The Rainbow Head

Your news broke down the internet, Kanayor. There was not even a single message of condemnation or hatred on the day you came out. The people of the internet applauded you. I read everything they wrote on many websites, sitting down in the evening, inside that musty cybercafé on our street. I did not mind the heat and the mosquitoes and the cracked floor. What mattered most to me at that moment was that you, my elder brother, had become an internet star from your base in New York. When one cable network profiled you on its website, you wore your hair painted the colours of an exuberant rainbow. You were smiling, and your teeth shone like the moon's bright face. That day, you became the breaking news of many cable networks and online publications. Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram were abuzz because of you. Your face was the sunshine the world watched that day. You became a celebrity.

One internet commentator wrote: "Such a brave Nigerian. He has finally found peace and hope and confidence in himself."

Another wrote: "I salute your courage, man. Brave and beautiful."

And yet another wrote: "Finally, a ray of hope for a black country. This is the kind of flag that gives other prisoners some hope of freedom."

I knew they were all white people praising you. Kanayor, I'm sure of what I'm saying, of what I saw. I, Chika, your younger sister, cannot lie to you. I cried my happiness for you, to be honest. As tears crept down my cheeks, I wondered why the people of the internet were more tolerant than the people of the streets. If you had first come out here in Lagos, you would have been reduced to a stump of shame.

It's good you're back home now, Kanayor, albeit briefly. But now look at you and your glorious life. Look at the way our people are looking at you with love and admiration, celebrating you. On your arrival at the Lagos Airport, the immigration officers begged you for "forex" with their tongues sticking out, their hands open, expectant. Gentle fm announced your homecoming during its major news bulletin. The newscaster called you a notable Nigerian, an illustrious son of the soil. Don't be surprised! That's the way Nigerians behave. They love to celebrate those that white people have already celebrated overseas. It doesn't matter what you're being celebrated for. Theft. Fraud. Murder. Provided that white people have stamped a seal of approval on you, you are accepted at home without terms and conditions.

It's unfortunate that Mama is dead. She could not live to see you return. She was never proud of you. But she died an abominable death, even more abominable than what she thought you were. You're my only brother, so you deserve to know how and why she died.

After you won the Fulbright Scholarship and travelled to America, Mama unburdened her heavy chest. She washed her face and chest with holy water, saying she had finally wiped her shame. Before then, Kanayor, you used to hang around our neighbourhood with fine boys, with condoms in your pockets. Most times, you hugged the boys without hiding, at which Mama frowned, throwing handfuls of sand at your face. You tried to explain to her that there was nothing to hugging, that it was just one of several physical expressions. You said, "Footballers hug one another when they score a goal. People hug to make apologies. Long parted friends hug when they meet again. Lottery winners hug to celebrate their good fortune. Mama, nothing tugs at my testicles when I hug." But Mama was always Mama, disbelieving.

In secondary school, there were rumours which had dire consequences, but you were very careful in the dormitory. The day news got to Mama that you were using your penis in the most inappropriate way in school, she summoned you home. Two days later, she called Father Rowland to give you an adult baptism and convert you. She complained that the one you had received as a child had...