| Imran Adebayo Ibrahim |

"Imran, boy, pass me the dough-dough." Jamal struggled to say with his mouth filled with rice, he pointed at the dish filled with fried plantain and I passed the plantain to him.

My grandmother couldn't contain her laughter anymore, she let it all out, almost choking. "Ah. . . you can't even pronounce dodo, it is well o." She quipped, gulping down a glass of water, "where did you say your great grandfather was from, remind me."

Jamal frowned, clearing his throat as he chewed the plantain in his mouth, "The Gateway state in Nigeria." Brilliantly, he answered my grandmother with a smug face.

My grandmother never accepted defeat easily, so she inquired further. "What state is that? I don't know of any state with that name."

"Hog-gun state." He finally answered, muttering as he was unsure of his pronunciation. My grandmother's laughter burst out of her, this time it was an infectious one, which infected me, my mother, Tokunbo and Zayd -- Francis just smiled.

"Walahi, your husband is a clown." She commented, tapping my mother's shoulder while Jamal continued eating, embarrassed to the core.

"Dad, it's Ohgun." Zayd corrected, and this made my grandmother laugh even harder. Zayd's pronunciation was nowhere close to being better.

"Olohun mi o, how did you manage to get cancer when you lived in the house of clowns, ehn, Sheriffah?" My grandmother's wit had its limits, and that was the limit. No one could laugh at what she'd just joked about, even Francis' surprise was palpable despite his effort to hide it. "Too early to joke about that?" She added, but my mother remained silent, "—Y'know I'm just joking, right?"

My mother sighed, pushed her plate of jollof rice forward, "I'm full, I'll finish up with work now." She announced, I looked up at her, concern palpable on my face.

"Don't stress yourself too much, you should be focusing on your treatment, not work." My grandmother said, but my mother stood up, ready to leave.

"Sheri. Sit down." My grandmother ordered, as calm as it sounded, it was still annoying.

"Mariam, I appreciate you coming here, but it's enough." Jamal stated, "I called you here to talk my wife into getting chemo not joking about her condition." He added.

That bastard. He was the one after all, he called my grandmother — how could I not have thought of that.

My mother's brow furrowed, disbelief written on her face. "So you called her?" Was the only thing she said before walking upstairs, in anger.

Poor Francis witnessed everything. There goes my happy family, right inside the drain. The only thing that kept me sane was the fried plantain that I chewed onto.

Me, Jamal and My grandmother stood up. It was obvious, we all wanted to go after my mother. "Both of you should wait here, I'll go talk to her, she's just being stubborn." My grandmother whispered, her voice calm as if nothing had happened — like she'd planned the whole scenario.

Jamal was hesitant at first but he later sat down, leaving everything for my grandmother. Me, on the other hand never doubted her one bit, she always knew what she was doing. I gave her an understanding nod and she smiled at me caressing my cheeks. I whispered a silent prayer as she ascended upstairs, all I wanted at that moment was for everything to go as she'd planned.

"I'll t-take my leave now." Francis' sudden stutter drove out attention to him.

"Son, that must be tragic to watch, I promise you dinner ain't always like this." Jamal explained, with a soft chuckle, while Zayd only sighed. I could see he was exhausted as well.

"Yes sir," Francis said, smiling brightly. He stood up from his chair as soon as he drank his water, gesturing at Tokunbo and Zayd as he walked away from the dining room.

"I'll see you off." I said, standing up and walking after Francis.

"I hope you visit some other time." We heard Jamal's voice as we arrived at the door.

"I definitely will." He said to me, and surprisingly with a smile. He put on his shoes and let himself out. Reaching the doorstep he paused and cleared his throat, his happy expression changed into a serious one. I swallowed the lump that had grown in my throat, anytime he had such an expression things never ended well.

"I'll see you in school tomorrow?" I inquired, trying to lighten the mood.

He inhaled softly, "Imran, you can keep doing this—" he began, sitting on the wooden bench on the porch, "—I thought we are friends, friends shouldn't keep secrets from each other." He added, gently.

I also took a deep breath, sitting next to him. "See Francis," I said, glancing at him and then looking away, "I didn't want you to share my burdens, I couldn't unload all this stuff on you, that's not what you're made for."

Francis clicked his tongue, "nonsense, we are friends, I would never be tired of you and dramas."

"Are you calling me a drama king?" I inquired with a slight smile.

Francis giggled, "you've always been a drama king, and that's lit about you, no cap. But don't keep your dramas from me, please." He practically begged.

"Okay man, I won't. It's just that, I don't want you to look at me like Jamal and Zayd do, like they are constantly saying: Lord, save the black kid. I don't want that." I explained.

Francis' hand draped over my shoulder, "one, we all are black, two, we are in this together, three, that's actually a vividly imaginative mind you've got." He quipped, giggling at his own wits. "Bruh, you're a special person to me and I'll always cherish you." He said, his eyes filled with reassurance.

My eyes shifted, as I lowered my head rubbing my back I said, "I'm sorry you got to see that side of my family, totally cuckoo."

"Oh no, not at all, y'all are perfect people, your family are so cute." Francis commented with a gentle and contented smile, "y'all are nice people, especially your cousin. He is cute."

"Francis, hey," I snapped my finger, "stop drooling over my cousin brother."

"I was just joking, but if I had to choose, it'll be a hard smash." He said running his finger through the strand of his hair and a smug look plastered on his face. This was a side of Francis I'd never seen before — he finally was comfortable with me.

"Oya, come and be going home." I suddenly said in broken-English. "Don't corrupt my mind." I added, making both of us chuckle.

