I could tell you about life in Port Harcourt. I could tell you about the bar opposite my yard from where songs blasted, from heavy speakers, every night, to my enjoyment. I could tell you about Mama Ije, the roadside food seller, whose rice, beans, stew, and plantain dish was a delicacy during break time, every day at school. I could tell you about Felicia, the most beautiful girl in the world, and my crush, who was just starting to like me. I could tell you about the spirited football games we played, every Saturday and Sunday, at UST, the state university I like to say is in my backyard. I could tell you that life in Port Harcourt was sweet, delightful. I could tell you all of that, but I’ll be telling you a half-truth. This part of the truth is sweet and delightful, the other part is the inverse.



You see, I live in Diobu, a daredevil neighborhood in Port Harcourt, the Garden City. As I write, I am self-locked inside my house – nobody else is at home – and outside, I can hear the voices, the voices of the boys. The boys who my mother always told me to avoid by all possible means. The boys who walked around the streets as if their shoes were made of springs. The boys who, for the most part of the day, sat in a dark corner from where came the severe odor of tobacco, gin, and Igbo. The boys who made the street passages impassable whenever the sun left the sky, except for anyone who was tired of using their phone. The boys who shouted, “Who goes you?” “Focus,” “Wida you,” “Disembark,” and many other anomalous phrases, which would fill the bottomless pit if all were thrown in. These are the boys outside of my door. Area boys, they were called. In school, Mr Jackson taught us that area was equal to length times width. In the streets, area had nothing to do with length times width. If you are “area,” you are part of the people that own the streets. So these boys, these area boys, were the black-market owners of my street.



For the third time this week, I refused to show them “love.” This was why they were now, shouting and cursing, at my door. Banging the door. “Where that man, em dey carry us dey play abi.” I knew the voice, it was Don Blac. It was he, Don Blac, that stopped me on Monday, with his crew forming a crescent behind him, asking me to show them love. I promised him on Wednesday. On Wednesday, I promised him on Friday. Today was the Friday. About forty-five minutes ago, I saw Don Blac with his crew trooping out of the narrow lane about a half-mile from my yard. I’m sure I was the one to sponsor their round of cigarettes for today, or so they thought. After all, I had promised to show them love today. But I didn’t have the one-thousand naira I needed to show love with. I wasn’t going to show any love today. And so as I saw him, and he saw me, before he could even say my name, I gave Usain Bolt a run for his money. They, Don Blac and his crew, followed me in similar fashion.



As I write, I’m sipping from a can of chilled Fanta, the last one in the fridge. The one my brother, Aliyu, had told me not to touch, but I more than touched it anyway. I had a good excuse; the “length times width” boys were after my life. What if they broke the door, entered the house, and caught me? They sure would give me the beating of my life, and, afterward, it wouldn’t matter that I had drank the Fanta. They had given Zebrudaya a similar beating when he, mistakenly, or perhaps not mistakenly, did the “aro mate” handshake with one of the area boys. It was just last week that he resumed school, and when he took off his shirt, one break time, I could still see the imprint of five fingers on his back.



But I am calm. As I write, I am calm. As I sip my Fanta, I am calm. The door wasn’t going to break. My fat aunt, Salinah, had fallen against the door on two occasions, when she missed her steps. She always missed her steps. The door didn’t break then and it won’t break now. I’m confident. As for the area boys, they’ll leave once Mr Kemi, the army colonel who lived two rooms away from mine, returns. The time is 3:53 p.m. Mr Kemi usually returns by 4:00 p.m. Soon I won’t be hearing the voices anymore. This is where I put my pen back inside my drawer. I need to finish this Fanta. Next time I encounter Don Blac and his boys, the blood of Jesus should cover me. If it doesn’t, then my own blood will.