Dabu and I met at a football match in Surulere. It was one of those random Sunday evenings when the sky feels so heavy with rain, but it’s not ready to fall. I had been sitting on the sidelines, nursing a twisted ankle from the previous week’s game, when he walked up to me with that boyish grin that made him seem like he owned the street.
“Guy, this your ankle, e go spoil show for you if you no rest am well,” he said.
“Rest ke? I go play this match today, whether devil like am or not,” I said, tightening the bandage on my ankle.
“You sure say na ball you wan play abi na revenge you wan go do?”
“Na collabo.”
We busted out laughing.
During the previous week’s game, I kept shouting and warning Akin to avoid my leg. Everyone knew how rough a player he was, and seeing he was out to break someone’s leg that day, I kept shouting so everyone would hear me in case it happened. And it did happen. I was on the floor, in pain, and he was there telling me sorry—a mere ‘sorry’. That was what my ankle was worth.
“Let me see it,” Dabu said, crouching to take a closer look.
“You be doctor?”
“Herbal Doctor wey go Harvard,” he shot back. That was Dabu for you—loud, cheeky, and annoyingly easy to like.
From that day, we became good friends. It was like I had found the brother I didn’t know I was missing. Dabu had a way of drawing people in with his open heart. He’d tell me everything—how his uncle in Ikorodu was always borrowing money and never returning it, how his boss at work was sleeping with all the female staff and how life was showing him shege.
I liked listening. But when it came to me, my life was a locked box. I wasn’t one to wear my scars out like badges. Dabu, on the other hand, wore his emotions on his sleeves. I knew when he was happy, sad, or in between.
Me? I would rather choke on my words than tell him my younger sister was pregnant, and we didn’t even know who the father was. Or that I had issues with my landlord and he served me notice. I’d talk to some random acquaintance about my problems, but not Dabu. Not because I didn’t trust him, but I didn’t think he’d understand.
Still, when I needed anything—anything at all—he was there. If my Corolla broke down, Dabu would leave whatever he was doing to help me get it to the mechanic. When I was broke, Dabu ordered groceries for me from Konga. I was just on my own that evening and a delivery guy arrived with cartons. Omoh, I opened it and groceries full everywhere. I wouldn’t even buy that much for myself if I was shopping.
He even introduced me to the KongaPay savings platform, where I currently earn 15% annual interest. I’m currently on a financial cruise, but that is a conversation for another day.
But when it was Dabu’s turn to need help, I always wasn’t there for some reason. Busy with work. Family emergency. Something. And he never complained, not once. I think that’s what made it worse. He just kept giving, like he believed I deserved it.
One day, the crack began to show.
It was during one of those incessant fuel scarcities last year. Dabu called me, his voice tight.
“Simi, abeg, my generator don mess up, and I need to submit this job to the client in an hour. You fit help me get fuel?”
I glanced at my phone and then at the non-urgent workload in front of me.
“Ah, bro, you know as e be now. Today is too tight for me and I no fit go waste time for filling station. Try another person.”
The silence that followed was louder than his words when he finally replied, “No wahala.”
That was the last time Dabu asked me for anything.
At first, I didn’t notice the change. He still laughed at my jokes and still stopped by to chat about football or politics. But he wasn’t the same. He didn’t call as often. When he did, it was never to ask for help or to share stories about his life. He’d nod when I talked about my issues, but his usual spark wasn’t there.
Then, one evening, I needed help moving some equipment from a gig I had done in Ikeja. Naturally, I called Dabu.
“Omo, I no go fit help,” he said bluntly.
“Why now?” I asked, shocked at the lack of his usual enthusiasm.
He sighed. “Because I no want help, Simi. You no dey help me, so why I go dey help you? You think say this friendship na one-man squad?”
The words hit me harder than I cared to admit. I tried to laugh it off, but he wasn’t joking.
“Dabu, abeg na,” I started, but he cut me off.
“No dey ‘abeg’ me, guy. I don tire for this your way; I carry you for head, you carry me for back pocket. Am I a fool?“
That was the moment I realized I had lost something I didn’t even know I valued.
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Dabu wasn’t angry. He wasn’t dramatic. He just… stopped being Dabu. From then on, he treated me like everyone else. No more favors. No more dropping everything because “Simi needs me.” No more free groceries from Konga.
And it hurt.
I watched him bond with other guys on the field like we used to. Watched him light up rooms I was no longer a part of. Lived his life like I didn’t exist. I judged myself.
Every time I pass that football pitch in Surulere, I remember the boy who fixed my twisted ankle and became my brother. And I wonder if it’s too late to fix what I broke.
But some things, once broken, can never be the same again.