He stood up, narrowing his gazing and smirking, "It's just a thought, you can stop me from saying it but you can stop me from thinking about it."

"Ew man," I pushed him gently, "go. . . now." I groaned, pointing at the street.

"Alright, alright. I'll take my leave now, bye Mr. Black boi, and tell your cute cousin I said Hi." Francis said as he left my porch.

"Ha, ha, so funny." I said, mechanically, "I'll see you in school tomorrow?" I yelled at him.

"You betcha!" He yelled back as he disappeared into the sunset.

With a deep breath and a relieved mind, I entered my house, ready to pick up from where we'd stopped. I Hope that my grandmother's plan in convincing my mother to carry on with chemotherapy would be a success.

* * *

As the bell for recess rang, I quickly packed my books into my backpack, eager to finish the rest of the day and head home. Yesterday had gone as planned: my grandmother had managed to convince my mother to start her treatment, Francis had been incredibly supportive, and his comforting words had softened my heart. I even started considering forgiving my mother for getting me a therapist. Instead of being mad at her, I could always take it out on Miss Charlene — for fun.

I couldn't wait for the day to end so I could talk to my mother and clear things up. But first, I had to endure four more classes and a boring therapy session with Miss Charlene, where I planned to just stare at the pendulum until the alarm clock went off. Simple.

"Imran, c'mon." Francis called from the classroom entrance, urging me to hurry up.

"Coming!" I yelled, packing my backpack perfectly before joining him. "Hey man."

"You weren't paying attention in Mr. Gonzalo's class. I know Trigonometry can be boring, but it's really important for the midterms."

I groaned, "Quit being boring, bruh. I was listening," I lied.

"You're lying, you little Pinocchio," Francis said with a toothy grin. "But don't worry, I've got you covered. We'll eat our lunches in the library so we can study and eat — I call it stuting."

"Nerd," I muttered. "That's why you don't have friends and hang out with me."

"Yeah, yeah—" Francis' words froze as a guy walked by and waved at him. His cheeks flushed noticeably as he grinned stupidly at the guy.

"Ooh. . .  someone's in love," I teased, ruffling his hair.

"In love? That's absurd," Francis denied, his voice quivering. He quickened his pace, "C'mon, let's go get something to eat, Cupid."

"Alright, if you don't want to admit it, we'll stop talking about it," I said, jogging beside him. "I think he's a twelfth grader; you're aiming high, man."

"I don't wanna talk about this," he whined as we made our way into the cafeteria.

Inside, I spotted Sahar sitting alone with her AirPods on, probably watching TikTok videos. The urge to apologize overwhelmed me, especially now that things were cool between me and Francis. We were the perfect trio, and without Sahar, our posse wasn't complete. She was kind and empathetic — a gentle soul. I missed her.

"Quit staring and go talk to her, Mr. Madly in Love," Francis teased, snapping me out of my thoughts.

"Me? In love with Sahar? She's just my best friend."

"Stop lying. You've been in love with her since Ella's party."

"Is it that obvious?" I asked.

Francis scoffed, shaking his head, "Even the lunch lady knows you love her. Go talk to her already," he said, pushing me forward.

I summoned the courage to approach Sahar after being a jerk to her. But as I reached her, another boy beat me to it. I've never seen him before, he was two times bigger than me, his face was smooth like he was a model, there was not a single pimple on his face — he was the perfect version of me. He sat next to Sahar and gently tapped her shoulder, holding two trays filled with their lunches.

"Sahar," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

She looked up and smiled, "Hey, Imran!" She called, with a firm smile, her eyes were the mirror of the things I'd said to her that day, they were cheerless as they were fixated on me. "I didn't see you in class."

"Hey Sahar," Francis joined us.

Sahar smiled at him instead, "hey Fran, how've you been, I'm sorry we have been distant." Her smile faltered a bit when she saw the tension in my face. "This is—"

As she wanted to introduce the guy that sat next to her, I cut her short. "We really need to study in the library," I interrupted, grabbing Francis by the arm and dragging him out of the cafeteria.

"Okay." I heard Sahar whisper as the two of them carried on with their conversation.

"Imran, what's wrong with you?" Francis asked as we walked briskly away.

"Sahar's moved on, man," I muttered, bitterness in my voice. "That guy she's with now, do you know him?"

"No, I've never seen him before, I think he is in grade twelve." Francis explained and we were interrupted by a voice behind us.

"Imran, can I speak with you?"

It was Mr. Morales, the principal. "Just you, Imran. Please follow me to my office." He added as me and Francis turned to look at him.

I nodded and followed him down the hall, waving at Francis. "What did I do Mr. Morales?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

"I want to ask you for a favor,"

"Me? What?" My surprise was palpable.

"There's a certain student who needs help in his school work and it seems you are an exceptional student, so Miss Charlene, your therapist recommended you to be his tutor. She said it will look good on your record, and it might boost your social skills," he explained as we walked.

"I can do that," I said, relieved that it wasn't something more serious. But as we reached his office, my relief turned to dread.

Sitting there, waiting for us, was Christopher Okafor.

"This is Christopher,"  Mr. Morales said as we entered his office, pointing at Chris who was drumming with the pen on the table. "Christopher, this will be your tutor, you'll work with him from now onward.

Chris turned, as he sighted me he frowned. "It's you, things are about to be fun." He said, smirking.

My heart sank. "God save the black boy," I whispered under my breath.

Author's Note

Shit's about to get real.

Glossary

1. Ogun: it's a state in Nigeria

2. Dodo: means Fried Plantain.

3. Olohun mi o: means oh my God in Yoruba Language.

4. Come and be going: is the broken English for You can take your leave now.