"If only pigs could fly," I joked when Bright said he would stop smoking, again. This was the fifteenth time in five years.
Daniel laughed. "We almost believed him again o." He added.
"That was a close one."
But Bright didn't say a word. He just sat there smiling and looking at us, throwing jokes around in our usual friendly manner.
It was still the first week of January, a bright Sunday afternoon. The sun was so hot it could burn off the skulls on our heads. There was absolutely no breeze. It was a hot morning. We were all sitting under the mango tree in Daniel’s family compound. Four plastic chairs and three chilled bottles of beer. Remnants from the New Year's celebrations. Then there was one stick of cigarette burning slowly between Bright’s fingers. That made his New Year resolution even funnier.
"Guys," he smiled and flicked the cigarette ash to the ground, "I'm serious. I'm tired."
Daniel chuckled. "Same thing you said last year. Now it feels like you're playing with our feelings."
"This time I'm serious," Bright said, looking from Daniel to me with those sharp eyes of his.
I just sat there looking at him talk. Ever since I've known Bright, he wasn’t just an ordinary smoker. It was a way of life for him. Morning, afternoon, night, like a doctor prescribed drugs, you’d find him with a stick of either Benson or Rothmans. It was like his shadow that the smoke followed him everywhere. His apartment always smelt of old smoke. He was so far gone that he had grown this deep hoarse voice from it. His lips were dark and cracked. And he coughs this deep, stubborn cough that somehow has become his signature.
We had begged him before like friends should. We talked, shouted, and even tried tricks like hiding his lighters. But nothing worked. Yet every New Year, he would still make the same resolution, which he'd keep till one stressful day. Maybe he'll have a quarrel with his girlfriend. Or a bad business deal and boom, he was back to his former love, from just cooling off with one stick to taking five sticks and then a whole pack.
So this year, when he made the usual promise, we didn’t bother. As far as we're concerned, pigs would fly first before Bright would stop smoking.
But as the year progressed, things began to change. At first, we felt he was pretending whenever he was with us. But it lingered, and for months, he didn't smell of cigarette smoke or his apartment filled with ash or smoke. It smelt clean. He barely walks about with lighters again. His cough started easing. His lips looked healthier. He even started gaining small flesh again. The only thing he walked about with was a bottle of water and groundnuts.
Daniel couldn’t hold it anymore when we bumped into him at Madame Ogechi's buka last month and there was no sign of cigarettes on him.
"Bro, are you okay? There's no stick in sight?"
"Stick? What do I need a stick for? Am I a herdsman?" Bright asked innocently.
"He meant cigarette," I explained.
He scoffed. "You guys still don't believe me."
He didn't talk again. I can see the disappointment in his eyes. I signaled to Daniel not to ask him again.
The straw that broke the camel's back was last week. We'd gathered at our usual viewing center to watch a football match. When a guy who frequents the same viewing center and knew Bright as his colleague in the smoking association lit a cigarette and passed one to Bright.
But Bright shook his head and waved it away.
"No need."
We stared at him. Daniel even blinked twice, unsure if he heard well. I elbowed him and whispered, "I love what I'm seeing?"
"Guy, since when? Take one blow jor." The guy pestered.
"I'm serious. I don't smoke again," he said calmly. He quickly opened his bottle of water and took a sip.
We didn't make a mockery of him. Neither did we joke about it. We loved what we saw and were happy for our friend.
Trust me till today. There's been no sign of relapse from our friend. It's been six months without cigarettes for him.
Believe me, sometimes, even when you think nothing can change, life surprises you. And pigs, maybe one day they'll really do fly.