I measured my lateness in funeral hymns, counting three muffled songs before I could bring myself to step out of the car. The church's parking lot overflowed with vehicles: sleek black sedans, Toyotas, Hondas and weather-worn pickup trucks, side by side, like mourners who'd never met until grief made them neighbors. Against the weathered stone walls, someone had arranged bouquets in his favorite colors, their petals dancing in the monsoon’s gentle breath, refusing to acknowledge the solemnity of the day. He always did have a way of drawing people together, I thought bitterly as I  straightened my suit jacket. The thought of walking inside, of seeing his body lying there, cold and still, made my chest constrict. I wasn't ready. I don't think I'll ever be ready. But I knew I had to go in, I had to say my goodbyes. With a deep breath that did little to settle the anger and pain, I closed the car door. It was time to face the reality I'd been avoiding since that fateful phone call: the love of my life was gone, and I was here to pay my last respects.    

The casket was still open when I walked into the church. I beheld him, or rather, what remained of him. His eyes were shut, tears falling down each side, or was it water? Perhaps in death, we are not truly devoid of consciousness. Perhaps, our regrets and past transgressions continue to haunt us as we lie motionless, unable to seek forgiveness.

His face had changed. I could barely recognise him. His lips were swollen and puffy. Those lips, the first time they met mine, it was as though they were unlocking the depths of my soul. I experienced a montage of sensations—tasting, feeling, and saw colors in a new and profoundly sensual manner. It was akin to capturing lightning in a bottle—the softness, the sweetness. I soaked myself in it, in his shadow, which was the only place where he belonged to me, the only place I could love him without fear. In the dark, safe from judgmental eyes.

They draped him in a suit, obsidian black, devoid of any spark of color. It clawed at my heart. He had always been a kaleidoscope in human form—his pink phone case an extension of his personality, his vibrant shirts transforming mundane days into galleries of joy. When I slipped into the back of the church, the pastor's monotonous voice was already filling the space, words cascading like cold rain. He spoke for what felt like centuries, each "was" and "the late" preceding my love's name driving daggers into my chest, reminding everyone that he no longer walked the earth. The man behind the pulpit was wrong. My love still danced in sunbeams, still whispered in evening breezes. He lived, pulsing through my veins with each heartbeat, a permanent resident in my heart. The urge to storm the altar and slap the hell out of him rose in me like a tidal wave—my fingers curled into fists, nails carving half-moons into my palms. But I remained anchored to the wooden pew, swallowing the anger inside me. I wouldn't cause a scene. The final gift I could offer him was dignity in this moment, even as my insides crumbled.

The man of God eventually finished his sermon and the casket was closed. Six macho men wearing black suits and dark sunglasses carried the coffin out of the church into the ambulance. I watched his grandfather in tears, kneeling beside the ambulance and pouring libation to the gods for his safe journey to the land of the ancestors. It was at that moment that two white doves appeared. They circled the ambulance, fluttering their wings before settling on top of the car. His mother fell down in tears when she saw them. The aunties wailed, his sisters threw themselves onto the floor. His father was too heartbroken to move. He sat quietly in the car, eyes red from crying. “He was a saint,” people whispered. “The birds are a sign; he is going to heaven.” I stood far away watching, hands tucked into my trousers. I waited for the family to leave before I went to my car and drove off after them to the cemetery.

As I followed the procession of cars, the two white doves suddenly flew overhead, catching my eye. I looked up, momentarily distracted from the line of vehicles ahead. In that instant, I could almost hear his voice beside me, as clear as if he was still here.

“Look at those birds,” he would have said, a hint of wonder in his voice. “They don't need passports to go wherever they want to fucking go. Let's be birds in our next life.” I would have laughed, as I always did at his random observations, and nodded in agreement. That was his gift—finding beauty and freedom in the simplest things, even on a day like this. But he wasn't here. The passenger seat beside me remained empty, a stark reminder of why we were all driving in this slow, mournful line. I was following the hearse carrying his body to its final resting place, not embarking on another of our spontaneous adventures. I blinked back tears, my eyes returning to the road. The doves were long gone now, vanished into the vast sky, just like him. I gripped the steering wheel tighter, willing myself to keep going, to make it through this final journey.

