Lagos Forbidden

Yaba, Lagos – 2:17 a.m., February 21, 2026.The mattress on Chioma’s floor reeked of damp concrete and that cheap incense she always burned to mask the smell. Chino was flat on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes like it could block out the world, the other wrapped tight around Wale’s waist. Wale’s head was on his chest, breath coming hot and ragged against skin that was still sticky from sweat, fear, and everything else they’d done earlier. The room was tiny barely enough space for the thin foam, one plastic chair, a bucket they used for bathing, and that single bulb hanging from the ceiling, flickering every time an okada roared past outside.Chioma had brought them here after twisting through half the city: dodging Third Mainland traffic, cutting down back alleys in Surulere, parking her Lexus two streets away so nobody could trace the plates. She’d shoved a burner phone into Chino’s hand “No calls home. No WhatsApp. Nothing traceable, you hear?” then locked the door and promise

Garki, Abuja-February 28, 2026, 11:47 p.m. The flat smelled like stewed egusi left too long, mosquito coil smoke, and that faint metallic edge of fear that never really went away. The fan spun slow overhead, pushing warm air around but doing nothing about the harmattan dust sneaking through every crack. Chino lay on his back on the thin mattress, Wale curled into his side, head resting on his chest. Their breathing had fallen into the same rhythm hours ago slow, careful, the only thing they could still control. Mama T had left after group dinner: jollof stretched thin to feed everyone, stories shared in whispers. The others Khalid from Kano with that scarred cheek from a “correction” session, Emeka from Port Harcourt still twitchy from the raid that took his laptop and what was left of his pride had gone quiet in their corners. House rules were strict: lights out by midnight, no noise, no visitors. But rules bend when bodies need reminding they’re still alive. Wale’s hand was traci

Wuse Zone 2, Abuja – March 8, 2026, 4:19 a.m.The knock started soft three careful taps, almost polite, like whoever it was didn’t want to wake the whole place. Then harder. Then fists pounding.Chino snapped awake, heart slamming so hard it hurt his ribs. Wale was already sitting up, sheet bunched around his waist, eyes wide and dark in the gloom. The window unit kept rattling, but it covered nothing now. Footsteps shuffled outside the thin curtain that passed for their door more than one set.Mama T’s voice cut through the wall from the living room, low and sharp. “Who dey there?”A man answered deep voice, thick Onitsha Igbo accent. “Open door. We dey look for Chinedu Okonkwo. Family business. No trouble.”Chino’s blood went cold. Papa. Or uncles. Or both. Adanna’s warning had come true way too fast.Wale grabbed Chino’s wrist tight. “Back window. Now.”They moved quiet naked bodies scrambling into yesterday’s clothes in seconds. Chino shoved their small bags under the mattress; no

Canadian High Commission, Abuja – March 15, 2026, 9:07 a.m.The waiting room smelled like cold air-con, old carpet, and that faint metallic fear everybody carries when they’re begging another country to save their life. Chino and Wale sat side by side on hard plastic chairs, knees just touching enough to feel real. New burner phones powered off and buried deep in their bags. Hoodies up, sunglasses on indoors trying to look like any other visa people, not two guys whose faces had been splashed across gossip blogs and prayer crusades as “sodomites on the run.”The interview room was small and cold: one table, three chairs, a Canadian visa officer named Ms. Elena Moreau behind a laptop, with a local interpreter who barely said anything. Late forties, calm eyes, no wedding ring, voice flat but not mean.“Mr. Okonkwo. Mr. Balogun. I’ve read your applications and everything you sent. The video is strong evidence. The WhatsApp threats from family, screenshots of Pastor Victor’s lives naming

Toronto, Canada – November 3, 2029, 11:14 p.m.The apartment felt colder than it should. Radiator still hissed, but the warmth didn’t reach the couch where Chino sat staring at the floor. Wale stood by the window, back turned, arms folded tight like he was holding himself together. Snow had stopped hours ago; streetlights glowed pale orange on empty sidewalks. Freedom the dog was curled in his bed in the corner, ears twitching at the silence that had grown too loud between them.It started small, the way most endings do. Little things they used to laugh about Wale staying up late on freelance calls, Chino working overtime shifts turned sharp. Wale wanted to travel more, see other queer Nigerians in Montreal, Vancouver, build something bigger. Chino wanted roots: steady job, maybe save for a house, bring Adanna over permanently one day. They both wanted each other, but not the same future.Words got careless. Wale said Chino was “still living like we dey run,” always checking doors, ne