Everyone talks about 'moving on'. They say time heals all wounds, but my own cuts so deep it feels like the very essence of me is bleeding out. They tell you to pray. But how do you move on when a piece of your own soul is missing, dragged away by a football injury that mutated into something monstrous? How do you heal when every laugh you hear echoes a laugh you will never hear again? And how do you pray when your only prayer is to know: where do the dead go? I keep asking God in my prayers, "Where do the dead go?" And why isn't he back?
The whistle still screamed in my ears, long after the medics had loaded Ifmen onto the stretcher. It wasn't a triumphant sound, not like the referee's shrill call that ended a match. This was a different kind of scream, one that echoed the silence that fell over the class, over the whole school, and eventually, over my life. They said it was a broken leg. They lied. The truth was far more devastating, a void that swallowed light, a silence that devoured sound. It was the end of everything, disguised as a minor injury, a cruel twist of fate that ripped the fabric of my existence.
I could still hear his laugh, sharp and clear above the school's din, even now when the corridors feel so empty, so devoid of his vibrant energy. That laugh belonged to Ifmen, of course; everything loud and vibrant belonged to him. His absence had not merely created a void; it had sucked the very colour and dynamism from the world, leaving behind a dull, monochrome echo. Ifmen Olarewaju was all vibrant energy and mahogany skin tone, catching the Abuja sun like polished wood. His presence was a burst of life, a splash of brilliant colour in the often-predictable landscape of Aurora Spring High School. He was the kind of person who seemed to vibrate at a higher frequency than everyone else, radiating an infectious joy that pulled you into his orbit whether you wanted to or not.
A true Yoruba boy, he moved with the rhythm of the latest Afrobeats track even when he was just walking down the corridor, his hips swaying subtly, his shoulders loose, as if an invisible DJ spun tunes just for him. His very stride was a dance, a fluid, confident sway that commanded attention. He had attractive Caucasian eyes that contrasted strikingly with his dark complexion, giving them an almost luminous quality, which is why everyone called him Cyborg. They looked like bionic eyes, too perfect, too intense to seem natural – but they were. They seemed to pierce through surfaces, to see beyond the obvious, hinting at the depth of thought simmering beneath his often-playful exterior. They held a spark, an almost electric energy that could make you feel like the most important person in the room when they focused on you. His natural, long, black locks bounced around his head as he moved, a wild crown that perfectly suited his free spirit, catching the light like spun silk, a testament to his untamed essence. And then there was his distinctive diastema, a gap in his upper teeth, just like mine, that made his smile even more infectious, a flash of pure, unadulterated joy that disarmed even the sternest teachers. At 5'7" and a bit slim-fit, he was agile, almost liquid in his movements, capable of sudden bursts of speed or deceptive shifts in direction. His smile was a magnet, drawing people into his orbit without effort. His laugh was a contagious riot, a loud, unrestrained burst of mirth that could ignite a whole classroom, turning a mundane lesson into a chaotic, joyous moment. He was the kind of person who knew everyone and everyone knew him, effortlessly navigating the complex social hierarchies of school life. He could talk his way out of detention with a flick of his wrist and a dazzling grin, turning a scolding into a shared chuckle with the teacher. He made even the most boring Marketing class feel like a potential comedy show, his quick wit and playful antics breaking the monotony, eliciting suppressed giggles from students and exasperated smiles from exasperated instructors. He loved football with a passion that bordered on religious devotion, living and breathing the game, and he was good at it, too—a natural, agile striker with feet that seemed to dance with the ball, weaving magic on the pitch, turning defenders into bewildered statues, often leaving them chasing shadows. He was the sun, and everyone else revolved around him, basking in his light.
