“Alobam”

It was past ten when Obum finally called back. By then, the club was packed, and Ralu had stopped telling anyone who asked that he was waiting for someone, and so had allowed a couple to settle in the private booth with him. The girl in her Christmas hat had glanced at him shyly, almost apologetically, before they’d begun making out. He’d let his eyes settle on them for a second, and then looked away, at the dance floor that was dim between the sparkle of lights. The DJ had been on fire all night long, giving them jam after jam; now he was playing Olamide, and if he were here, Obum would have been on the dance floor. Ralu loved to watch him, his joy and his freedom that pulled people in, women who turned around to hug him through bouts of laughter between songs, the occasional guy grabbing his waist in a way so brief and loud as to be humorous, but underneath which Ralu saw desire or curiosity.

Things had been different recently. Ralu had tried to make him talk whenever he was at the house, each attempt met with stoicism, which had made Ralu all the more worried because Obum liked to talk, his Instagram bio said in this house, we are vulnerable and radically honest, and so he had decided that perhaps what Obum needed was a distraction, this, a wild Friday night at the Element. But two hours after he was supposed to show up, having said he’d take a keke after hanging out with his friends, he was only just returning Ralu’s calls.

Ralu watched the phone buzz on the table. He poured himself another shot of Hennessey, which he’d opened after the first hour of waiting. Now that his phone was ringing, Obum’s name flickering on the screen, all that anger and uncertainty had vaporized, replaced with relief. It was loud in the club, Teni blasting out of the speakers. He downed his shot, reaching for the phone just as it stopped ringing. He could feel the couple’s presence, the girl in her Christmas hat, now that they were no longer kissing, now that they were whispering earnestly to each other. They were young, probably Obum’s age-mates, twenty. He caught their eyes on him. “Feel free,” he said, loud and smiling, nodding at the bottle, still half-full, on the table between them, and the guy smiled and said, “Manchi!” Ralu’s phone buzzed again, stopped, and then flickered with a text notification. I’m so sorry, the text said, I’m high af and seated alone outside a store on M.M. Way. Please come get me.