Chapter One: Ashes and Sweat

Victoria Island, Lagos – 7:42 p.m., February 2026.

Chinedu Okonkwo tugged at his tie in the back of the Uber, the silk already damp and clinging to the sweat trickling down his neck. The radio was going on about President Tinubu’s latest order to the military religious leaders calling it a “shield against Western immorality,” saying homosexuality was still a danger to the nation’s soul. The driver, a solid Hausa guy, sucked his teeth in agreement and cranked the volume. Chino just stared out at the lights on the Lekki-Ikoyi Link Bridge, all that shiny money spent while his sisters back in Onitsha still squeezed onto one mattress every night.

His phone buzzed. Adanna.

“Sis, I dey drive o.”

“Chino, Papa called Pastor Victor again this evening. He’s talking about that ‘special anointing’ for boys going down the wrong path. Mentioned your name twice, said you hardly come home anymore. I told him you’re just working late, but… bros, I’m scared. The way he looks at me, like he knows I’m hiding something. I can’t even sleep.”

Her voice cracked. Adanna was twenty-one, final year at UNILAG, the only one who’d seen him break down that night he almost came clean to their mum. She loved him hard fiercely, even foolishly but she also loved the family name, the money he sent every month, the Catholic guild meetings where the aunties whispered about “those Lagos boys.”

“Relax, Ada. Nothing dey happen. I’ll call you later.”

He ended the call before she could beg him to be careful. The Uber slipped into the underground parking of a glass tower in Lekki Phase 1. Invitation only. The Signal group was called “Burning Hearts 2.0” no faces, no real names, location pinged at exactly 7:30. Last month a party in Ikoyi got raided after some bitter ex leaked the chat. Forty-seven people paraded on NTA like prizes. Most got out after paying the DPO two million each. The Same-Sex Marriage Act still hit hard ten years for anything that looked like a public gay moment, fourteen if it smelled like marriage. And now the new military ban had officers shaking too.

Chino paid, wiped sweaty palms on his trousers, and stepped into the private lift. Doors opened straight into the penthouse.

The bass slammed into him Afrobeats mixed with deep house, the kind that made your hips forget every law outside. Red and purple lights throbbed over maybe two hundred people. Guys in silk shirts half-unbuttoned, women rocking Ankara crop tops and binders, a couple non-binary folks turning full agbada into gowns. Phones stayed hidden unless you were in the safe corner with the jammer. Security four ex army types with earpieces scanned QR codes at the door. Everyone knew one blurry clip could ruin you.

He needed a drink bad.

Across the room, leaning on the marble island, Adewale Balogun laughed at whatever his friend said, head back, throat bare, gold chain glinting. Black tank hugging the lean muscle he’d earned hauling printing paper up three flights in Yaba day after day. Skin like dark polished wood, lips full and always a little open, ready to curse or kiss. Wale sensed the stare before he saw it.

Chioma short, fierce, blood-red locs, the one running three underground ballroom spots while still paying her mum’s rent in Agege nudged him. “See that sharp Igbo guy that just walked in. Corporate shoulders. He’s eyeing you like you’re the latest iPhone.”

“Abeg, Chi-Chi, leave am.” But Wale’s heart kicked up. He knew the type: careful, deep in the closet, gone after one night. Still, those eyes hungry, haunted twisted something in his gut.

Chino pushed through the crowd like he was stepping on hot coals. The air was thick with weed, fancy perfume, sweat, and stolen palm wine. A tall drag queen in a massive gele vogued in the middle, crowd yelling “Yasss, mother!” small acts of rebellion in a country where the Senate kept pushing bills for harsher punishments on “unnatural acts.”

Their eyes met over a tray of jollof shots.

Chino felt it hit low in his stomach, so strong his dick twitched in his slacks. The guy was beautiful the way Lagos boys got when they dropped the act raw, bold, dangerous. Wale tilted his head, slow smile spreading, and crooked a finger.

The dance floor pulled them in.

Bodies pressed tight under the strobes. Chino’s hands landed on Wale’s waist first hesitant, then sure when the younger man arched back into him. Sweat already slicked the dip of Wale’s back. Chino’s fingers followed the line of his spine, feeling the shiver. The beat slowed to something grinding, Burna Boy’s voice warped into pure filth.

“You smell like money and fear,” Wale murmured in his ear, lips grazing skin, Pidgin heavy with Yoruba flavor. “I like it.”

Chino laughed, shaky and low, pressing his growing hardness against Wale’s ass. “And you smell like trouble and shea butter. Dangerous mix.”

They danced like the law was a myth. Hands wandered Chino slipping under Wale’s tank, thumb circling a hard nipple. Wale bit his lip, grinding back harder, feeling every inch of the heat behind him. The crowd faded. Someone whooped. Chioma gave a quick nod from the edge still safe.

After three tracks, Wale grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the balcony hallway, past a hidden door where the bouncer just asked, “You good?” They ducked into a dim lounge low couches, blackout curtains, bass thumping like a second heartbeat.

Door clicked shut.

