Boys, Bet9ja and Nostalgia
A man reminisces on his favourite final moments in uni with a longtime friend | Non-fiction
There’s nothing more laugh-worthy than watching Gideon play Bet9ja.
“Jesus!” he yells. “I been dream for night say na Liechtenstein go cut my ticket. Now, jus’ look at. ₦6k wey I for chop. Come see game abeg.” I roll my eyes. This boy sef.
Sunday morning. Gideon’s just arrived my place. Florence + the Machine’s Ceremonials album on repeat. My roommate has traveled to Lagos for the weekend for one church camp retreat like that, left her laptop. Last night was the first night in a month I’ve slept alone at home — it’s usually either Gideon or Faith or all three of us, cooped up in this tiny room trading bants.
I worked all night, last night, this anthology I‘m editing. I’m groggy as hell and my eyes sting. But work. I slept by 6 am, woke up 7:55. Been working since then. It’s 10:30 am when I take a break to watch Button Poetry on YouTube for a bit — I have a new woman crush; her name is Emi Mamhood.
Two nights ago, I and Gideon went for an all-night party in town. “Temptations”, they called it. Was supposed to be a steamy affair. Bleh. I wish I’d stayed back to finish the book I’ve been reading — Here Comes the Sun.
But the party: ample derriere up and down. Guys holding on to the women like Neymar holds on to the ball. One time, I walked to an air conditioning unit to get fresh air when the hall got too stuffy from all the cigarette smoke and sweat. Stood next to this girl in a bralette and shorts. Some guy must have thought I wanted to talk to her, so out of nowhere, he swiftly planted himself in between us. You have couldn’t have been more obvious.
I chuckled and said, “Rest abeg. She’ll still leave you.” But not out loud. Then I stepped away to dance legwork with Gideon for twenty minutes until the showrunners decided it was such a genius idea to punctuate the music with some wackjob campus artist performances. Ginger died. So we stepped out of the hall, went to the bar for a drink.
Gideon went back inside to dance when the music resumed. 10 minutes later, he came back out to join me on the faux-lawn in front of the building, stargazing. DJ’s selections were ridiculous. One minute, gbedu was entering body, the next, we were hearing Frank Edwards. Who the fuck plays Frank Edwards at a party?
3 am. We stayed outside with other fed-up partiers counting minutes until dawn. No money to book a room. Besides, what’s the point? Gideon wished he brought my Kintu along. Do you know how much your party has to suck for people to wish they’d brought books?
Sunday morning. My place. Gideon’s been posted to Kano for NYSC. Me? Not yet. I’ll register for Batch B. He’s leaving next week. I’m going to miss this boy. Yesterday, he’d texted Voke that he’d wanted her to send him photos of her “bobs and vagene”. The boy is an idiot like that. Of course, Voke would get the joke, Can’t say shit like that with babes you’re not guys with.
“I get night plan wey I never use sef,” he says.
“Gimme na, make I use stream poetry videos this night.
“No. I want to use it to play virtual.” He says this with a thinly-veiled poker face. You can see the laugher struggling to hide underneath his deadpan expression. Idiot boy.
Florence + the Machine singing Heartlines from the music box. Gideon trying to fund his Bet9ja account from his bank app. Me trying to refocus on work. Calm quiet.
Then he yells, “Obatago!”
A game has greened on his new bet slip. There’s nothing more laugh-worthy than watching Gideon play Bet9ja.
The time is 12 pm. Outside, the cathartic rhythm of Odenigwe on Sunday afternoon. Sheddy cooking beans next door. IK cooking Sunday rice. The air a cocktail of spices and flavours. The year is 2019 and the world is still open.