And there was me, Steven. Everyone called me Steven Jay, a straightforward amalgamation of my first name and Surname, Steven Jidenna. Everyone, apart from Ifmen, who had shortened it to SJ (Ess Jay), a private nickname whispered between us, a shorthand for our unbreakable bond, a mark of his singular claim on me. I was a 5'4, caramel-skinned, chubby 15-year-old boy who found immense comfort just lying on my bed listening to Hip-Hop, especially Ruth B, through my earbuds. The world outside often felt too loud, too chaotic, too demanding, and the hushed melodies of Ruth B, coupled with the intricate rhymes of other Hip-Hop artists, provided a perfect sanctuary, a quiet retreat where my thoughts could unfold uninterrupted, where the clamour of daily life faded into a gentle hum. Or I'd sit quietly at the edge of the class, observing, a silent sentinel taking in the intricate dance of human interaction, the subtle shifts in expression, the unspoken dialogues. I never initiated conversations; that wasn't my style. I found the act of approaching someone, of breaking the comfortable silence, almost physically painful, a hurdle too high to overcome. But once I got used to you, once the initial awkwardness wore off and I felt a flicker of genuine connection, I could talk a lot, a quiet stream of observations and ideas that surprised those who only knew my silent exterior. You can imagine me that way: with my deep brown eyes often staring intently at the projector or the world map in the classroom, framed by those transparent spectacles which Ifmen would always playfully demand I pull off so we could go play, his warm breath ghosting my ear as he whispered, "Come on, SJ, let's absorb some greatness!" I was the quiet corner in Ifmen's bustling world. I preferred the dusty smell of the library, the quiet turning of pages, the gentle rustle of paper, or the silent company of my own thoughts, constructing intricate scenarios in my mind, building worlds within my head. My friends, if you could call them that outside of Ifmen, were mostly in the pages of books, their adventures unfolding silently in my imagination, their characters more real to me than many of my classmates, or the detailed sketches I'd draw in my notebook, tiny worlds meticulously rendered in pencil, accompanied by scribbled thoughts and observations. My earbuds and my smartphone, with its endless rounds of The Crazy Driver Game, a simple but addictive racing game that required precise timing and quick reflexes, were my constant companions, providing a comfortable barrier against the overwhelming sensory input of the school environment. I felt a quiet contentment just observing the world, piecing together the puzzles of human behaviour, finding subtle humour in the mundane. I didn't talk football, I didn't watch football, rarely even understood the intricacies of the offside rule, but paradoxically, I played football. Everyone at school called me an introvert, a label that felt both accurate and incomplete. It wasn't that I disliked people; I simply found large groups draining, and preferred the depth of one-on-one connections. But I never quite saw myself that way. I wasn't a loner either; I was simply living the life that pleased me, always smiling, observing, and waiting for a conversation to unfold, like a patient fisherman waiting for a bite, ready to engage once the right connection was made.
We were an unlikely pair, the hurricane and the anchor. Ifmen, a whirlwind of spontaneous energy, pulling people into his orbit with an effortless charm, his presence a magnet. Me, the quiet observer, finding comfort in the periphery, a steady presence amidst the chaos, a silent witness to his vibrant life. But somehow, our worlds just clicked, meshing together in a way that defied logic and delighted those who witnessed our friendship. It was a synergy, a perfect balance of yin and yang, a Yoruba boy with a boundless spirit and an Igbo boy with a quiet, observant soul, finding common ground in the bustling heart of Abuja. Ifmen was the one who saw me, truly saw past my quiet exterior, past the spectacles and the earbuds, and pulled me from my shell not by force, not by demand, but by sheer, insistent joy, a gentle tug into the vibrant current of his life. He recognized the depth beneath my quiet surface, and patiently drew it out. His mum, Mrs. Olarewaju, a woman with a kind smile and an endless supply of patience, would drive us both to Aurora Spring High School every morning, her car filled with the gentle hum of the engine and the lively chatter of Ifmen, her soft laughter often punctuating his stories. The journey through the bustling streets of Abuja, filled with the cacophony of hawkers, the blare of car horns, and the vibrant