Chapter 22
The excitement that had once filled my life started to dim, like a sunset slowly fading into the horizon. I was sitting in my modest apartment, the familiar hum of the city outside now more of a dull background noise than a symbol of energy. The world felt a little colder these days, and it wasn't just the unrelenting Lagos heat that weighed me down—it was Beth.
I had never expected her to leave. Not like this.
When she told me she had been accepted into the university to study medicine, I had been thrilled for her. I had always known she was smart, driven, and destined for something great. But as the days passed and she prepared for her departure, I felt a strange unease growing in me. Something I couldn't shake, something that gnawed at me, even as I pretended to be happy for her.
The day she left for school, she kissed me goodbye, and for a moment, everything felt right. I told her I would miss her, that I would always be there for her, and she told me the same. There were promises, but in the back of my mind, I couldn't ignore the whispers of doubt.
It wasn't long before the calls became less frequent. The messages, too. At first, I told myself it was because she was busy with school, adjusting to her new life. But soon enough, the excuses felt thin. She became distant—emotionally, physically. I tried to understand, tried to convince myself that things would get better, that the distance would make us stronger. But then, one day, she dropped the bombshell.
"I met someone else," she had said over the phone, her voice trembling but firm. "I'm sorry, Fred. I never meant to hurt you, but... it's over."
I don't remember much of the conversation after that. I heard her say that she still cared about me, that I was an amazing person, but she had moved on. That was all I could focus on—the part where she moved on.
I couldn't believe it. I didn't know how to process it. I felt the tears welling up in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I hung up the phone, staring at the screen in disbelief. She was gone. Not physically, but in every other way that mattered. She had found someone else, someone better, someone who could offer her a future in the way I hadn't been able to.
For days, I was numb. The person who had been my anchor, my reason to keep going, was now a memory. She was out there, living her life, while I was stuck here in the same city, surrounded by the same walls, the same routine.
I stopped saving money. I stopped trying to improve myself. The future I had worked so hard for suddenly seemed pointless. What was the point of striving for something better when everything I cared about seemed to fall apart?
I began drinking more. It started with a bottle here and there after work, then it turned into something more—something regular. I would sit in my room, a bottle of palm wine or beer beside me, and let the alcohol drown out the thoughts that kept me up at night. I knew it wasn't healthy, that it wouldn't fix anything, but at the time, it was the only way to silence the pain.
And then came the women. I had always been cautious, respectful, but now, I didn't care. I started seeking out companionship, but not the kind that offered warmth or comfort. It was just distraction—temporary, fleeting pleasure that took my mind off the empty space inside me. I would spend nights with women I barely knew, not because I wanted them, but because I didn't want to be alone.
My life, once filled with purpose, was now a blur of drinking, late nights, and half-hearted encounters with people who didn't mean anything to me. Every time I woke up in the morning, I felt like I was a little more lost, a little further from the person I once was.
Usman was the first to notice. He came over one evening, unannounced, and found me sitting on the floor, empty bottles scattered around me. My mind was foggy, but his face was clear—concerned, frustrated.
"Fred, what the hell is going on with you?" he asked, sitting beside me. His voice was calm but there was a hard edge to it. He had never seen me like this.
I tried to wave him off, but I knew deep down that I was spiraling. "I'm fine," I mumbled. "Just tired. Don't worry about it."
He didn't buy it. "You've been drinking every night. You don't return calls. You're pushing everyone away, bro. What happened to the guy who was working hard, the guy who had goals?"
I stared at the floor, unable to meet his gaze. "She left, man. Beth. She left me, and I... I don't know what I'm doing anymore."
Usman let out a deep sigh, his hand on my shoulder. "I get it, Fred. I really do. But you can't let this destroy you. You've come so far. You were building a future for yourself, and now... you're just wasting it away."
His words hit me harder than I cared to admit. But in that moment, I didn't know how to fix it. I didn't know how to pull myself out of the hole I had dug. It was easier to numb the pain with alcohol and distractions than face the truth—that I had let the one person who truly cared about me slip away, and now, I was left with nothing but regret.
But Usman wasn't going to let me stay there. He was my friend, my brother, and he wasn't going to give up on me.
"You don't have to do this alone, Fred," he said, his voice steady. "But you need to make a choice. You can't keep living like this. You have to pull yourself together, for you. Not for anyone else. For you."
I didn't respond right away. The weight of his words settled in my chest, and for the first time in weeks, I felt something other than numbness. But it wasn't enough to make me change overnight. It would take time. It would take a lot of effort. But for the first time in a long while, I felt like I had a reason to fight.
I knew I had to find my way back, to rebuild my life, and maybe, just maybe, find a way to forgive myself for losing Beth. The road wouldn't be easy, but I couldn't keep drowning in my own sorrow. I had to rise from the ashes, even if it meant crawling first.
And maybe one day, I'd look back and understand why things had to fall apart before they could come together again.