I will tell you a story. Of how Bollywood almost ruined my life.

It is 2004. I am in university, living alone, off campus, in Zaria. I am lucky to have a desktop PC I built myself, with parts bought from computer stores in Kaduna. Importantly, I have a DVD/CD burner drive.

My DVD burner brings boys and girls to the yard. Students come to burn their favourite songs onto CDs and DVDs. They come to make copies of programs. But a few just come to watch films.

A couple years earlier, I got into a doctrinal fight with my mother. It is bad. Very bad.

As we both read the Bible fanatically and know it cover to cover, we begin to argue about whether, technically, Christ outlawed marriage between second cousins. It is quite a technical argument and my mother is driven less by her knowledge of Scripture and more by her tradition.

My argument is purist: does the Bible in any particular verse relevant to Christians in the post Christ dispensation, specifically outlaw marriage to second cousins. My mother is from a village in Kaduna where at a time in history they couldn't even marry from the same village.

She is furious. The mere suggestion is incest to her. I am practical: if you are a Christian who is a literalist and the Bible does not forbid it, why are you angry? Plus, I add: it is not that strange: a few of her Muslim friends are married to their cousins. Trouble is brewing.

Trouble is brewing because my mother knows I have recently met, for the first time, a second cousin of mine who I speak to everyday. Her fiery eyes warn me not to suggest incest. Not to bring the mention of it into her holy home. Not to bring curses into her household.

But it turns out I am just a provocateur. Pushing the boundaries. Proving that I know more scripture than her. And that there is nowhere in the Christian Scriptures where second cousin marriage is specifically forbidden. I tell her, if she can show me, I will stop arguing.

The anger in her eyes tell me: This is not a matter to joke about. There is no compromise. I will risk my own life if I even entertain the thought in my head. The argument ends. I assure her it is just an academic exercise. But her anger does not end. It makes a mark on me.

2004/2005.
There is a young woman, one year my junior in the faculty of law. One of those beautiful people who are also popular. Everybody wants to be with her. Somehow we become friends -- she lives on my street. Like many people, my computer brings her to the room.

She defers to me in all things about our studies and only interrupts me to ask questions. We are law students and hierarchy is drilled into us in university. But when we begin speaking about films, she raises her voice. I know nothing she says. Absolutely nothing.

Now we are not in my room yet. I do not want her to come in as I am wary of gossip: she is the kind of person everyone watches. I tell her I, like her grew up watching Indian movies on NTA and that they are trash. I have read a few Marxist books and my arrogance is on turbo.

She wants to come to my room and watch movies. But they are Indian movies. This is my excuse to say no. I am also still, despite my arrogance, a bit awkward around women. She says: just give me a chance to prove you wrong about Indian movies.

I think I have won. I will tell her this is trash after fifteen minutes and find an excuse to kick her out of the room. (Our rooms are very small, but for students, to live alone in even this tiny room is a huge luxury). She goes home to shower. And returns in the evening.

She comes with two DVDs. Kai Ho Naa Ho. And Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham. I laugh when I see her with two DVDs. I think: how hopeful...you really think you will watch two Indian movies in this room? Who do you think I am? You think I am all those boys who chase you on campus?

Meanwhile I am peeing through the windows. Because I can see that one particularly nosy neighbour, has seen her come in, and will give me hell over it. He is pretending to arrange buckets of water outside his room. It is already getting dark. And Indian movies last forever.

She asks me which one I want to begin with. I say I don't care really. I am uncomfortable that she has settled in. She does not look like she is going anywhere. But I am also arrogant. I tell myself, I will declare this movie boring in 20 or 30 minutes and find and excuse to go.

She hands me the most recent one, Kal Ho Naa Ho. The DVD drive spins to life. Windows Media Player pops up on my screen. I adjust the screen so that we can watch from below: I have pushed the chair aside and we are sitting on the floor and bed. I adjust the volume. I lean back.

At first I am distracted. But then I start to follow the story of Naina, Rohit and Aman. I am initially bored. And then of course there is the singing in between the scenes in Indian movies which needs you to be patient or really be into the movie. But then Shahrukh Khan...

Shah Rukh Khan as the terminally ill Aman starts to get to me. Slowly. The voltage drops and the electricity even goes off for a bit but then it comes back on. I resume the movie, invested in Aman and his wife and the love triangle with Rohit and Naina. Fuck! 90 minutes gone.

Then I start to feel it. That tingling sensation in my nose. I nervously adjust my feet. Clear my throat. She disappears from my room. I can only see Shah Rukh Khan. I can only see Aman who is going to die, except some miracle happens. I see Rohit and Naina getting married. Fuck!

By the time Aman is dying, the dams I have heroically held back have burst. That sharp pain in the nose which rumours of tears has come and passed. And tilting my head up can no longer hold the tears. I tell myself: cannot let the tears drop in front of this junior who I may like

By this time I do not care whether my neighbour Okiri or his roommates are peeping. I care only about Aman. And about not embarrassing myself in this room.

But I fail. Miserably. I let tears roll. They are hot. My eyes burn. I am angry that I am crying. Kal Ho Naa fucking Ho!

She has proved her point. And now it is past 10pm. She sees my tears. She is gracious. She does not make fun of me. She just says, don't look down on Indian films. I know she is not going anywhere. I cannot bring myself to do it. I ask her to wait while I use the bathroom

In the bathroom, I let myself cry. I say to myself: Aman is not fucking real! Naina is not fucking real! it is Preity Zinta and Shah Rukh Khan! They don't even fucking care about you. What is this!!!???

But I cry. Until my chest hurts. Until my nose runs.

She spends the night in my room. She is fine. I am not. She doesn't not know why I am so cold and distant. I do not want her to spend the night.

I am thinking: Fuck Kal Ho Naa Ho. Fuck tears. Fuck this stupid thing in my nose that drives me to spasms. Fuck this chest pain.

We watch Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham. And I cry again. What the fuck?

I saw the same dude in the last movie. He is still Aman in my head. But somehow it reset the tears. And they flowed again...

In the morning three of my neighbours confront me, in a playful manner. There is something of a council.

So we see that she slept in your room.

Nothing happened.

Fuck out of here. Is she your sister?

Okiri: so someone as fine as that sleeps in your house and nothing???

No she is not my sister. And nothing happened.

But I cannot convince them. I also cannot tell them I cried like a little boy who was bullied in a playground.

Better to let them think something happened. Than let them think I cried all night.

2007. I have graduated. I go back to visit this woman with whom I remained friends. We start talking. I tell her my uncle died recently. She tells me her uncle died recently. I tell her my uncle who died was a chain smoker. She tells me her uncle who died was a chain smoker too.

She asks me: what was your Uncle's name. I tell her, I don't even know if this is his real name, because he was tall and all, but we called him Uncle Dogo. She screams! Fuuuuuuck! Uncle Dogo is my Uncle too!
And we both agree that it was a good thing nothing happened that night.

Perhaps my neighbour in my compound and fellow lawyer @rossoinc remembers the evening in question?

Obviously peeing above is peeping.