We sat in a circle, legs crossed under us.
It was way past lights out, so we sat in the dark, torchlights illuminating our excited faces. Esther oversaw the whole thing. She knew how it was supposed to be done because she'd done it with her cousins during their holiday in the village in December.
Whenever we met like this, we had a year's worth of stories, learnings, habits, that we were dying to share with the group. Kamsi had the most outrageous experiences. Her life was a movie, and she loved to tell us all about it. Sometimes there were obvious embellishments, but we ate it up anyway. Nini always picked up something or the other that she simply had to teach us, and we just had to try. One year, she taught us the "proper" way to walk in heels, which really wasn't very proper at all. The night ended with one broken heel, a twisted ankle and lots of hysterical laughter.
We'd gather at the foot of her bed, and she'd share the magazines she hoarded through the year and snuck into camp. We'd stare at jewellery from Tiffany's, two-page spreads of Lady Gaga in Versace, what's in and what's out columns, pages on pages of gorgeous women in beautiful clothes and jewellery and underwear. We'd stare until our chests ached in sync with want, sighing and dreaming as we flipped pages and swapped magazines.
Esther would have us do friendship rituals, binding us through that year and into the next. Something to conclude our stay and hold us through our time apart. Something to look at and remember. A totem of friendship. She came up with something new yearly, and after whatever intense session we had, we'd feel lighter or heavier but, most importantly, closer. One year, she brought rubber bands for us to make bracelets with. Another year, she had us all share our biggest fears so we could carry them together. We'd be so in our feelings we'd vow to stay friends regardless of distance for at least one more year until our next 14-day-uninterrupted proximity reunion.
Mariam was a sweetheart, a ray of sunshine, happy to be there, wherever "there" was. She was the glue, the best of us, our baby, even though we were all born only months apart. When we fought, she'd cry and make speeches about how important friendship is, and by the end, we'd be sobbing and hugging.
The year we'd met and bonded had been magical, and the years we saw after that drove us even closer together. My girls held friendship in the highest esteem. Mariam would launch into speeches after a good day, overwhelmed with feeling, about how important what we had was. We didn't have much else, really.
Mariam's home life was awful. She rarely spoke about it because camp was a blissful time for her, no cares, no worries, for two weeks until reality resumed. Somehow, she didn't feel the heaviness we often did. While we shared, she'd offer support. A hug here, gummy worms and a blanket there, but she never contributed. She dropped all her burdens at the camp gate because she thought, why suffer twice? Experiencing misery is enough; talking and thinking about it? Too much.
We never pushed; we understood. We were not strangers to familial dysfunction. So we just let her be, and when we got too blue, she helped us snap out of it.
"We're channelling energies tonight". Esther said she knew how we could transfer waves through our palms, that we'd float and we’d feel things. So we sat in a circle on the floor and held hands. She told us to close our eyes, and so we did. She started to repeat the words she'd learned,
"We're twisting, we're turning; we're inside, we're out. We're floating, we're flying; ascended, drowned."
She whispered the first verse. The second, however, seemed to call for yelling and swaying from side to side as though possessed.
"We're living, we're dying, transcending time and space; connect us, change us—"
"Be quiet!" Nini interrupted mid-chant, shouting even more loudly that we'd get caught and punished if Esther did not stop screaming.
Esther was livid. She said the experience was ruined, the spirits were gone, the moment was dead. In her foul mood, she decided it was time to address things, as we did every year. Feelings get high, girls get vicious.
Esther and Nini went to the same school, Kamsi went to school in Enugu because she lived with her grandmother most of the year, and I went to a different school in Lagos. I'd see Esther often enough in the course of the year and Nini semi-regularly because we were neighbours. Mariam lived in Lagos too, but her parents never let her out of the house, so we'd see her only at camp.
