I often think deeply about my friend, who was caught stealing a tuber of yam from my neighbour’s farm. Though I didn’t witness the event firsthand, the eyewitness accounts paint a vivid picture in my mind. They described his swollen legs, inflamed from the merciless caning he endured, leaving a trail of blood as he walked away. It’s a haunting image that stays with me, a stark reminder of the harsh realities of our actions.

Before that incident,we practically grew up together, from walking to school every day, even through the rain-soaked paths where we argued about who would piggyback the other. After  we graduated, I went to a private school while he attended a public one, but that didn’t stop us from meeting up after school to study and play. 

Then, around JSS3, everything changed. He suddenly left the neighbourhood without telling me, only to return a few weeks later, bearing the news of his father’s passing. I tried to comfort him, but my words fell short. His eyes, once bright, now seemed clouded with darkness, as if he resented my intact family. It wasn’t jealousy in his gaze but a silent comparison of our lives.

And I failed to remember that he had also lost his mother back in our childhood days.

Eventually, our friendship faltered, and I blamed it on my words about his father being in a better place. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Perhaps acknowledging his pain would have kept our bond strong. These thoughts haunted me until he returned, apologised, and we patched things up.

It felt like we had rekindled our connection for a while, but the darkness in his eyes lingered. Still, I held onto the hope of having my friend back. Then I woke one day to shocking news: he had been caught stealing from someone. I couldn’t believe it at first. To me, he was like family, coming and going freely into my home and even having access to my mother’s room, where she often left money lying around. 

How had he never stolen from us? I struggled to convince myself, but then I remembered how he suddenly had money to spare after we reconnected. He was always treating me to things, from suya to computer minutes at the cyber cafe. It all seemed too convenient.

Ultimately, I couldn’t ignore the signs anymore. I confronted him, hoping for honesty, but he remained silent, only expressing disappointment in me for not trusting him. He walked away, leaving me with a whirlwind of emotions. And just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, he passed away a few days later.

Writing this now, I’m flooded with mixed emotions. Whenever I think of him, it’s a tangled mess of love, betrayal, and grief.

I want to believe he never stole, but if he did, I want to believe he did it for survival.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Haliru Ali Musa is an engineer with a passion for storytelling. Though he hails from Katsina, Nigeria, he now calls the bustling city of Lagos his home. He was recently honored with a nomination to participate in the esteemed NAL (National Academy of Letters) creative writing capacity workshop, where he had the privilege of being mentored by the illustrious author Obinna Udenwe.