Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Kelechi
After being caught gossiping, the first thing I remembered when I left that restroom two days ago was, one, I didn’t wash my hands because I was basically escaping, and two, I couldn’t rest until I fed this growing curiosity in my head, which meant googling what “butch women” meant.
And that was exactly what I had done.
In fact, my Google history was filled with searches related to the term.
“What does butch mean?”
“Butch women explained”
“Difference between butch and tomboy”
“How to tell if someone is butch”
“Butch lesbian meaning Urban Dictionary”
“Is butch a slur?”
The last search had made me cringe so hard I almost threw my phone across the room. Thank God, I hadn’t asked that out loud in the restroom. The second-hand embarrassment would have killed me faster than malaria.
I ended up spending the entire evening going down what my mother would call a “rabbit hole of enlightenment,” learning about things I never knew existed.
Growing up in a sheltered home in Nigeria, the extent of my knowledge about different expressions of sexuality had been limited to whispered conversations and whatever Nollywood deemed appropriate for family viewing.
Turns out, there was a whole world I had been completely oblivious to.
And the worst part was that the more I read, the more I realised how absolutely clueless I must have sounded in that restroom. No wonder she had looked at me like I was some naive idiot who had never stepped outside her parents’ castle.
Which, let’s be honest, wasn’t entirely wrong.
But still, the accuracy stung.
That’s probably why, when some random girl named Funmi from the Vancouver ‘Japa’ WhatsApp group posted asking if anyone near the Mapleridge area wanted to meet up for drinks at a place called Roxies, I quickly typed “I’m in” before I could chicken out.
I was getting tired of being cooped up in my dorm room, studying and overthinking everything. Plus, meeting another Nigerian who had actually figured out how to survive in this city seemed like a good idea.
We didn’t know each other beyond the occasional emoji reactions in the group chat, but that was probably better. There were no expectations or judgments about my obvious cluelessness about everything Canadian.
Now I was sitting on my bed, staring at my laptop screen, wondering if there was a way to delete your entire existence from someone’s memory.
Because every time I remembered what Ms. Hoffmann had said, “What part of my gender was confusing?” with that annoying smirk, I wanted to crawl under my bed and stay there permanently.
And the craziest thing was that when she touched my arm that day, it felt like someone had turned up the temperature in the entire restroom by about ten degrees.
My skin had actually tingled where her fingers had been, which made absolutely no sense because people touched my arm all the time. My parents, my sister, friends back home, and random strangers trying to get my attention.
But that had been different.
And I couldn’t figure out why.
I had gone back to talking to Funmi afterwards, but my mind wasn’t in the conversation at all. All because I was busy staring at my arm like it had betrayed me somehow.
I mean, the traitor had decided to have its own little party without consulting the rest of my body first.
I kept replaying the moment over and over, trying to understand what had happened. But every time I did, that same strange warmth crept up my neck. It was annoying and confusing. And completely ridiculous.
So why was my traitorous arm still remembering exactly how her touch had felt?
I jumped up from my bed and made my way to where I’d dropped a pack of bottled water. I took one out, then screwed it open and took a big gulp. I was already feeling parched.
The cool water did nothing to calm whatever was happening in my chest. If anything, it made me more aware of how fast my heart was beating just from thinking about a simple touch.
This was insane.
I was losing my mind over a stranger who had been nothing but trouble since the moment I met her.
I grabbed my phone and opened YouTube. Maybe a short movie would help.
Anything to stop dwelling on things I didn’t understand.
“First things first, before the class ends, I have an announcement,” Dr. Chen said, staring at each of us in turn. Her legs were planted wide as she scrutinised the room. Her oversized glasses reflected the fluorescent lights, making her expression impossible to read.
For a second, she reminded me of Edna Mode from The Incredibles.
“I was going to assign individual projects,” she continued, “but there have been some recent developments. The department has decided that collaborative work will better prepare you for real-world research environments.”
She paused, letting that sink in.
“So instead, you’ll be working in pairs for your final project this semester.”
A collective groan rose around the room as I felt my stomach drop. Group projects were bad enough back home, where I actually knew people. But here? Where I had barely spoken to anyone beyond polite hellos?
“I’ve already assigned the pairs based on complementary research interests and academic backgrounds,” Dr. Chen continued, pulling out a sheet of paper. “When I call your names, please sit together and begin discussing your project parameters.”
She started reading off names, and I tried to pay attention, but my mind was already thinking about having to work closely with some stranger for an entire semester.
What if they thought I was too quiet?
