The danger of assumptions

Bolu watched in disgust as the fans went into a frenzy. The show had been electric, and they still couldn’t get over what they had just witnessed. He watched groupies remove their tops, waving them in the air as they chanted the name of his former schoolmate, who had become a megastar. Lanre had taken to music in university while the others stuck to their studies. Back then, he was seen as flippant, a young man gambling with his future by betting on a career in music. 

Bolu was one of the few classmates who had his back. He gave him stipends to commute to the studio. He helped him with tests whenever Lanre was away recording. He covered for him when his parents came looking for him. 

“Guy, se you’re not taking this music thing too far? You need to start focusing on your studies, oh. There’s only so much these free shows and ‘thanks for coming’ cash gifts can do. Before you know it, you’ll graduate with a GPA that will affect your chances in the labour market. You don’t want to lose both ways,” they would often tell him. Their remarks never fazed Lanre. He was focused and became even more devoted to his music. 

“If only you guys could see what I see,” he would tell them. “Please be patient. My time will come.” 

Even when Lanre exhausted the hospitality of his other classmates, Bolu remained patient. He took pity on him. Late nights found Lanre in the studio, singing, writing and asking questions about his verses. It was a lot to take, but Bolu remained the last friend standing. Eventually, Lanre’s breakthrough came. There could not have been a better time. By then, he had practically dropped out of university. His parents had disowned him. He slept in studios and in the rooms of friends who were still willing to accommodate him. 

Then came an invitation to perform at a show somewhere in Lagos as an opening act. It was a last-minute opportunity. Another aspiring artist had turned it down, insisting that he could not perform at a concert without a clear financial agreement. Lanre, whose stage name was Lang, said yes before thinking. There was just one problem. He had no money to get to Lagos. 

That day, even Bolu had nothing to give him. But he helped him raise money from friends on campus. He also gave Lanre one of his finest pairs of shoes: white Fila sneakers with red and blue detailing. And Lanre was off to Lagos. That was the last time Bolu heard from Lang. Until the university reunion. A music executive had heard Lanre perform and insisted on meeting him. Backstage, Lanre performed for him and blew him away. He signed him almost immediately. 

Years later, Lanre returned to the reunion as a superstar. He embraced Bolu as though he had never left. He thanked him profusely for all his support while he was pursuing his music career. But the reunion was really all about Lang. Everybody wanted a piece of him. Even classmates who were already married were throwing themselves at him. Bolu watched the audacity and shamelessness on display. 

They wanted pictures, favours, his contact, free tickets to his shows and signed autographs. Even people who had once been openly hostile towards him now hovered around him. At one point, Bolu heard Lang repeatedly telling people that his phone had been stolen that day and asking them to write their numbers down so he could contact them. 

Bolu was the only one who seemed embarrassed by the whole thing. When Lang was leaving, it was the same. They followed him like a herd of sheep following a shepherd. Eventually, Bolu got a few moments alone with him. 

“I need financial support,” he said. “This COVID thing ruined my business. Anything. I’d be grateful.” 

“Baba, you deserve so much more,” Lang replied. “I’ll definitely help. It’s my time to pay you back. My phone’s been stolen. Write down your number, make I call you.” 

Bolu wrote it down. Eight months passed and he never heard from Lang. His business had taken a turn for the worse, and the more time passed, the more callous he thought Lang had become. He remembered telling him how dire his situation was. He remembered helping him write tests when he was away in the studio. Covering for him when his parents came looking for him. Sheltering him, feeding him. And he remembered the day he had done fine bara for him, helping him raise money to get to Lagos for the show that changed his life. 

Like Bolu, none of their classmates had heard anything from Lang. So Bolu joined them in tearing him apart. He did not spare him. Not even in front of his wife and children. He took Lang to the cleaners at every opportunity. Where at work, at the gym, or in church. Everywhere. 

Then, one evening, Bolu found himself at one of Lang’s sold-out shows. One of their classmates had given him free tickets. He was stunned by the crowd. Thousands of people sang along to Lang’s songs. The energy reminded him of footage of Michael Jackson performing. 

It was ridiculous. Bolu still couldn’t understand how people liked such silly songs. He would sometimes quiz his children about what they found interesting about Lang’s music before launching into another tirade about his former friend. Now the show was over. Lang was walking down the aisle towards the exit, surrounded by bodyguards and what appeared to be his entourage. One of their classmates, who had been in a good mood all night, suddenly shouted the nickname they had given Lang at university. 

“Lororo!” 

Lang immediately looked up, searching for the voice. Then he saw Bolu. 

Bolu quickly straightened his face and put on a fake smile. 

“BOLU!” 

Lang turned to his security detail. 

“Guy, I don dey find you since. Please, get that guy in green with the cream cap down to me.” 

Within minutes, Bolu was sitting inside Lang’s Escalade. They got talking as Lang explained. The Gucci jacket he had been wearing at the reunion had been collected by a fan later that night. His phone had also been stolen earlier that day. He had tried to find Bolu. He had even met Tamika and Tammy and asked them for his number. They told him they didn’t have it. Lang apologised. 

“I tried to get your number bro.” 

That day, Lang cut Bolu a ₦10 million cheque. He made sure he had Bolu’s number before they parted ways. He also instructed his driver to take Bolu home in his Range Rover. On the journey home, Bolu shivered. He thought about all the terrible things he had said about Lang. He thought about the people he had said them to. Even Tamika and Tammy, the dangerous pair who had probably been among the loudest voices tearing Lang apart and lying that they didn’t have Bolu’s number. He thought about how quickly he had judged his friend. How he had failed to defend him while people tore him to shreds. Instead, he had joined them. He had poured petrol on the fire. Bolu looked down at the cheque in his hands. Tears rolled down his cheeks. For eight months, he had been convinced his friend had forgotten him. He had never considered that perhaps there was a genuine reason he hadn’t reached out. Sometimes, silence is not rejection. Sometimes, we simply do not know the story behind it.