Every year, we’d wait at the clubhouse until we were all together again, screaming and hugging when we were reunited, holding each other tightly and insisting on a shared room to ourselves. We had a name too; Esther had watched Chicago and loved it so much that she informed us one day that we were now the five merry murderesses. We'd all protested; we didn't get it. So, the next year, she brought the CD to camp and all five of us sat behind a desktop in the computer room, watching it with one eye and the door with the other. We loved it, and so, we were the merry murderesses. Cell Block Tango changed our lives; the cheek of it, the scandal. We'd decided that we would handle what business needed handling as Velma and Roxie would, and you'd be shocked at what business needed handling.
By the end of the two weeks, we'd be sick of each other, but the anticipation of our next camp kept us going through the year. When we reflected on how lonely we were and how helpless we felt, we'd think of August, time with our girls, unlimited gist, and we'd think to ourselves, ah, I can't wait to be at camp again, let me live one more day. When we returned, we'd have forgotten all about our squabbles until new ones arose in the course of the two weeks and we unburied old aches and resentments.
The fights we'd fought during the year in Kamsi and Mariam's absence were rehashed. Somehow, after much pettiness, we put our issues aside until all five of us were reunited again at summer camp to revisit them. Kamsi was the unbiased judge, with fresh ears and a brutally honest disposition (that was usually the cause of at least one fight in our two weeks of togetherness). Mariam just wanted it to be over so we could all be happy again, delighted in sisterhood. Still, once these nights came, it was inevitable that the things we never let go of— and teenage girls tend to hold on to those things extra tightly— were revisited.
The tension between Esther and Nini had been palpable for all of the six days we'd been together. We did everything and went everywhere together, but there was friction between them that we'd done our best to ignore all week. They'd snap at one another; Nini screamed at Esther for using her hairbrush, a non-issue usually, and Esther was already rallying the troops (she'd told her side to Mariam in secret, and Mariam didn't have it in her to do anything but support the person whispering loudly in her ear by 4 am while the other girls slept). They refused to sit together and dramatically avoided close contact, even though one would find herself laughing at the joke of the other unwittingly before they remembered they were fighting and firmed up again.
Esther, now before the panel of judges headed by Kamsi, the chief judge, tabled her complaint formally. Apparently, Nini yelled at her on their school bus in front of everyone. I'd already heard this story. Nini had come to my house straight from her bus stop that day.
While Esther narrated the event from her… skewed perspective (maybe I’d also been won over by Nini’s impassioned rants in my ears that afternoon all those months ago), Nini cut her off, her quick temper already flaring.
"Tell them what you did. Was I angry at you for no reason? Abeg abeg, stop fishing for sympathy and be honest."
Kamsi told Nini to shut up and let her finish, and so she did; after all, we had rules. Nini sat in silence, her face betraying her emotions; three consecutive eye rolls, exasperated sighs.
I've always found Nini's inability to be anything but completely honest and true to herself admirable. Some people are quiet about things. We do not stand up for ourselves and others and the things we believe in because doing so is too stressful. Conflict is too uncomfortable, and it costs too much. Because people do not often agree that they are wrong, and the more you go at it, the more they resist, so you let things go that you should not and accept resolutions that are forced into your hands and against your chest. Nini was not one of those people. Her anger at whatever injustice— be it the popcorn man shortening her ration or the classmate who forced his hand up her skirt— was justified and drove her to act. She did not run away from her feelings of discomfort; she did what she needed to do to ease them. She spoke for herself and those unable or unwilling to speak for themselves. By the time her anger had run its course and done what it needed to do, she'd have resolved whatever it was that inspired it to her satisfaction. The difference between Nini and those other people is that no matter how her reaction is received, no matter what it leads to or inspires, she can live with herself with comfort and contentment in her mind and body. Her stomach does not turn at the thought of the displeasure of others, especially when their pleasure comes at her expense. She is confident in her choices and assured that no matter what, no one can take away the things that constitute her essence, even if they take other things like their affection, care or respect away. She’d learned that at home, like many do, by force.