colours of daily life, became our daily ritual, a comforting prologue to the school day. We'd walk back home through our Royal Oak Residence estate, a quiet, leafy haven in the sprawling city of Abuja, the setting sun painting the sky in fiery hues of orange and purple, casting long, dancing shadows behind us. These walks were our sacred time, a period of decompression and connection, a space where we could shed the masks of school and simply be ourselves. We'd chit-chat about the stupid things he did in class, the daring jokes he'd cracked that skirted the edge of trouble with Mr. Olanrewaju, the strict Economics teacher. He'd recount his well-spent time with the girls whose names changed with bewildering frequency, detailing their expressions, their reactions, their flirtatious banter. Or how he'd playfully nudge students' shoes with his foot while walking through the hallway to the Biology lab, eliciting startled yelps and frustrated glares, before dissolving into a fit of laughter. He'd find me reading during break, tucked away in my usual corner of the library, the faint scent of old paper and dust a comforting aroma. He would snatch my book (always, eventually, returning it, sometimes with a thoughtful comment or a sketch inspired by the plot), and drag me out to watch him play, telling me to "absorb some of his greatness," his grin wide and infectious, his eyes gleaming with mischievous delight. He'd make me laugh until my sides hurt, debate with me about the most ridiculous things – like whether jollof rice or pounded yam was the superior dish, or if aliens truly existed on other planets – and somehow, through it all, make me feel like my quiet opinions mattered more than anyone else's loud pronouncements. He drew me out, not by force, but by the sheer magnetic force of his personality. The things we shared in common were as many as our differences: the same school, the same estate, our shared diastema – a surprising genetic quirk that linked us physically, an almost uncanny coincidence – being Christians, even if it wasn't the exact same denomination or church, a common spiritual grounding that subtly shaped our values. His family, the Olarewajus, were the only neighbours we truly associated with, a second family that folded me, Steven Jidenna, into their warmth without question, their house a second home. Ifmen was the reason I ever even thought about the inter-house cup, let alone cared about winning it. His passion, his dreams, had slowly, unconsciously, become my own, a silent current pulling me along.
But then came the inter-house football final. The air in Aurora Spring High School crackled with anticipation, a vibrant current of cheers, nervous energy, and the metallic scent of sweat already clinging to the air like a shroud. The day dawned bright and clear, the Abuja sun already asserting its dominance, promising a fierce heat that would bake the red earth of the stadium pitch. From the moment I stepped out of Mrs. Jidenna's car that morning, a tremor of excitement, laced with an unsettling nervousness, ran through me. The school campus, usually a hub of academic pursuits, had transformed into a carnival of sport. Banners in Green and Yellow House colours draped from every available surface, fluttering in the gentle breeze that offered little respite from the building heat. Speakers blared Afrobeats, mixing with the rhythmic thrum of drums, setting a pulsating backdrop to the rising clamour of thousands of excited voices.
The stands were packed, a sea of green and red, our House colours, stretching up towards the sky, a vibrant mosaic of uniforms and casual wear. The roar of the crowd, still a low murmur, was a living thing, a growing beast waiting to unleash its full fury. Our House, Green House, needed its star striker. The entire school knew it. The whispers were everywhere: "Ifmen is the key." "Ifmen will deliver the trophy." His name was on every lip, his talent the bedrock of our collective hope.
I had woken up that morning with a familiar knot of pre-match anxiety, but it was usually tempered by the exhilarating rush of anticipation, the promise of the game. Today, however, an unfamiliar shadow had fallen over my usual confidence. It was Ifmen. He, usually bursting with energy for a match, his eyes alight with competitive fire, had a strange quietness about him that morning. An unusual shadow lingered in his usually bright eyes, dimming their luminous quality. He stood by the goalpost, head bowed, his dreadlocks falling forward, obscuring his face. He wasn't kicking the ball around like the others, not engaging in playful banter. Instead, he was idly kicking at the freshly cut grass, sending small tufts of green flying, his movements slow, almost aimless.
