I may not like the Americans for so many reasons. I don’t really admire their Kim Kardashian, neither do I admire Caitlyn Jenner. I hate the fact that a black boy is a criminal in waiting. I may not like the fact that their Police officers’ guns are more sinister when pointed at a black man. I don’t find it funny that some white boys would patiently lay ambush for blacks, inorder to terminate their lives. But there is a singular reason why I may change my mind about them, and that is why I’m writing you this letter.
I really want to thank you for all the things you’ve done for me. I thank you for allowing me live in your house. I know some mothers who threw away their kids, but you didn’t. I thank you for always standing up for me. I still remember when Mr. Kayode accused me of stealing pinneaples from his little pinneaple garden. You stood up for me. It can’t be my son, he doesn‘t steal! You always managed to say good things about me. I love you for all these.
There are many things I’ve always wanted to tell you. How I hated okro soup! It often stained those white shirts you bought for me. I hated the fact that you never took me to the amusement park when I came first in class. I was not always happy when you made me call Mr Kayode daddy, even when I knew that he wasn’t my dad. Sometimes, I wanted to kill him for always sneaking into our house at night and lay with you on the bed. These are the things I wanted to say to you then, but I never had the chance. It’s ok, I forgive you.
There are things I want to tell you now. I want to tell you that I finally found a reason to love the Americans. I want to tell you that I don’t like girls. Maybe, I’ve never really liked them. Sometimes, I wonder why everyone thinks that the two potruding flesh on their chest are sexy. I’m sorry, mom, I won’t be getting married to a girl. I think I’m a gay. I thank the Americans for finally giving me the boldness to say this.
I carry this letter with me always. I want to deliver it personally -I don’t know any post office that delivers to heaven- but this may never happen. Gay people don’t go to heaven, that is what these preachers are saying–and this is why I no longer go to church. Hell is our final abode, they say. I’m sorry, mom, you won’t be seeing me in heaven. Let me add that I was there when Mr Kayode’s pinneaples were stolen. The boys who did it, Kunle and Ola, gave me some and I did eat! I’m sorry.
I hope heaven is as beautiful as the bible says. Have a nice time with God. Bye.