He was simple and calm just like his name, Nana. He reminded me of my dad’s goldfish. When I was nothing but a little boy, my father came home one day with a fish tank with two gold fishes. His colleague who recently just came back from America gave it to him. My father treasured that goldfish. I like to think he loved it more than he loved me, more than he loved my mother. My mother and I would stare at the fish, making nasty faces at it, hoping to God that the tank would break and it would die. We were happy being rude to it but my father never noticed. It was his pride and joy. That was what Nana was to me, my sacred goldfish, my pride and joy, and I always told him because I needed him to know.

I met him at The Enigma, a pulsing nightclub that was more shadow than light. It was pride month and the air was thick with the scent of weed, sweat and cheap cologne, bodies moving in a frenzied rhythm to Beyoncé's “Alien Superstar”. Strobe lights sliced through the darkness, painting fleeting portraits of ecstasy on the faces of the dancers.

I sat in a quiet corner, a burst of colour in my white outfit amidst the sea of rainbow colors and neon. My fingers idly traced the condensation on my untouched drink as I watched the crowd, feeling both part of and separate from the chaos. That's when I felt it—the weight of someone's gaze. I looked up, my eyes locking with him across the room. He was leaning against the bar, a quiet island in the stormy sea of revellers. Even from a distance, I could see the warmth in his eyes, the gentle curve of his shy smile. We held that gaze, a silent conversation amidst the cacophony. My heart quickened as he pushed off from the bar and made his way towards me, weaving through the throng of dancers. He reached my table, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. A shy smile appeared on his face as he fumbled for words. I couldn't help but chuckle, he was adorably flustered.

“Hi,” he finally managed, his voice barely audible over the music. “I'm sorry if this is forward, but...I couldn't help noticing you.”

I gestured for him to sit, charmed by his nervousness. “I'm glad you did,” I said, leaning in so he could hear me. “I'm Kwesi.”

He slid into the seat across from me, relief evident in his posture. "Nana," he replied, then paused, conflict flashing across his face. He took a deep breath. “I... I should tell you upfront. I'm married.”

The admission hung between us, heavy with implication. But as I looked at him—really looked at him—I saw something beyond the wedding ring. I saw possibility.

“Nice to meet you, Nana,” I said softly, my smile never wavering. “I don't judge. You did what you had to do.”

He smiled. “So what brings you here?”

“Pride month celebration, duh.”

“Right. In case you haven't noticed, I suck at introductions or small talks really.”

“No wonder you married a woman,” I replied and he chuckled.

“I haven't seen you here, ever,” he continued.

“My friends dragged me here. Apparently too much Netflix and Chill is not good for the body.”

“And they are right. At least you got to meet me.”

“A married man. What good will that do? You're already taken.”

“I can still belong to you, if you'd let me.”

I took a good look at him. He was handsome, and his smile was adorable. “Okay, married man,” I began. “Tell me something about yourself.”

He smiled. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” I replied, taking a sip of my drink.

 ***

As the cemetery gates came into view, I couldn't help but feel the nagging pain choking me—if only we could be those birds in another life. Together, flying free wherever we wished, unburdened by fear, pain, of loss and death. The vehicles stopped in front of the cemetery, parking under the trees that stood tall in front of the gate. The six men who carried his coffin into the ambulance carried him out and led the procession to his final resting place. The pastor said a few words, and his uncles came to pour libation and prayed. Then they lowered him into the ground. I choked when the shiny mahogany casket hit the ground in a thud.

The thud sounded like the echoes of my shattering heart. I was standing beside the heap of red soil. I drew my black suit tightly around my body, battling to contain the swelling grief. I wanted the tears to come but they didn't come. Even on the day I got the phone call, or the day after. I just simply went back to work. The pain was there but the tears didn't flow. Nana was gone forever. I should cry, I love him too much not to shed tears at his funeral.

***

A month after we met, he invited himself to my place. I heard the doorbell ring and my heart leapt. I knew he was coming and I was very anxious. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door to see him standing there, a shy smile on his face.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft.