What if we didn’t get along?
What if—
“Kelechi Obi and Marley Hoffmann.”
Hoffmann.
That name hit me, and I flinched.
I only knew one Hoffmann.
My blood turned to ice.
No. No, no, no. This could not be happening.
I twisted around in my seat, scanning the classroom.
She was three rows behind me.
Already looking at me.
With the same stunned expression I felt on my own face.
And then, slowly, something dangerously close to amusement curved her mouth.
I turned back so fast I almost gave myself whiplash and started fiddling with the edge of my notebook.
Of all the graduate students in this class, I had to get paired with her.
Marley.
Marley Hoffmann.
The name rolled around in my head. It suited her somehow, with that same edge that seemed to define everything about her.
Dr. Chen was still rattling off names, but her voice faded into background noise. I could practically feel Marley’s gaze burning into my back.
I risked another glance over my shoulder.
She hadn’t moved.
Just sitting there watching.
Waiting.
Oh God.
Was I supposed to go to her?
Was she supposed to come to me?
What was the protocol here?
Around me, other students were already shuffling around, switching seats. Some moved forward, others backward.
My palms started to sweat.
Marley tilted her head slightly, the corner of her mouth lifting.
And I realised she was enjoying this.
Enjoying my obvious discomfort.
She was just going to sit there and watch me squirm, wasn’t she?
I took a deep breath and gathered my things with as much dignity as I could muster—which wasn’t much. My hands were shaking slightly as I stood up.
This was fine, I encouraged myself.
I was a grown woman.
I could handle sitting next to someone for an hour without combusting.
The walk to her row felt absurdly long, every step echoing in my ears like I was walking through an empty cathedral.
I could feel other students watching.
…They probably weren’t.
When I finally reached her row, she didn’t move.
She just watched me hover there awkwardly; my hands clutched to the straps of my bag.
If I were light-skinned, I was pretty sure my knuckles would have blanched by now.
“You can sit,” she said, gesturing to the empty seat beside her with mock generosity. “I won’t bite.”
I slid into the chair, trying to put as much space between us as the narrow lecture seats would allow.
Which was basically none.
“So,” she said, leaning back in her seat. “Kelechi.”
The way she said my first name did something complicated to my stomach. Again
“That’s me.”
“I checked out your name on Google, even though I wasn’t sure if I spelled it correctly. You’re Nigerian, right?”
She googled my name.
Okay.
Why did that make me want to blush?
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“I see.” She tapped her pen against her notebook. “What’s your research focus?”
“Cultural adaptation and identity formation in immigrant communities,” I managed to say without stumbling over the words.
One eyebrow went up.
“Fancy. And personal, I’m guessing.”
Heat crept up my neck.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing bad, princess. Just that people usually research what they know.” She shrugged. “Mine’s gender expression and social perception. Also personal, before you ask.”
There was a challenge in her tone.
Maybe she expected commentary.
I didn’t give her any.
Dr. Chen clapped her hands, cutting through the classroom chatter.
“Alright, everyone. You have the rest of the period to discuss your initial project ideas. Remember, your proposal is due by February next year, so you have time.”
Marley turned her full attention to me.
I felt pinned under that green gaze like a butterfly on a board.
“So, partner,” she said, and the word sounded both like a question and a threat. “How do you think we should combine cultural adaptation with gender expression? Should be interesting, considering our little philosophical clash last week.”
I swallowed hard.
This was going to be a very long semester.
“Maybe we start by finding common ground in our methodologies first.”
“Common ground?” She leaned closer, close enough that I caught her scent again. “Where’s the fun in that? I think we should lean into our differences. See what sparks.”
The way she said sparks made my pulse quicken for reasons that definitely had nothing to do with academia.
“I’m not sure that’s the most professional approach,” I replied.
“Professional,” she repeated slowly. “Right. Well, we have a few months to figure it out. My schedule’s pretty flexible. When do you want to meet?”
“Um… whenever works for you.”
“That’s not an answer, K. When are you free?”
The directness in her voice made me sit up straighter.
“Tuesday afternoon? After our last class?”
“Tuesday it is. Library, third floor, corner table by the philosophy section. Four o’clock.”
She started packing up, even though we still had a few minutes left in class.
“Wait—how do you know I’ll be able to find—”
“You’ll find it,” she said, standing up and slinging her backpack over her shoulder. “You seem like the type who’s very good at finding things when you need to.”
Before I could ask what that meant, she was gone.
And I was left sitting there with the distinct feeling that I had just agreed to something far more complicated than a research project.