No talking at first. Just mouths colliding, tongues hot and wet. Chino tasted rum and pepper soup. He pinned Wale to the wall, thigh pushing between his legs, feeling the stiff ridge there. Wale moaned into the kiss, yanking Chino’s shirt open buttons scattering.

“Fuck, you’re fine die,” Wale gasped as Chino sucked at his throat, hard enough to bruise for days. Fingers fumbled Chino’s belt, wrapped around the thick, leaking cock that jumped free. “So big… already wet for me.”

Chino groaned, hips bucking into the grip. He shoved Wale’s tank up, mouth on a dark nipple, tongue flicking while his hand palmed the bulge in Wale’s jeans fabric damp already. Button popped, zipper down, Wale’s cock freed long, veined, curving up, precum shining at the tip. Chino stroked slow, spreading the slick.

“See how you dey leak for me,” he whispered, voice rough with Igbo edge. “Like police, God, nothing scares you.”

Wale laughed, breathless, stroking faster. “Fear stays outside. In here? Just this.” He dropped to his knees on the rug and took Chino in one smooth slide.

The wet heat made Chino’s knees weak. Hand on the wall, fingers in Wale’s curls guiding gently. Wale sucked hungry, cheeks hollow, tongue swirling, taking him deep till nose met skin. Gagging a little, spit trailing chin, eyes locked up defiant, filthy.

“Jesus…” Chino breathed, then laughed dark. “No call that name here. He no dey welcome.”

Wale pulled off with a pop, stroking quick. “Call my name when you come then.”

He dove back in, humming so the vibration hit Chino’s balls hard. Outside the party raged someone calling a new ballroom category. Inside, Chino thrust shallow into Wale’s throat, sweat dripping.

They switched. Chino knelt, licking the vein, sucking heavy balls, deep throating till Wale swore in Yoruba, hips jerking. “Oya, bros… I go burst…”

Not yet.

Chino stood, spun him, bent him over the couch. Jeans to thighs, ass perfect and ready. Spit only two spits, fingers in, scissoring while Wale pushed back, moaning loud enough the music almost hid it.

“Please… fuck me. Make us forget outside dey burn.”

Chino pressed in slow inch by inch the stretch, the heat, Wale clenching tight. Bottomed out, both groaning. Then thrusting deep, hard, every stroke screaming we exist. Every sound saying they can’t erase us.

Wale reached back, spreading wider. “Harder. Make I feel it tomorrow when they come arrest us.”

Chino gripped hips, pounded, sweat flying. Room reeked of sex and risk. He leaned over, bit Wale’s shoulder, hand stroking him in time.

“Come for me,” he growled. “Show me this body mine tonight.”

Wale shattered first shaking, spilling white across the couch. The squeeze pulled Chino over—deep, pulsing, filling him, whispering broken Igbo: “Nkem… my own… we go survive.”

They stayed locked, panting, hearts banging like the bass.

Hope sparked in the quiet after. For the first time in forever, Chino felt truly seen not the golden boy, not the provider, not the liar. Just a man who wanted this fucked and held by another man in a city that despised them. Wale turned, kissed slow and deep, tasting himself.

“We fit do this again,” Wale whispered. “Small small. Signal only. No names saved. But… I don’t want to stop.”

Chino nodded, forehead to forehead. “Me too. Even if it’s just stolen nights. It’s still revolution.”

They wiped up with wipes from the basket every spot had them now. Dressed. One last kiss at the door.

Then Chino’s phone buzzed hard. Family group chat.

Adanna: Video don leak. That party last month. Papa don see. Pastor Victor dey here now. Praying for your deliverance. Come home NOW or dem go send boys find you.

Attached clip: thirty seconds, blurry but damning Chino laughing, hand on his back. Not tonight’s party. The last one. Someone sold it.

Wale’s phone lit same time. Chioma: Raid alert. Two jeeps downstairs. DPO no dey pick. Scatter!!!

Sirens rising outside.

Chino met Wale’s eyes. No fear there just fire.

“Run with me?” Wale asked, steady.

Chino took his hand fingers sticky with sweat, cum, the weight of tomorrow’s headlines calling them sodomites, pastors screaming, politicians praying, families mourning living sons.

But tonight, in the service lift dropping to the alley, hearts racing, bodies still buzzing from what they’d done, they chose each other.

Doors opened to thick Lagos night. Chioma’s black Lexus waited, engine growling.

“Enter before I change my mind,” she snapped, fierce as always.

They dove in. Sirens closer.

The car tore toward the mainland, dodging potholes and checkpoints that hadn’t clocked them yet. Chino pulled Wale close. Kiss tasted like salt and fight.

Outside: Lagos glowed with its usual mess huge neon crosses on churches taller than banks, politicians smiling on billboards promising morals, okadas zipping with “Jesus is Lord” next to “No Guts No Glory.”

Inside: two men held tight in the dark, still humming from the sex that might cost everything.

Hope: they had each other.

Devastating: the video spreading, W******p exploding with verses and threats.

Ambiguous: car heading to Yaba, to whatever floor Chioma could find tonight. Tomorrow? Next week? A year?

Future locked tight in a city that never slept and never forgave.

But right now, hands stayed locked.

And Lagos kept breathing waiting to see if they’d burn or rise.