|Imran Adebayo Ibrahim|

Staring eagerly at my MacBook's screen, I hissed loudly at the realization that Saleem had bailed on me to watch the football game at the local ball-house we occasionally visited back in Nigeria. I always tagged along with him to appear manly and to uphold my father's legacy. My father, may God rest his soul, was an avid fan of the Manchester United football club. We used to watch the games together and sometimes even caught a flight to see them live at the stadium.

Those days were the best. He would insist on me wearing the football club's jersey.

The video call abruptly ended, and I gave up, almost closing the peculiar-looking laptop my mother got for me on her business trip to London. Saleem called me back. I waited for five minutes before picking up, planning to return his calls later, yet also longing for a conversation with my best friend now residing on a different continent.

"How far, nah?" he began, speaking the common English every Nigerian uses, even the wealthy converse in pidgin English (also called broken-English).

"I'm fine," I said, sipping the apple juice I brought from Nigeria. "How's Naija?"

"Fine o!" He exclaimed dramatically, flashing me a tired glare. "See as you dey fresh, just one day for Yankee." Saleem winked, mistakenly referring to London as Atlanta. In Nigeria, London is often colloquially called Yankee.

Fine, you've started glowing in just a day in Yankee.

I clicked my tongue in disappointment. "Mrs. Adesanya will be so disappointed. It's America, not Yankee; there's a major difference." I corrected him, being the meticulous perfectionist I was. Mrs. Adesanya was my favorite teacher back in my Nigerian high school, also my English teacher, who always faked a British accent — typical of English teachers in Nigeria, for some professional air.

"You better drop this your sabi-sabi attitude before they break your mouth at your new school," Saleem warned me as he often did.

He was right; it wasn't the first or second time I'd been beaten up for my know-it-all behavior. In Nigeria, I was a bully-magnet. They always seemed to find me, even when I tried to be invincible. I hoped that wouldn't happen in the new school I was attending. "They wouldn't do that," I sighed, "—that aside, do you know who my stepbrother is?" I questioned, changing the conversation.

"Who?" Saleem sighed, aware that I enjoyed revealing unexpected information.

"It's Zayd freaking Raymond. That famous baseball player is my stepbrother." As much as I hated admitting to that fact, I enjoyed the bragging rights Zayd's fame brought me at that tiny moment.

"What the heck!" Saleem exclaimed from the screen. If we were physically chatting, he would have slapped my head. "Boy! That's big news. It's great to have a handsome and kind stepbrother." He congratulated me, nodding happily. I knew he was proud of me.

Thinking about it, I noticed there was nothing kind about my supposedly stepbrother. He was rude, bratty, and most importantly, disrespectful. The way he spoke to his stepmother, if I were to even look at my mom directly in the eyes, my granny would hear about it. "I don't know about the kind part, but he's kind of handsome," I acknowledged.

Saleem sucked on his teeth, "never meet your heroes, they say. So now you're officially Imran Raymond?"

I glared at Saleem askance. "Never. Gonna. Happen. I am Imran Adebayo Ibrahim, and I'll forever stick to my heritage. I'm not taking some white man's name," I spat in disgust.

"Pelé, Mr. Nigerian. Sha be careful."

I pouted as I flashed my well-spread five fingers at him. That action is regarded as an insult in Nigeria, especially to one's mother. "I've heard you-" I yawned, "—how's mum over there? How's your little sister?" I added, sucking on the empty Happy Hour juice box.

Reminiscing all the memories I had with Saleem, I couldn't help but miss my hometown. Even when I was supposed to be happy for leaving Nigeria, I still felt like I left a piece of me back there. It wasn't as if I had friends back in my old school, but I had a friend who really cared for me. Saleem and I were the bestest friends anyone had ever seen, despite being two opposite poles.

He is loud, energetic, and an extrovert, while I am shy, calm, bleak, and an introvert. He was the first person that made me feel okay for being weird.