I walked towards him, my heart beginning to quicken its pace. "Hey, Ifmen," I called out, my voice a little louder than usual to cut through the rising clamour of the stadium. "Everything alright? You seem a bit… quiet."
He looked up then, his blue eyes meeting mine, and I saw it clearly: a profound weariness, a disengagement that chilled me to the bone. "I'm not feeling it, SJ," he'd confessed, his voice barely a murmur amidst the rising clamour, swallowed almost instantly by the swell of the crowd. He said it so simply, so straightforwardly, as if stating a fact of the universe, and it hit me like a physical blow. Not feeling it. On the day of the finals. My chest tightened, a cold vice clamping around my lungs, making it hard to breathe. The joyful anticipation I'd felt moments before evaporated, replaced by a cold dread.
Our House depended on him. Green House had clawed its way to the finals, often on the back of Ifmen's almost supernatural ability to create chances, to turn impossible situations into brilliant goals. Our victory, my silent pride in his brilliance, all hinged on him stepping onto that field, fully present, fully committed. The thought of him not playing, or worse, playing without his usual fire, was unthinkable. It felt like the entire foundation of our shared dream was crumbling.
"What do you mean you're not feeling it?" I pressed, my voice sharp, tinged with a sudden, unfamiliar pushiness, a desperation I rarely allowed myself to show. "Ifmen, we can't win without you! You're our star striker! You're the one who breaks through defenses, the one who scores the impossible goals! Remember the semi-final? The one against Blue House? You almost single-handedly carried us through that match! That hat-trick in the rain? That was pure magic, man! We were down by two, and you just… you just turned it around!" I recounted the memory, hoping to ignite some spark, to remind him of the incredible power he held, the responsibility that rested on his shoulders. The memory of that comeback, the way the crowd had roared his name, the sheer elation of it, was still vivid. I tried to inject that same energy into my voice, to transmit my own fervent belief in him.
He just sighed, a long, drawn-out sound that seemed to carry the weight of something far heavier than a football match. His gaze drifted over the teeming stands, over the sea of cheering faces, then back to the manicured pitch, his eyes still distant. "It's just… a lot, SJ. All this noise, all these people. All this… expectation." His voice was barely a whisper now, almost lost in the rising din, as if he were trying to contain a massive, unmanageable emotion within himself. "I just… I have other things on my mind."
My mind raced, trying to grasp what "other things" could possibly be more important than this, than the culmination of months of effort, the collective hope of our House. Was it his art? He'd been spending more time in the art studio lately, sketching late into the evenings. Was it something at home, with Mr. Olarewaju or Mrs. Olarewaju? He usually confided everything in me, but there had been a subtle shift, a quiet retreat into himself that I hadn't been able to breach.
"What other things, Ifmen?" I insisted, stepping closer, reaching out to grasp his arm, my fingers digging into the green fabric of his jersey. My grip was firm, almost pleading, a desperate attempt to anchor him, to pull him back to the present, to the urgency of this moment. "Nothing can be more important than this right now! This is the final! This is our chance! Just one game, Ifmen. Please." My own unspoken plea hung in the air, thick with unspoken meaning: Please don't let me down. Please don't let us lose. Please don't break this dream we share. My stomach twisted, a cold knot of dread tightening with every second that passed without his full commitment. I watched him, willing him to agree, utterly unaware that this single 'please' would become the heaviest burden I would ever carry, a silent curse that would haunt my waking moments and torment my dreams. His blue eyes, usually so vibrant, were shadowed with a deep, inexplicable weariness, a weariness that went beyond mere fatigue. He was battling something within himself, a silent war that I, with all my love and understanding, couldn't fathom. And in that moment, all I could do was plead.
He looked at me then, truly looked at me, and I saw a flicker of the old Ifmen, a touch of affection, a deep understanding of my desperation, mixed with the profound weariness. His lips barely moved as he uttered the words that sealed our fate, words that sounded like a sigh, a reluctant promise, a quiet surrender. "Alright, SJ. One more game. For Green House. For you."