Dayo stopped calling as much.
Not dramatically tho, just gradually.
Our texts got shorter, plans got vaguer.
"Let's link up soon."
"Yeah, definitely."
Soon never came.
I noticed it on Tuesday when I needed help with an editing software issue. Called him and he didn't pick up. Sent him a text instead and he texted back three hours later.
"Busy with something, youtube it brr."
Fair! We were all busy buh it felt different.
On wednesday, I went to return his laptop.
Mine was fixed, didn't need to borrow anymore.
His place was a fifteen-minute walk from campus. Small room he shared with his cousin, always smelled like jollof rice and ambition.
I knocked.
His cousin opened the door.
"He's not here."
"You know when he's coming back?"
"No idea, he's been moving strange lately, always out."
I left the laptop with him,
"Told him to tell Dayo I said thanks."
He said okay.
I left.
Texted Dayo "Dropped your laptop with your cousin."
He replied immediately, "Appreciate it bro."
That was it.
No "let's catch up."
No "come through later."
Just appreciation and distance.
I ran into him on Friday on campus, I was at the printing shop. He was leaving as I was entering.
"Oh, guy," he said, surprised.
"Been trying to reach you," I said.
"Yeah, I know, i've just been moving, you know how it is."
"Not really, what's going on?"
He shifted. Looked uncomfortable.
"Nothing. Just handling some stuff."
"Stuff you can't tell me about?"
"It's not like that guy—"
"Then what's it like? Because you've been acting weird for weeks."
He looked around, people were listening.
"Let's talk outside please."
We walked to the back of the building, it was quieter there.
"What's going on?" I asked again.
He sighed, "Man, I don't know how to say this."
"No dey do like girl, just say it."
"I'm leaving."
"Leaving where?"
"School, lagos, everything man."
I stared at him.
"What are you talking about?"
"My uncle got me a connect, in Abuja. Video production company... Real money, real opportunity guyyy. I'm moving next month."
"And you weren't going to tell me?"
"I'm telling you now, ain't I?."
"After avoiding me for weeks."
"I wasn't avoiding you—"
"Dayo, come on."
He went quiet.
"Why didn't you just say something?" I asked.
"Because I knew you'd try to talk me out of it."
"Would I?"
"Wouldn't you?"
Honest answer? I didn't know.
"When did you decide this?" I asked.
"Been thinking about it for a while, made the final decision two weeks ago."
Two weeks.
Same time everything with Zainab fell apart.
He'd been moving on while I was falling apart.
"So what now?" I asked. "We just... stop talking?"
"No na, we keep in touch."
"People always say that."
"I mean it."
"Omor, everyone means it. Until they don't."
He looked frustrated. "Why are you making this difficult?"
"I'm not making it anything, I'm just being honest."
"You want me to stay broke? Keep struggling? Just because you're still here? Why are you always being dramatic? Wakr up man."
That stung.
"That's not what I said."
"But that's what you're implying."
"I'm implying that real friends tell each other when their life is about to change. They don't just disappear and act like nothing happened."
"I didn't disappear—"
"You did, slowly, and you know it."
He looked away, and hissed.. like I won't hear it, Kicked against the ground.
"I didn't know how to tell you," he said quietly. "You were going through it with Zainab. Seemed selfish to talk about my good news when you were hurting man."
"So you just said nothing?"
"Yeah."
I understood it, didn't like it buh understood it.
"Congratulations," I said. "On the opportunity."
"You mean that?"
"Yeah."
We stood there.
Awkward now.
"We good?" he asked.
"Yeah totally."
But we both knew we weren't.
Not really.
That weekend, I barely left the lodge.
Just worked, article after article.
Kunle came and went, tried to get me to go out but I refused.
"You're becoming a hermit," he said.
"I'm being productive."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
"They are for me."
He gave up trying.
On Sunday evening, I got a call from home.
My sister.
"Brother, are you okay?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Mummy said you've been acting strange, not picking her calls.. why?"
"I've been busy."
"Too busy to talk to your family?"
I didn't answer.
"What's going on?" she asked, gentler now.
"Omor, it's nothing, just school stress."
"You're lying."
"I'm not—"
"I know you. Something happened."
I closed my eyes, rubbed my face.
"I'm just tired," I said. "Tired of everything not working, tired of trying and getting nowhere, tired of people leaving."
"Who left?"