“Hey yourself,” I replied, stepping aside to let him in. “Welcome to my casa.” As soon as the door closed, we fell into a hug. The familiar scent of his cologne enveloped me, and I felt myself relax into his embrace.

“I was starting to think you'd never invite me over,” he teased as we pulled apart.

I laughed, “Well, you know how it is. Had to make sure the place was presentable. Plus I don't like bringing married men to my place.”

“Very funny, Kwesi,” he replied, smiling.

He glanced around the living room, his eyes landing on the wall adorned with family photos. “Mind if I take a look?”

“Go ahead,” I nodded, watching as he approached the wall.

He studied each photo carefully, occasionally asking questions about the people or places captured. Then he paused at a particular picture, a grin spreading across his face.

“Is this your mom?” he asked, pointing to a photo of a woman with my same eyes and smile. I nodded, moving to stand beside him. “Yeah, that's her.”

He glanced at me, then back at the photo, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “You know, I hate to break it to you, but you're basically her spitting image.”

I groaned, playfully shoving his shoulder. “Oh, come on. I do not look like my mother.”

“Oh, but you do,” he insisted, laughing. “It's not a bad thing! You've got her smile, her eyes...even that little crinkle when you laugh.” He reached out, gently touching the corner of my eye.

“Well, as long as you're not saying you've got a thing for my mom, I guess I can live with that.”

He laughed again, pulling me close. As I leaned into him, I couldn't help but smile. It was strange, having him here in my space, looking at my life through these snapshots. But it felt right, like he belonged here, laughing and joking and slowly becoming part of my world.

That night, I woke up around midnight only to find his eyes on me. Glistening under the dim fluorescent light like two moons watching over me. I didn’t know how long he had been watching me sleep, but I could hear the rhythm of his heart dancing to the rhythm of the evening breeze. He carefully lifted the comforter off my body as if he was peeling off a bandage from a lover’s skin and kissed my nipples, sucking and biting tenderly. I giggled.

“Oh, so you can giggle,” he replied, amused.

“Of course I can. Who doesn’t giggle?”

“You! You are twenty yet you are the oldest person I know. So responsible and calculating.” He poked my cheeks. “‘I can't meet you today; I have work’,” he mimicked me and I laughed.

 “I have to be.”

“Why do you have to be?”

“That's how I’ve always been.”

“Why?”

“I can't afford freedom like you. I come from nothing, I want more. My parents are nothings but they have issues and lots of debt. I’ve become the breadwinner of a family that doesn’t even want me. So I’m not acting like a grown up, I am a grown up. I grew up a long time ago.”

“And that’s why I’m attracted to you.”

“You’re attracted to a burdened man.”

“I’m attracted to a responsible man who knows who he is and is hardworking. A hardworking man is sexy, you know?”

“No, I don't.”

“Here we are, a man who is old in age and a man who feels old emotionally and mentally. Who do you think deserves to die first?”

“Your lips, something this deadly doesn’t deserve to exist.”

He laughed and I chuckled. “My lips, huh?” he asked, then went back to my nipples and to other parts of my body.

 “Yeah,” I moaned.

 ***

I delicately retrieved the gold chain adorned with the ring from around my neck, clutching it tightly in my hand. He had given it to me a year ago on my twenty-eighth birthday, professing me as his soulmate and presenting it as a token of his boundless love. I paid no heed to those who questioned my lack of visits to his place or meetings with his friends. Our love existed within the confines of secrecy, sheltered from a society that harboured deep-seated hate towards us.

Friends and family mattered little in comparison to our clandestine affection. Even when my closest friend caught us embracing and kissing publicly and chose to humiliate me in the university faculty car park, hurling derogatory slurs and condemning me as a sin of hell, I remained unfazed. My life became a cautionary tale and a source of amusement for my former friends, self-proclaimed devotees of Christianity. That night, as his tears mingled with mine, he cradled me in his arms, lamenting the cruel hand fate had dealt us by placing us in a country like Ghana. Here, our love was deemed illegal, and acts of affection between individuals like us were condemned as sins on earth, regardless of our inherent goodness.

With my eyes on the casket. I broke at the pain that memories brought. Of when we ran through the rain like little children laughing and jumping as the sleek water ran down our soul, of the first time we made love. It was a beautiful day, one I will never forget.

