In the small town of Ogijo, where we grew up, a place where everyone knows each other's parents, we all lived as family before full development and buildings came in. Daniel and I were thick as thieves, inseparable companions navigating the joys and trials of adolescence together. Our bond was forged through countless shared experiences, be it scraped knees from daring adventures or consoling tears during turbulent times. We attended the same school and church; if I wasn't at home, I would be at Daniel's place, and the same goes for Daniel. If he walks me home, by the time he is going home, I will walk him back home because our places are not far from each other. The street women always call us brothers because we are always together, like Pinky and the Brain.
When Daniel's mother passed away unexpectedly during our university year, I witnessed firsthand the shattering impact of such a profound loss. It was like I lost my mother too. She was a vibrant woman who had doted on us with homemade foods, and suddenly I felt the warm embraces gone, leaving a void that seemed impossible to fill.
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"Don't worry, Bro, we still have one mother left to take care of us." I was referring to my mom while I was consoling him. I never saw Daniel cry, but I noticed something broke in him. He was still as lively as ever, but he wasn't himself.
In those dark days, I became Daniel's unbreakable pillar of support, a shoulder to lean on when the weight of grief threatened to consume him. We grieved together, reminiscing about the cherished memories of her infectious laughter and steadfast love that had shaped our childhood. Most of the time, Daniel was always in my home; even extended family began to recognize him as one of our own. At all our family gatherings, we attended them together, and we swore to be brothers for life and stand by each other through thick and thin.
Years passed, and our paths diverged as Daniel embarked on an entrepreneurial venture. He went into fashion design and became a fashion designer. I cheered him on from the sidelines, offering words of encouragement. "Come and sew your clothes at Daniel's place" was on my lips and on my social media page. He was good at his job, and I made sure all our friends and close family members sewed their clothes at his place. The more he sews, the more his brand begins to become popular. I wore his clothes to events, and people adored them. I paid any amount he asked me to for my clothes without arguing because I wanted his business to grow.
Yet, when the tides turned, Daniel started a fixed price for sewing any cloth. I understand that, as a businessperson, you have to set a standard for people who come to you to make their clothes so they won't price down your effort. I agreed to it until it was time for me to make another cloth then Daniel pull out the price and asked me to check the price because he can't tell me the amount to pay saying "There is no friendship in business," his words cutting deep like a betrayal of the bond we had nurtured for decades.
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"I don't get it, so I am now like everyone else you make clothes for?" I asked.
"You have to understand that things are hard and everyone is equal in business. There are no friends and family in business," he delared.
I asked him this question: "So if David wants to sow his cloth (his immediate younger brother), you will collect the same price you collect from everyone from him?"
And he said, "David is my blood brother and my family. You can't compare the two."
The very notion seemed to contradict the essence of our relationship: a brotherhood forged in the fires of adversity and cemented by unwavering loyalty.
In that moment, I realized that our bonds now have a limit. When it comes to business, I will be treated like every other person. There are other fashion designers who can sew like he does, but our bond kept me with him. Since business requires no friends or bonds, I guess I have to treat him accordingly.