"Everyone, in different ways, but everyone."
She was quiet for a moment.
"People don't leave because of you," she said. "They leave because of them, because of their own stuff, their own fears, their own dreams, not because of you, brother."
"Doesn't make it hurt less."
"I know but you can't hold onto people who've already decided to go."
Lol, she sounded older than sixteen.
"When did you get so wise ehn?" I asked.
"I've always been wise, you just don't call enough to notice."
That made me smile, first time in days.
"I'll call more," I said.
"Good, and eat real food, not just bread and indomie.."
"Yes, ma."
She laughed. "I love you."
"Love you too shawty."
She hung up.
I sat there feeling lighter.
Monday morning, Tunde came to the lodge.
He looked terrible, eyes hollow, his clothes were wrinkled.
"You good?" I asked.
"Amaka is getting married."
I didn't know what to say.
"To who?"
"Some guy, rich guy and her parents approve."
"I'm sorry, man."
"Don't be, It's been over for a while, just... it's different when it's official, you know?"
I knew.
"You want to talk about it?" I asked.
"No, I want to drink about it. You coming?"
It was 10am.
"Yeah, give me five minutes."
We went to a bar off-campus, cheap place, plastic chairs, warm beer.. there haven't been light for days, on and off campus.
Tunde bought a bottle of ogogoro, the strong stuff, the kind that burns going down and makes you forget going up.
We drank in silence for a while, then he started talking.
"I gave her everything," he said. "Time, money I didn't have, my whole heart, and all of dar wasn't enough."
"Maybe it wasn't about enough, maybe she just wanted different."
"Different means richer."
"Maybe."
He poured another shot, drank it straight.
"You know what kills me? I'm not even angry at her, I'm angry at myself for believing it could work. For thinking love mattered more than money."
"It should matter more."
"But it doesn't, not in this country, not in this life."
I didn't argue.
We drank more.
He got drunk, I got tipsy.
Walked him back to his lodge around 3pm. His roommate helped him inside.
I walked back alone. My head was heavy, like the world was spinning slightly.
I passed by the library. Saw students studying, their faces were stressed but hopeful.
Wondered if they knew yet, that hope was expensive, that the country didn't care about dreams, that everyone left differently but everyone left.
When I got back to the lodge, Kunle was packing a bag.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"Home man, for a few days... My dad... he's getting worse."
"Worse how?"
"Doctor says he needs surgery, we don't have the money for it yet, but my mom wants me there... To help figure things out."
"How much is the surgery?"
"₦3,500,000."
I whistled. "That's heavy."
"Yeah."
"How much have you saved?"
"₦80,000, from tutoring and the small jobs, still a long way."
"I can help—"
"No." He cut me off. "You've got your own stuff, don't worry about it."
"Kunle—"
"I said don't worry about it."
He zipped up his bag.
"I'll be back Friday, maybe Saturday, just... hold the room down."
"I got it."
He left.
The room felt empty immediately.
I lay on my bed.
Stared at the ceiling.
Thought about Dayo leaving Lagos.
Thought about Tunde drinking away his pain.
Thought about Kunle going home to a father who might not make it.
Thought about Zainab in a hospital bed.
Thought about how everyone was fighting their own battles.
Bleeding their own blood, and nobody had time to hold anyone else together coz we were all barely holding ourselves.
That night, I opened my laptop.
Checked my email.
The writing company had sent payment for the month
₦42,000.
More than they promised.
I stared at the number.
Thought about sending some to Kunle, for his dad's surgery... but he'd said no.
And I'd learned that sometimes people need to carry their own weight, even when it's too heavy.
I sent ₦15,000 home instead, to my mom, told her to use it for my sister's textbooks.
She called immediately.
"Where did you get this money?"
"From work."
"What work?"
"Writing work, online... it's legit."
She was quiet.
"You're taking care of yourself?" she asked.
"Yes, ma."
"You're eating?"
"Yes."
"You're going to class?"
I lied. "Yes ma."
"Okay, thank you. May God continue to bless you."
"Amen ma."
She hung up.
I closed the laptop and lay back down.
The city was loud outside, but I'd learned to sleep through the noise.
Learned to survive in the chaos, learned that everyone leaves differently.
Some leave for opportunities, some leave for love, some leave for survival, but everyone sha leaves.
And the ones who stay?
We just learn to be alone together