I met Emeka at an old basketball court behind our school. He was the loud type. The type of person that draws attention from other classmates and teachers as well without even trying. I was quieter, more of a listener than a talker. But somehow we clicked.
Maybe it was our mutual love for basketball. Or maybe it was because we both had mothers who scolded us for staying out too late. Or maybe it was just one of those friendships that feel like family.
By the time we got to senior year we were inseparable. Everyone knew it — "Emeka and Uche" had become one phrase, like "five and six."
We studied together, shared food, exchanged songs, sometimes we even wore matching sneakers. When teachers paired students for projects, they didn't bother asking us.
After school hours, we'll sit on the staircase and discuss until almost every one had left the school premises. We'd often discuss things like how we'd one day start a small business, or travel the world.
I remember having a talk with Emeka and he said, “Promise me no matter what happens — success, girls, whatever — we'd stay boys. No drama, no beef, just loyalty.”
I laughed. “You sound like a Nollywood script.”
But he was being serious this time around. “Say it.”
“I promise,” I said. And I meant it.
But promises have a way of breaking when pride comes in.
It started small initially. After school, Emeka began hanging out with a new crowd, older boys from another neighborhood. They dressed sharper, talked louder, and carried themselves like they owned the streets. According to Emeka, he had "connections" with them.
But I didn't like them. They laughed at things that weren't funny, bragged about money they didn't have, and made fun of people like me — the quiet, bookworm, and uncool kind of kid.
When I told Emeka I didn't trust them, he brushed me off.
“Bro, relax. They're cool. You're just too cautious.”
“Or maybe I'm just seeing clearly.”
He frowned. “You’re always judging, boy. Why can't you support me for once?”
After that, we saw less of each other. I focused on exams and university applications; he focused on parties, side hustles, and impressing people who barely even knew his middle name.
Then came the betrayal.
It was the week before graduation. I had been saving money for months — helping my uncle at his shop after classes, running errands, skipping meals — just so I could buy a new phone because my old one was already falling apart.
When I finally bought it, I couldn't wait to show Emeka. He admired it, tested the camera, and was like, “Guy, you've blown o!”
That evening, we hung out at his house, watching football and taking soft drinks. I left my bag on the couch when I went to help his mother at the kitchen.
When I got home that night, the phone was no where to be found.
At first, I thought I'd misplaced it. I turned my bag upsidedown but it wasn't there. I called Emeka’s line using my mom's phone. It rang once, then went off.
The next day I went to his house, but he wasn't home. His younger sister said he had gone out early with his new friends. I waited for him for hours, but still no sign of him.
When I finally saw him at school, I quickly approached him. He was laughing, acting normal, as though nothing had happened.
I pulled him aside.
“Bro, I can't find my phone.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Ah, sorry bro. You sure you didn't drop it somewhere?”
“I had it when I came to your place.”
He was now looking a bit defensive. “So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying maybe you saw something.”
“Are you accusing me?” he asked with a frown on his face.
“I just need the truth, Emeka.”
He scoffed. “Wow. After everything, you think I'd steal from you. You're unbelievable.”
Before I could reply, he walked away.
I felt bad. Not because I had lost a phone — but because I had lost a friend.
For months we didn't speak. After graduation, we went to different universities. Life moved on. Whenever I saw a group of boys together laughing at campus, it brought back memories of Emeka and how we both used to hang out with each other.
Sometimes I drafted out messages to him. Hey, bro. Can we talk?
But pride wouldn't allow me to send them.
Then one evening, two years later, I ran into his sister in the market. She was looking older compared to the last time I set my eyes on her.
”Uche!” she exclaimed. “You’ve changed o!”
We talked for a while, and then she said, “Emeka always asks about you.”
That night, I stared at my phone for a very long time. Then I finally sent the message.
Hey, bro. Can we meet up?
He replied within minutes.
Name and place.
We met at the same basketball court, where we first met. He walked in, putting on a faded jersey.
“Long time, Uche,” he said, his voice sounding softer than I remembered.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Two years.”
We were both quiet for some seconds.
“I need to say this. About that phone... you were right.”
I was dumbfounded.
He looked at the ground. ”I didn't steal it. But one of those guys did. I knew. But I didn't say anything because... I was scared of losing face. I thought I could fix it quietly. But then you accused me, and pride took over. I messed up, bro.”
“I waited for you to say something,” I said quietly. “I wanted to believe you wouldn't do that.”
“I didn't deserve your trust then,” he said. "But I want to earn it back."
I could see the remorse on his face.
Then I laughed — not out of mockery, but relief. “You still owe me a phone.”
He smiled. “I’ll buy you two. One for the lost years.”
We both laughed. And just like that, things went back to normal.
We found some steps at a staircase close by and sat — just like old times — and discussed about university life and did some catching up.
Then he asked, “You remember our promise?”
I nodded. “No drama, no beef, just loyalty.”
“Yeah,” he said smiling. “Let’s start over.”
We both shook hands in agreement.
Months later, when I needed a business partner for a small printing venture, Emeka was my first call. He showed up — early with ideas, and a brand new phone box in his hand.
“For you,” he said.
I laughed. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“Never,” he replied.”
We both burst out in laughter.
