Tolu and Simi were "ride or die" since 100-level. The kind of friends who had each other’s passwords and knew which aunty to avoid at family parties. After uni, they moved to Lagos together — small self-con in Yaba, one mattress, two dreams.
Then life started lifing.
Tolu got into tech sales. Good money, but the kind of job that eats your weekends. Simi was still trying to blow as a photographer. Talented, but bookings were slow. Tolu covered rent most months. She didn’t mind. At first.
The blackmail started small.
Tolu would say she couldn’t make Simi’s exhibition because of a client dinner. Simi would go quiet, then: “Wow. After everything I’ve done for you? If I didn’t follow you to that hospital when you had food poisoning in year 2, you’d be dead.”
Tolu would cancel the dinner.
Another time, Tolu wanted to travel with her team to Kigali. Simi said, “So you’re just going to leave me here? When I was the one sleeping on the floor so you could have the bed? God is watching you o.”
Tolu postponed the trip.
It wasn’t that Simi was evil. She was scared. Tolu was becoming “big girl” and Simi felt left behind. So she used the one currency she had: guilt. She kept a mental receipt of every sacrifice, every favor, every 2am cry session. And she cashed it whenever Tolu tried to choose herself.
Tolu started feeling like she was in debt. Like her life wasn’t hers. She’d get opportunities and immediately think, “How do I tell Simi without her making me feel like Judas?” She started hiding wins. New client? Don’t post it. Got a raise? Change the subject.
The breaking point was Tolu’s birthday.
Tolu planned a small dinner — just her, her man, and two work friends. She told Simi, “Babe, it’s just colleagues. We’ll do our own thing this weekend, my treat.”
Simi didn’t reply for 3 days. Then she posted on her WhatsApp status:
“Be careful who you help. Some people will step on you once they cross the river. God sees all.”
Tolu saw it. Called her. Simi picked up and said, “So I’m not good enough for your birthday anymore? After I gave you my last 5k when your account was red? I guess that’s who we are now.”
Tolu snapped. “Simi, I have been paying for both our lives for 2 years! When does it end? Do I owe you forever because I didn’t die in 2018?”
Silence. Then Simi hung up.
They didn’t talk for 6 months. Six months of birthdays missed, of seeing each other’s statuses and swiping past. Tolu felt free, but also hollow. Simi felt righteous, but also lonely.
The reconciliation happened in the most Lagos way possible: traffic.
Tolu was stuck at Obalende, fuming. A biker knocked her mirror. She came down to yell, and the person in the other car also came down to yell.
It was Simi.
They stood there in the sun, angry, tired, both about to cry but holding it because Lagos will not see you finish.
Simi spoke first. “You scratched my car.”
Tolu: “You scammed me emotionally for 2 years.”
Nobody laughed. Then Simi’s face broke. “I’m sorry. I was scared you’d leave me. So I was holding you with the only thing I had — your guilt.”
Tolu exhaled. All the anger left. “And I was so busy being mad at you that I didn’t tell you I was scared too. Scared that if I said no to you, I’d be a bad person.”
They didn’t hug. Too much sweat, too much pride. Simi just opened her passenger door. “Enter. Let’s go and eat amala. My treat. And you can’t use it against me later.”
Tolu got in. “Deal. But we’re splitting the bill. I’m not doing debt again.”
They talked for 4 hours at that buka. Ugly talk. Honest talk. Simi admitted she’d been keeping score. Tolu admitted she’d been letting her, because guilt was easier than boundaries.
They made new rules that day:
It’s not perfect now. Simi still catches herself starting a sentence with “After all I’ve…” and stops. Tolu still feels a pang of guilt when she travels without her, but she goes anyway.
But last month, Simi got a big campaign with MTN. First thing she did was call Tolu.
Tolu screamed so loud her coworkers came to check.
That’s how you know it’s real — when your friend’s win doesn’t feel like your loss anymore.
