I Am Silence

By Ricky

A gay college student is determined to be absolutely anything for his straight male crush. A twist ensues when the price of getting what he wants is becoming complicit to the most sinister terrorist in the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ricky
• Release date: Jan 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224233762

Ricky

Emihle Ncukana (otherwise known as Ricky) is a South African speculative fiction writer who specializes in surrealism, supernatural horror and psychological thriller.

Book preview

1.

E y, Ricky!

I detached my eyes from my laptop screen, which I had been staring at since the very beginning of the day. My head turned to the familiar voice, sounding my name with a thick Pedi accent. The landlady’s son, Mashego, was standing outside of my dome, leaning his torso on the bolted bottom part of my Dutch door, which moaned every time it was touched.

This is Kamo, our new housemate. He placed his right hand on the stranger’s shoulder that was standing—staring—next to him. At first, I assumed that they must have known each other personally. Kamo, this is Ricky.

Hey, Ricky. Kamo waved his hand with an enthusiastic smile.

I don’t remember what my response was, but I remember that as soon as Kamo disappeared into the house, Mashego and I shared a look. A mute smile.

I met Kamogelo in my second year of studying Law at the University of Free State.

At first, Kamogelo came across as unbendingly confident. His smile was always self-assured, with slow blinks and calm breaths, but never overcompensating or frantic.

He had a deep voice that sounded like a roar in a silent room—both effortlessly loud and commanding.

Everything about his physical presence, to me, felt large and overwhelming—from the swift steps and aggressive head-bopping in his hulky walk to his ostrich height—roundabout the same as mine, but his exaggerated by physical fitness.

In addition to his height, he had a large, often-uncombed Afro on his head—the first of his hair evolution stages—which made the size of his forehead and nose seem much smaller than they already were.

The biggest feature on his face was his naturally pouted lips, often chapped and dry, followed by a bulging, sometimes unequal, set of dark brown eyes—with the addition of shiny eyelids reminiscent of a porcelain doll.

I always thought his hands were fascinating; he had the stubby, yet virile hands of an MMA fighter with nails that, to my surprise, were always kept short.

The intensity, however, lay on the protruded cheekbones which highlighted the shape of his skull around his eyes and jawline—giving him a mature, humourless appearance.

Most especially, I liked his teeth; they were my favourite part of his physical appearance: large, chunky, but also appeared healthy and masculine.

Athletic men with iron chests, shredded biceps and chiselled abs always seemed, in my world, unattainable and exclusively straight. That may be why, at first, I did not think much of Kamogelo. My mind was changed, however, when the male tenants developed a habit—an uncommitted weekend practice—of playing soccer in the front yard. Besides the thrill of watching his body drenched in sweat, which usually resulted in shirtlessness, I discovered that, when paired with the rest of the male tenants, myself included, Kamogelo seemed taller, stronger and perhaps more intelligent in comparison. I noticed that the male tenants worshipped him with attention, whether all he had to say was a lengthy speech or a single word. He mostly spoke isiZulu with other men, mostly English with females and particularly myself, and only spoke Setswana when he was on his cellphone, presumably with someone from home. Each language, I figured, had a different personality: isiZulu was used to enhance his dominance, English to charm or rather show off, and SeTswana when being respectful.

On the other hand, the female tenants I lived with, lesser in quantity than the males—were all ‘nauseated’ by him.

They also happened to, like the rest of the male tenants, identify as straight.

In fact, I was the only tenant who identified openly as gay. When I met Kamogelo, I had only had penetrative sex once—in eleventh grade. On the other hand, the females I surrounded myself with were often objects of desire, including me in their gossip tales about hot straight men whom they had conflicting feelings for. To them, I would like to believe, I was always the voice of reason—the ‘single guy who gave the best relationship advice’, which was often disregarded when had to be implemented. Similarly, boys often perceived me as the ‘gay best friend’ who, unlike the other gay persons they have met in their lives, was ‘different’ and ‘not sensitive’. As a result, I grew resentful of the adjectives ‘cute’ and ‘cool’.

I also bear no shame in admitting that I have had a plethora of perverted thoughts about almost every man I’ve met, especially straight men. In high school, I had a midnight hobby of catfishing straight men, under a female pseudonym, on social media. I considered myself lucky if and when they sent their nude pictures. My earliest, memorable experience with nudity was in third grade, when my cousin-brother’s friends—who also happened to be my friends by default—had managed to get one of Snoop Dogg’s hardcore pornography films on DVD. It was my first time seeing a man with three testicles! And, subsequently, in sixth grade, I learned about gay pornography, although I always