am online, Chidi. I am always online.”

Goodness. Was this 2go? Or did he think I was one of those girls he frolicked around with who rationed their data?

My phone buzzes softly. He’s on my Whatsapp.

Send me nudes. I want to see your hard dick.

LOL. So childish.

Where are you?

I’m home.

Why did you leave?


Don’t talk to me like a little girl.

Read. No reply. Silence.

Get dressed. There is a party in Phase 1. I’ll pick you up.

Silence. Long enough to make me worry.

Okay. I’m sorry.

It’s fine. 

Do I really have to come for the party? Can we just talk?

There’ll be plenty of time to talk. Tonight, we loosen you up.



You said loosen me up. 

Ha! He got my double entendre. Nothing passes by that boy.  

You’re just a silly boy aren’t you? I’ll pick you up in 20.

Ten minutes, So I don’t have time to think this through and change my mind. 

And so, the dance begins.

Caleb Maiye

Political Scientist. Entrepreneur. Writer. I write because words and people are the things I understand best.


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