Saleem saw the glint of tears at the corner of my eyes and he smiled brightly, exposing his gapped teeth. "Hey bro, don't cry on me now. I'm always there with you."

Quickly, I wiped off the tears with wet wipes. "I'm not crying," I cleared my throat, "it's allergy season over here."

"Yeah. As if Nigerians have allergies," he quipped.

He made a great point. Once you came from Nigeria, you're supposed to be immune to anything: fever, ultraviolet radiation, and even fire. The only thing Nigeria have in common with some parts of America and South Asia was lactose intolerance — just because milk is a little bit expensive to afford for all the daily meals.

"We'll always FaceTime, I will also fix my sleeping schedule so we can talk."

Poor Saleem, he had to give up his goodnight rest just to talk to me, all thanks to the time difference between Atlanta and Nigeria. "If it's unbearable for you, you don't need to."

He scoffed, "as if you mean it. Our classmates miss you — even Deejah misses you as well."

"Stop pulling my legs, those guys hate me. They even once thought I was among the casualties when that poorly built house collapsed in Lekki. Why would I think they miss me now? And for Deejah, she would be happy that I'm gone, since I'm her competition."

Saleem's eyebrows raised, and he pouted in annoyance. "At least I miss you," he said, and I could hear his mother's voice yelling from the background. "Mummy is calling me, I've gotta go. I will call you later." He said and was about to disconnect the video chat before he paused again, "—I forgot to tell you; me and Efua are together now, check my moment on Insta." With these said, he ended the call for good this time.

"Ódabo." Was all I could mutter before his end disconnected. As if I was being hypnotized, I picked up my phone and stalked my own best friend's Instagram. There I saw the new pictures he posted on his moment. They both took it in front of a pizza place in Nigeria. The two of them looked happy in that picture.

Amongst all the girls in my previous school, why would Saleem choose Efua when he knows me and that demon have a bad history? Yeah, she was one of my many bullies. I had no choice but to be happy for him; after all, heartbreak would be the aftermath of their so-called teenage love.

"Bruh, dinner's ready." Zayd's annoying yet charming voice broke my soliloquizing moment. He should at least let me soliloquize in peace.

"Have you been eavesdropping since?" I seethed, ready to harness all the anger in me at him.

"Yeah, but I only grabbed the part you were praising me. I love it, brah." As handsome as he looked, he looked so dumb saying that. He even had the guts to extend his knuckle for a bro-knuckle-touch.

I left his hand hanging in the air. I wasn't his bro. "Well, I guess you've got hearing issues, because I remember saying: 'he is handsome, rude and disrespectful.'" I expressed my feelings before realizing what I just did.

"Bro?" He flashed a disgusting smirk at me. "I know I'm a ladies man; I didn't know men crushed on me too." He added, using my words as a defense mechanism and flexing his muscles. "Joke's on you, dawg."

"What just happened?" I questioned cluelessly.

"You gay, bro." He winked at me.

That was the right button he pushed to unleash my anger. I stood up, hitting his chest. "Get!" I yelled, pointing at the door.

With an annoying smile, he raised his hands, palms opened. "Chill, brah. I'm not into you, so don't get it twisted." With a chortle, he said this — tousling my hair "—you cute tho." He acknowledged again.

Even when my anger at the moment had relinquished, I felt the sudden surge of irritation instead, and I pushed him out of my room, smashing the door on his face. At that instance, a new revelation beckoned upon me that my stay here was going to be the worst. May Almighty Allah grant me the steadfastness and patience I needed.

Author's Note

This chapter was enjoyable, right? I wanted to know your opinions concerning something. If you were to rate this story's humor so far from the range of 1-5 what would it be?

The word written boldly are the translation to any language included other than English.

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Glossary

1. Ódabo: means Goodbye in Yoruba language.

2. Sabi Sabi: is the pidgin-English for Know-it-all.

3. Pelé: means Sorry in Yoruba language.