Now Esther is yelling; they're talking over one another; Esther starts crying; Nini gets angrier. While Mariam soothes Esther, Kamsi asks Nini for her side. The story was, Esther was in the habit of making silly jokes at Nini's expense. There was no debate about that; we all knew that she tended to do that, to all of us, and well, it was annoying. Apparently, Esther had gotten into the habit of randomly unclasping her friend's bra strap for shits and giggles, and of course, Nini hated it. Not only was it silly and unnecessary, it was also very uncomfortable. That day, Esther did it on the school bus. They were entering, Nini walking in front to claim their seat, Esther walking behind, when in one deft motion and without warning, she felt the support give. It was 4 pm, and it had been a long and bad day, so Nini snapped and yelled at her friend in front of everyone on the bus. Esther burst into tears and refused to sit with Nini for the ride home. They typically sat together, and Esther lived just two stops before Nini. Nini was mad too, awkwardly clutching her bag to her chest because there was no way for her to fix the clasp through her long-sleeved, button-up school shirt on the bus. The next day, feeling bad at her outburst, knowing that if she did not make the first move the rift would widen, she reached out, and they came to a so-so resolution, saving their leftover feelings for their friends to deliberate on at camp. They could not bear to go the whole term at loggerheads even though they both felt wronged, so even Nini the warrior did what us ordinary folk do — she suppressed her feelings of discomfort; nobody above compromise.
For all their stubbornness and lack of accountability, such friendship as ours comes with strong feelings of the responsibility of sustenance. We must carry on because we have carried on. It’s a good thing, our wilful desire to hold on to one another no matter what. It’s unfortunate that sometimes, said wilful desire does not hold; is not sturdy enough.
After Kamsi's analysis of the issues before us, the group took Nini's side. Esther was mad, but in these situations, that does nothing. The majority have spoken, and you should see the error of your ways. So, you apologise and make peace because you don't want to be othered for your bad behaviour if you refuse the verdict. The problem was those resolutions were circular, thumb-deep. Nothing really changed in the ways that mattered. It was a good system, usually, but our court did not calm unsettlement in the heart and knots in the belly, so some things, we hold on to long after.
After that, we shared our feelings and thoughts on things we'd been meaning to. We shared advice, and Kamsi would share stories that would have us oohing and ahhing, grinning and cringing at the thought of it. Her story was especially scandalous that night. She'd caught her uncle with a woman in the boy's quarters of her grandmother's house.
Mind you, he did not live there. He left his house with his wife and his children, took a spare key to the room he used to occupy when he lived with his mother, and spent two hours there, on top woman. She did not spare us the details of what she'd seen through her hiding spot between the walls of the building and their fence. She also narrated, in 3D and technicolour, how his wife had found out and had come to disgrace her husband and his woman in their compound one day. We were vibrating with excitement, nothing like premium gist.
We fell asleep haphazardly at maybe 4 am, knowing we had to be up by 6. All five of us occupied three beds pushed together like we could not bear to be apart, even in our shared room. As we drifted off into sleep, Mariam said, "I love you guys", and then we all said it too, "I love you, my sisters"; "I love you, goodnight".
In the morning, after dragging our groggy selves out of bed and into the field for mandatory exercise, we'd dress up together, go for breakfast with arms intertwined, and after the day's activities, we'd retire to our room again, excited to see what that night would bring for our group.
On our last night at camp, all of us, teary-eyed at the thought of our imminent separation, would again sit in a circle, legs crossed, for our friendship ceremony. Esther would have us trade presents that we'd brought and kept the whole time for this moment. Bracelets, t-shirts, lotion and perfume, hair bands, whatever. She was so thoughtful, so good at symbolic displays of friendship.
Even those of us who knew fully we'd see again before the next year would be in pieces, cue dramatic sobbing, like we were being separated forever. We'd share the heavy stuff this time, things that had been too hard to share, so we waited until we didn't have to sit in it too long because we'd be apart again the following day.
