The travails of life can sometimes blind us. In the daily struggle for survival and self-preservation, we forget the things that matter most–actually, the little things: the people who brighten our days without obligation, the ones who make life what it is; an opportunity to create memories of moments worth living for.
When this blindness sets in, the more well-adjusted among us feel guilt. They seek penance in small ways–through self-torture; asking themselves whether they are bad friends, or worse, bad people altogether. I would like to assume–scratch that–I know that there is a comforting idea, often attributed to psychology and literature alike, that our actions are merely the sum of what we have lived through or observed. Dostoevsky, again and again in his body of work, flirted with this endlessly: that a man is not born cruel or kind, but slowly shaped–and sometimes warped–by what they experience. It is a convenient thought. It removes responsibility and some weight from the shoulders. It allows one to say: I am not terrible, merely affected.
And yet, even with this knowledge, the question lingers in my mind. Am I a good friend at all? I don’t know. I’m not even certain the answer exists in a form that would satisfy me–or erode the guilt I feel.
Last week, a topic trended online about a woman who asked whether she was wrong for deleting her friend’s number because her friend’s success had become too unbearable for her to witness. The public responded as it usually does–as reductive as ever and with moral haste–building strawman arguments, stripping the situation of nuance, and recasting the lady as the villain of her own confession. I wasn’t surprised by how quickly the narrative veered left. I’m not here to add my opinion to the pile. I mention it only as context, only to draw your mind to it as you read this–simply because I can. More importantly, because some stories have a way of quietly knocking on doors you didn’t realise were already open.
Growing up, my parents were deliberate about control. They told us who to be friends with, where to go, and when to go there and return, almost eliminating every opportunity to step out. I would like to blame them for how terrible I am at making and keeping friends today, but truly, I was not an obedient child. I ignored them with confidence. So whatever followed, I won’t lay at their feet.
I had a friend–let’s call him Longman for concealment purposes. He wasn’t my first friend, but he was the first I truly bonded with. We met in primary school and forged that bond. I knew his home; he knew mine. We visited each other against our parents’ explicit instructions. We did everything together, with the earnestness only children possess.
Back then, my parents gave me ₦50 daily for feeding and sometimes for transport, even though my school was just a stone’s throw from home and I occasionally took the school bus. I’d spend ₦40 at most and save the rest with Longman, whose mother gave him a similar allowance. On good weeks, we pooled ₦200; on leaner ones, maybe ₦100. Then, on Fridays during break time, we’d sneak out of school–sometimes scaling the school fence–and walk to a supermarket less than a kilometre away to buy a haul of sweets and snacks. We’d share these with our classmates. It made us oddly popular. At the time, it felt like loyalty. It felt like true friendship.
That bond endured into secondary school, though it began to fray. We were misaligned–morally, temperamentally. I grew inward and awkward–withdrawn and less sociable. Longman became rose of flowers, social, the centre of rooms. We still spoke, but mostly in the margins: away from classmates, outside the rigid structure of school.
After graduation, I gained admission into the university. He didn’t. The story that followed was predictable, as you might expect–Nigerian and unremarkable. Fast forward to my second year: I returned home for the holidays, and we were watching a Champions League match. I can’t remember who was playing, but I remember how passionately Nigerian I was at the time–young and silly–and how much he enjoyed poking at that. He’d make disparaging remarks about Nigeria, especially in front of others, because he knew it infuriated me.
That night, we crossed a line and reached a point of no return.
That experience made me cautious. I learned to keep friendships shallow and controlled. I learned to omit, to fib lightly, to ensure no one knew me well enough to hurt me. Out of sight became out of mind. I struggled–still struggle–to sustain meaningful attachments.
You might be wondering where this is headed. If you’re looking for direction here, you won’t find it. Honestly, I’m not arriving anywhere. By the way, this is not a confession in the hope of redemption. If anything, I’m testing a thought: that perhaps I am not a terrible friend, even though I possess many of the traits of one.
The truth is, my struggle with friendships isn’t so different from that lady who cut off her successful friends. Sometimes withdrawal isn’t envy or cruelty; it’s the recognition of incapacity. For her, it might have been success. For me, it is the quiet certainty that I won’t show up the way you expect or deserve. And so, pre-emptively–and perhaps out of defeatist thinking–I leave. Not dramatically. Not angrily. I simply disappear.
Anyone who knows me knows my disdain for self-help and its tidy conclusions. I won’t insult you with lessons or neatly wrapped meaning. I have none to offer as well as no appetite for absolution.
This is simply the shape of things as they are. Perhaps this is what a bad friend looks like when he stops lying to himself. Or perhaps this is what remains when self-preservation finally outruns sentiment.
Note: AI images, true events and fictional events appeared in this post.
