I know I am no longer that guy when we create a Spotify Blend, and only 30% matches. Yeah, we both still listen to Fireboy DML. But now, I listen to Alec Benjamin and Benson Boone more. You now listen to Ayo Maff and Shallipoppi. We laugh at the difference. I call your music taste bland. Ayo Maff is your most played artiste on Spotify. It used to be Fireboy DML, like me. Then, we compared screenshots with proud giggles. Now, we squeeze out smiles to pretend we are not drifting apart.

We sit on the grass opposite the football field on our street and wordlessly watch birds roam the sky. It is our first time together in twelve months. So, we sit side by side, listening to the rhythm of our heartbeats. I play Fireboy DML’s “Bandana.” You scroll through my playlist till you find Ayo Maff’s “Dealer,” and you play it. I wonder if you can still sing “Bandana” throatily as we did years ago, disturbing our workplace as we spread our arms in the air and shout, “them never see me coming…” I wonder if you ever miss the time when we unfailingly listened to Fireboy DML’s Playboy album every morning.

*

You crack a joke, and I tell you it’s sexist. You raise your eyebrows questioningly. I remember I once cracked the joke before I left for school twelve months ago. I laugh, and you join me hesitantly. I crack a joke. You fail to get it. I look into your face and try to find that guy who got all my jokes and antics if everyone else in the room was lost. I do not find him in you.

*

You no longer wear a lowcut. Now, you wear an Afro Fade. A silver necklace hangs round your neck. You fumble with it, and I ask if you bought it or it was a gift.
“Oh!” you scratch your head. “My girlfriend gave it to me.”
I ask if you still two-time. You laugh and say no. You really love your new girlfriend. Abigael, that’s her name. You show me her picture. She’s plus-sized, unlike the slim supermodel-like girls you’ve dated earlier. I fear for her. You read my mind.
“I really like her, Lekan,” you utter.

*

You talk to Oyinkan now. I thought we agreed never to ever speak to her. Not after what she did to me, to us. How she looked me in the eye, drew out a dagger of hurtful words, and stabbed my soul.
“You’re just too ugly to be my type,” She ewwed. “Don’t you have a mirror at home?”
I earnestly begged the earth to swallow me that evening. You tactfully ambled out of the scene, as every eye at the T-junction swooped on me. That night, I curled up in bed and buried myself under a blanket of awe. I wondered what was wrong about walking up to her and asking, “Hey, what’s up? I’ve been noticing you for a while, and I just want to tell you that I like you. If you don’t mind, can I have your WhatsApp number?”

I have not recovered since then. I am still afraid to express my feelings to girls. I rather laugh with them, and crack unconventional jokes. But I saw you talking to her earlier today. You both stood by the roadside, your hand wrapped around her shoulder, while she stroked your chest playfully. I stood for a while, lost in a galaxy of hypotheses. Question marks trailed holographic simulations in my head. Are you now cool with the girl who not just rejected me but rained insults on me in public?

*

I tell you I last played football in early January. You still play football. You’re a member of your school football team, although you’re not in the best eleven. You no longer play wing forward now. You play central midfield. I try to picture myself giving you long passes across the field from my defensive midfield position. But I can’t.

We go to the field beside my house to play. You choose a set of players without me. I ask myself if you never missed my great passing and tackling skills. I wonder if I will find a teammate who will utilise my passes with awesome net strikes like you. Minutes into the game, you dribble me. It feels strange, and I stand in awe as you push the ball aside and hit a curved shot into the top right corner of my team’s goalpost. Having you on the opposite side feels alien. My skin crawls, and my heart pounds. I slide-tackle you, get the ball, and sprint forward. You chase me, but fail to keep up. You scream, “handball!” I stop the play and shout, “handball” too. Then, I remember it’s a cheating code we used to stop the play, cause an argument to buy some time.

*

We loved sitting on the fence of the plaza where we learnt graphic design, watching passing vehicles and pedestrians, tossing greetings and jokes here and there. But since I returned home for the Christmas break, I prefer to curl up in my bed and read Sidney Sheldon. But you stroll to the plaza, sit on the fence, and crack jokes with the apprentices in the nearby catering shop.

*

At Iya Waliya’s bukateria, the woman beams on sighting us. She missed us, she confesses. I reciprocate the gesture with sweet words and smiles. You do the same.
I request a plate of beans and dodo, and I select white bread for the both of us. You examine the bread for a while before you switch it with another in the basket. You say you prefer brown bread now.

Your plate of beans arrives with an egg instead of dodo. You say dodo causes stomach aches these days. I nod and wonder how much change has railed between us in the past twelve months and 300 kilometres.

*

Our chat box is a desert. We no longer share memes and reels. We only barge into each other’s DMs to state business and requests.