It was on one of these days that Kamsi told us about the uncle who had been touching her inappropriately. We cried, consoled her, and planned how she would fight. Again, what would Velma and Roxie do?
It was also on one of those days that Mariam had let us in. We sat in silence as she told us what it was like to live in her body and in her home. She showed us the reasons, in the form of scars down her shoulders and back, why she’d bathed and dressed in a tiny, often wet bathroom stall away from us all these years. We held her as best we could, in tatters and in pieces. While we cried, she consoled us and begged us not to be sad. She told us that we had each other and we would be embodiments of softness for each other in this cold, hard world.
This time, it was me who had something heavy to share. The thing I had discovered about myself that year that terrified me. Even if I was personally in denial, I felt like telling my girls my secret would help me make sense of it. Maybe saying it out loud would help calm the fear I felt whenever I came face to face with my identity. Maybe if they accepted me, I could accept myself too. And so, after putting it off the whole night, my heart slamming against the walls of my chest the entire time, as we drifted off to sleep and we shared our final, heartfelt I love yous, I told them about May and the things we'd done and the things I'd felt. She’d brought light into my life like my girls had, so of course, I wanted to share one with the other. At the time of my sharing, May was a sour-sweet memory that tugged painfully at my chest whenever she re-entered my head, and she often did.
May was my slice of heaven. Warm sunshine through glass resting on skin softly; the sea lapping gently at my feet. Life was a dull grey hue until I met May, buying hot buns from the woman at the gate of my street. I'd been staring at the floaty balls dancing in the hot oil and envisioning them in my mouth when May pulled my waist-length braids from behind me, "this your hair is fine oh." I turned back in confusion, ready to deck whoever it was, but when I turned, she blasted me with her 100-watt heart-melting smile, and it was immediately okay. I wanted her to hold on to my braid and to drag me wherever with it, and for a while, she did. "Hi, I'm May; I live on the next street" and I knew instantly that there was going to be a problem.
May moved away wordlessly a few months after we met. I’d waited for hours on end in the places we used to see before she disappeared. The buns stall, the primary school compound down the street, the copse of trees behind the mosque. I looked everywhere and as I did I realised how small our world had been.
I went to her street, from house to house, compound to compound, even though I didn’t know which house was hers. I understood the saying then, “omo eni ku san ju omo eni sonu lo”, a dead child is better than a missing one. Her absence was an open wound and denial rubbed against it like salt. It was maybe a month after I saw her last that I started to accept that that was it, that I’d probably never see her again.
I was battling a profound, unquantifiable sense of loss and also the uncertainty of self. Did it even happen or did I imagine it? I thought that maybe at camp I could just let go, tell my girls everything and that they’d help me make sense of it, bring clarity to my confusion and comfort to ease the pain from my longing as we’d done for each other too many times.
I'd like to say that things stayed the same after that, but they did not. We'd shared many things sans judgement, at least out loud, but this revelation, unfortunately, proved too much for the group.
Nini already knew. She'd spent time with May and me on two Saturdays when she came over, and she'd figured something was amiss. One weekend, she'd looked at me long and hard before she left, but she said nothing, and nothing changed. When May left, she’d lay with me in my room wordlessly while I cried. She came every weekend for a month until she thought I was okay, or at least better. She didn’t understand what had happened but she knew I was beyond sad and so she showed up. She'd gotten up off her bed and squeezed my hand in comforting support.
Kamsi's surprise was short-lived. She was one of those people who took everything in stride. Quick thoughts and resolutions, quick digestion. She had some questions, all in good faith, even if poorly delivered, and I loved her for it, for her curiosity and fascination. She’d gotten mad on my behalf too. Fuck her for leaving without saying anything, how dare she?
