The Death of Vivek Oji

“They talk about how she died the same day you were born,” he continues, “how my father got into an argument with your dad about your name. But you weren’t a girl, so . . .” Osita shrugs, lets the story die off.

“What do you think?” I ask him.

My cousi

“They talk about how she died the same day you were born,” he continues, “how my father got into an argument with your dad about your name. But you weren’t a girl, so . . .” Osita shrugs, lets the story die off.

“What d

I sank my fingers into the backs of his thighs and he tugged at my hair, groaning softly in the back of his throat as he slipped into the back of mine.

I couldn’t figure out if something was wrong with me or if this was just my life—if this was just how people felt, like concrete was dragging their flesh off their bones.

No man had touched him since Vivek died, and the way Osita felt now, perhaps no man ever would again.

It had been years since he’d chipped my tooth, but Vivek still fought a lot, just with other people now.

He left and I stayed behind, nursing an injured pride that prompted me to fight anyone who brought up the missing corner of my tooth.

Khatri told Chika how, after her parents died, Kavita had passed into his care, eventually coming with him all the way from India to Nigeria.

Maybe we were all pretending to be fine because the world gave us no other option.

Iknow what they say about men who allow other men to penetrate them. Ugly things; ugly words. Calling them women, as if that’s supposed to be ugly, too.