I once muted your WhatsApp status updates for some days while you shared our TikTok videos I regarded as senseless. But you view mine every day, and react to my posts. I unmuted your status updates just in time to see you posted a screenshot of a chat where a school friend asked you to buy weed for him. You captioned the photo, bad influence, accompanied by a laughing emoji. And I wonder how many of the things we vowed never to do you have done.

*

You no longer watch Akpan and Oduma. I tell you that I’ve missed not a single episode since the beginning of the year. You say Osimhen’s interview spurred you to return to them, but you just find TikTok videos irresistible these days. I do not even have TikTok on my phone.

You collect my phone to check our YouTube channel where we uploaded skits. You say the channel is dying because it’s been over a year since we met to shoot videos. I want to say the channel is dying because we are dying — slowly like burned out candles struggling to keep the flame.

We find a funny video of ours. We laugh at the bloopers, and comment on the errors. You must have wondered how this low-quality video once meant everything to us. I look into your eyes to find that spark that loved to watch our skits because it made people laugh. I find none.

*

As we walk down the street back home, your fingers punch your phone unceasingly as you keep up with chats on WhatsApp. I put an airpod in my left ear, and put Benson Boone’s “Beautiful Things” on repeat. Your phone chimes and you grunt, “Fuck!” I wonder what happened to the usual “dayyumm!” we learnt to use at our workplace. Our boss was a staunch Christian who frowned at curses and swearwords.
“It’s my client,” you explain. “The werey never pay me.” I take a peek at your phone. You’re chatting with a woman in South Dakota.

I never knew you’ve started 419. Before we left for school a year ago, this was one of the things you vowed would be your no-no. “I don’t need to rip money off others to make mine!” you had said.

*

Now, you chill with Ridwan and his gang. You join them to catcall everything that passes in a skirt. Ridwan makes snide remarks about each girl — “I’ve fucked this one,” “that one is a street profit,” “I’ll still fuck this one.” You laugh like he’s counting his trophies. I tell Ridwan that it’s wrong to objectify ladies. He looks at you and asks if this really is Lekan. You laugh harder when he cackles that the university has sissied me. “Who knows if he’s gay?” he asks.

*

You ask me to recommend movies. I mention Shutter Island and The Inside Man. You look them up, and ask me how you’ll manage to watch a two-hour movie with not much action. I chuckle. I tell you to watch romcom instead. “Upgraded is a good movie.” You say you’d rather watch Nollywood. Or return to TikTok.

*

I ask about school, but you’d rather not talk about it. “All shades of hell!” Nonchalant lecturers, cancelled lectures, toxic course mates, inconsiderate exam scheduling, and over all, poor grading. You say you have given up on First Class, because you’re currently struggling not to slip into Third Class. So, I lie that I’m on Second Class Lower — 2.25.
You ask me what could be difficult in studying English language. I laugh and wave aside your question with another question. “What novels have you read? Have you read Leye Adenle’s When Trouble Sleeps?”
You laugh. You do not read outside recommended texts, and savage TikTok comments. You say that being a student of English is what makes me a voracious reader.
“Perhaps English isn’t that simple,” I grin.

*

I scroll through your Snapchat memories. I find loved-up pictures and videos of you and Abigael. I see a few from a hotel, and I ask if you guys hit.
You laugh, “Konji no go kill man.”
“Just make sure you invite me to the naming ceremony whenever it is,” I joke. Inwardly, I question your change. Simultaneously, I try to convince myself that this is growth — inevitable in life.

*

You ask if I still do graphic design. I say yes, and I show you my works. You find a work I designed for a nightclub. A half-naked woman flaunts her backside on the flyer.
You poke the phone in my face, “I thought you said you wouldn’t design stuffs like this,” you query.
“I need money,” I confess. “The job paid well.”
You laugh and admit for the first time that things have really changed.

*

It’s been a long while since I held a pencil to draw, talk less hold a brush to paint. You giggle as you show me some of your recent works. You sold one of them recently, you disclose. I punch myself for letting go of my creative fingertips. I wonder if my hand will tremble when it holds a pencil. Perhaps, I’m also changing.

*

I scroll down my Facebook page to dig memories of yesterday. Perhaps, I can discover the secrets to the smiles we shared. Maybe we could retell the jokes, and fall off the bench and run around in laughter. Maybe we both can sit on the fence of the plaza, and gaze at the end of the street, or the end of this journey. Because… I don’t know. You are no longer you. I am no longer me.

*

I’m packing my bags to leave now. I won’t be home till December. I wonder how much more apart 300 kilometres will keep us. Will Ilorin shape you anew? Will Lagos leave me be? I wonder if I’ll recognise you by the end of the year. If you’ll recognise me, too. If we will even be home at all. If we will still have reasons to refer to the past in present tense.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Jakob Owens on Unsplash