I remember his black shorts. His t-shirt clinging to his body, revealing his toned muscles. The water dripped all over his smooth skin like the river Nile when he walked into the bathroom. His raven-coloured eyes that ran all over my body seeking to devour me whole. I glanced at it,  he smiled cockily as if he wanted me to see he was gaining girth. He walked up to me, naked like the day he came to this world. I stared at the body that stood before me; it felt very right. I took off my clothes and walked with him into the bathroom. I watched like an eagle as he took the liquid soap and washed my body. He looked at me with his mouth open and I could feel his hardness pressing on my skin. He scooped a pail of water and poured it over us. The cold water ran down my skin, over and around my nipples.

The next thing I felt was his warm hands around my waist; one came up to my left chest as he played with my nipples, the other hand went down to my ass. Gently opening myself up. I arched my back as he touched me and I used my right hand to feel his rock-hard cock and stroked it. My left hand found his neck. He pinned my hands gently up against the wall as he slid into me slowly, filling me up inch by inch. He kissed my neck until I started to feel as though I was in cloud nine. He moved in closer, lifting me, and with my back against the shower wall, we fucked like that for a while, both enjoying ourselves. Until we wore ourselves out.

***

“To all those who loved Nana Ofori, take heart.” The priest’s voice boomed across the mic. The cemetery was silent except for the faint coughs and the shrill cries that Nana’s family released at intervals like a choir mistress raising a new song. “The Lord will be your fortitude. Be strong in these trying times,” the priest said. His eyes focused on a short, beautiful woman who was to the world, Mrs Anne Ofori. Nana’s wife. She was standing with her son, Michael. A seven-year-old boy who was a carbon copy of his father. I knew them both. Nana told me about them. He told me when Anne, his wife, got admitted to Harvard for her masters, and a year after she returned, he even invited me to Michael’s birthday party. I was the new friend he had made when she was out of the country. She welcomed me with open arms.

I had dressed exceptionally nice for the occasion. I knew the rules. I knew that we could not be seen talking in public. I knew that Nana had to maintain the charade of a loving, faithful husband. Still, my heart broke when I saw him smile at his wife as they exchanged pleasantries with the guests. I watched his wife kiss him passionately. Jealousy pumped within me when she sat on his lap. I got up, strutting across the hall, grabbed a glass of wine and began to flirt with every man in sight. I felt his eyes following me across the hall. Noticed how his jaw tightened  when  I  touched  a guy and how his hand clamped into a fist when I left with another guy. Nana sat still, maintaining the charade of a loving, faithful husband. That night, at the Royal Suite Hotel, as we wriggled between the bedsheets, he poured his rage. He took me without foreplay, without kisses. With every thrust, he labelled me his. With every moan, he offered his heart.

***

The first heap of red soil that poured into the grave sent my knees buckling. But I didn’t let out a wail. Tears didn’t run down my face but with every heap of soil poured, a piece of me kept dying slowly.

I remained there, standing by the grave. Long after everyone had departed. Long after the moon had risen in the sky, I remained until I felt a hand on my shoulders. I turned to the face of Anne, his wife. Her eyes were red and puffy. I closed my eyes waiting for the slap but it never came. I opened my eyes and found her staring at me solemnly.

“I’m supposed to hate you, but I can’t bring myself to hate you. Not when we've both lost someone we loved,” she said. “I loved him, you loved him too, at least he died knowing he was loved.”

Her voice was the same, the same voice that greeted me that day during the party, the same voice that called me that night to tell me that her husband had died at the hands of a reckless driver. The same voice that consoled me when I should have been the one consoling her.

“I’m sorry.” I said to her, A tear tugging at my heart. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” she replied solemnly. She placed her hand on my back and rubbed gently.

“You’re allowed to cry, you know. Crying is good too.”

“Crying will do no good.”

“Trust me, it will.”

She placed a hand on my shoulders and immediately it was as if my body had been waiting for her to give me permission to mourn. Tears began to fall as I gave into the grief. I stood there crying, mourning the death of another woman's husband. The love of my life.