Mariam was floored. Her mouth opened and shut many times, and then she came and sat beside me and hugged me. She said it didn't matter and that she loved me, and she, Nini and I sat in silence, hugging. My heart was so full I could cry, and did.
Then Esther spoke. She was not with it at all. How dare I make this life-altering "decision" without consulting her and the group? Who was that girl even? What had she done to me?She said many things, about sin mostly, and hell. Nini got angry again and changed it for her. We didn't do much else the entire two weeks but share our "sins", but this is the one that's too grave? This is the one that's disgusting?
She launched into a spirited address about right and wrong, holiness and sanctity. She paused and gasped loudly. I'd shared their room all these years, seen them undressed, hugged them, held their hands. She says it's like I'm a different person to her, or no, that I've been pretending to be someone else and am only just revealing who I am.
Nini and Esther got into a physical fight this time, and a camp counsellor had to come to separate them. We all served punishment the rest of the night, and we packed our bags in silence the next morning as we prepared to leave. Mariam was teary-eyed, and no doubt devastated at the sordid turn of events. We never separated under such conditions. How could we? We all felt something shift the night before, and her happy place did not feel very happy anymore. I felt hollow, but at the same time, relieved at my unburdening, even if it did cost us our delicate state of peace and togetherness. Sincerely, I had not even been aware of its delicacy.
Things were never the same after that. Nini and I remained friends, and Nini and Esther developed a bitter rivalry that blossomed at school. I heard much about it as I began to see Nini more often and our two became more sturdy than our five had been.
I didn't go to camp the next year, and neither did Nini. We talked about it when we got home, me on my bed, staring at the ceiling in tears, Nini on the desk chair beside me reassuring me that I had done nothing wrong. Did I expect it to last forever? I mean, let's be real, Esther kind of sucked, and we fought like, a lot.
We told ourselves that we would be safe spaces for each other and we'd hold ourselves and one another through those moments when we felt alone in the universe and isolated in existence if no one else would hold us.
We did not see Kamsi again. Even when, eventually, we all got phones and communication became possible, it was not the same. Our conversations were stilted; time had done what it does, and the camaraderie was gone. Mariam stayed friends with Esther because Nini and I had each other, and though she loved me, her need to comfort and placate, coupled with the fact that, in some ways, she thought that Esther had a point, made her stick with Esther, and I understood. I hoped they’d be good to and for each other.
The few times I bumped into Esther after the incident, she'd make jokes about my confession in front of whoever was there to listen, basking in their chortles at who I am, giving more and more to her roaring audience and so, I avoided her. And that was that about that. The accompanying sense of loss, however, wasn't so easy to do away with. Why me? First May, now this?
As much as I hated to think that I was the one whose thing was too much, so much it'd disintegrated the group we'd formed as 12-year-olds at our first camp, I knew it was above me. Like holding on to May had been above me. Nini helped me see that, now that she had a better understanding and handle of the situation.
To alter the events of that day would be to trap myself in inauthenticity. Yes-ing and nodding while anxiety eats me alive. I’d be with them but absent. We shared everything, so why would I keep this to myself? Why should I feel the need to? And, even if things had gone differently, do all friendships last forever? What was unfortunate was the bitter end and the fact that, in all my anxiety, I had not imagined the worst outcome of my confession. I assumed that, like with everything else, we would come together afterwards, even if by way of a patch-patch shoddy resolution. Nini said it was unsustainable anyway, and I have to agree.
Regardless, as we walk through life, when we're having a day, before our hearts sink into our stomachs under the weight of a memory or the memory, we'll smile at the thought of one of the many somethings we'd shared and at the thought of how we'd held each other through trying times. It’d be sunny thoughts before resentment sets in and remembrance drives our hearts into the pit of our stomachs. Sweet then bitter, bitter then sweet.
If letting go means erasing the good moments along with the bad, I'd rather hold on tightly to both.
So good!
I love this so much. Well done bae❤️