Written by Gbemi Trabaye
I’ve struggled with many things, but nothing as intense as maintaining friendships – so writing this article already feels therapeutic. Growing up, I spent every single day at home, rarely went out – and never had sleepovers. Everything was highly controlled – visits to the nearby shops were closely monitored, walking around the neighbourhood wasn’t encouraged. It’s complex, so let me break it down.
I empathise with my parents. Two Nigerians – raising a family in Maseru, Lesotho – and navigating the weight and tension that comes with that. In the early 2000s, Nigerian communities around the world were receiving frequent stories of shocking increases in kidnappings back home, oftentimes politically-motivated.
My father, a UN Development Programme Officer at the time, was a very strict disciplinarian, and the political climate in Nigeria didn’t make the situation any better. They were on a mission to ensure safety was maximised. Outings were very controlled, sleepovers almost nonexistent and walks through the neighbourhood deemed as dangerous and unnecessary. In their eyes – this was protection, in my reflective eyes now – it was isolation.
Birthday parties and casual hangouts seemed to be standard procedure for most friends – but those happened rarely for me, and although I couldn’t quite phrase it back then, it always felt odd. As a result, I resorted to my books – academics, television and the internet. I was always the ten year old kid that knew all the latest current affairs, but never anything about sports, cartoons – especially DragonBall Z. By the time I was a teenager, this had fully crystalised – solitude was normalised, and I had no experience with the messy, often unpredictable, but seemingly rewarding science of building genuine friendships and connections.
In high school, things slightly improved. I mean, for a start – I moved away from home to boarding school, and met a whole bunch of new people that I was forced to live with. Initially, this was daunting – the only person I had ever shared a room with was my elder brother, and that was short lived too – so the idea of sharing a room with five other males for 9 consecutive months of the year was a serious adjustment. Cultural adjustments were difficult – I had never really watched Rugby, I had a very thick Nigerian accent, and I wasn’t the biggest fan of sharing food – a very complex mix of preferences for a 13 year old entering a traditional boarding school in the Eastern Cape. Nonetheless, I learned how to adapt, gradually.
Over time, things really started getting easier. The school was very sports-focused, so one was always encouraged to get involved in something. Having been an athlete all my life, this was an easy transition – and if I may add, at the time – I was quite the athlete if I do say so myself.
I soon realised a unique characteristic about male friendships – excellence was rewarded, and adored. They hinged largely on the theatrics of performance. People wanted to hangout because you were good at something – and to some degree – they respected you for it. If you ran fast on the track, worked out everyday or excelled at mathematics – there was a mystery to you, which morphed into respect. This has gone on to be a recurring theme in my theme – “Am I performing?”
My isolation started growing into a community, and before you knew it, I had “friends”. The tension between my very monitored childhood – and the freedom that boarding school provided was interesting to navigate. I could choose my own rhythm – my walks weren’t timed – and decisions weren’t policed. Of course, my parents still frequently communicated, but the two hour drive between the two towns gave me the independence I needed.
Three layers of friendships started forming – I had dorm mates – classmates and teammates.
Each one had its own unique characteristic – some through conversations, others merely by random coincidence. And then some, by pure mischief. This wouldn’t be a true coming-of-age story without the rebellion. My parents NEVER let us out at night – so there was an intriguing and mythical allure to it. I remember it vividly, Grade 8 – a quiet Friday evening. Lights out on a weekend was typically an hour later, and the specific prefect on duty would be quite gracious with inspections. Coincidentally, this specific Prefect on duty was a rugby jock, known for aggressive tackles on the field but also excessive partying. A friend of mine, Meli, came to me on this particular Friday night, and he had the kind of smile on his face that could have only meant one thing: TROUBLE. We had gotten “permission” to go out that night.
Basically, this was code for: The prefect himself was sponsoring and facilitating this party.
I was terrified. My father was definitely the most strictest human-being on earth. If you mistakenly dropped a fork on the ground – you’d hear him shout from the other room, “What is that?”. Till today, we jokingly recall a time several years ago when our BMW 325i’s tyre rolled over my sister’s foot whilst my father was pulling out the garage, and she stood there – quietly frozen in fear, because getting screamed at was worse than getting crushed toes.
Now, back to the genesis of my partying days. Meli eventually convinced me to override my fear, and I was soon getting ready to commit an offence punishable with expulsion – four
months into eighth grade. We sneaked out the front door at approximately 11PM, accompanied by our secret agent of course, avoiding all cameras, before jumping over the main gate. This was the first of many times I’d do this. To say the least, this was the first night I ever consumed that much alcohol. Heineken was his beer of choice. I was utterly disgusted by it, but I wasn’t going to let flavour stand between me and my criminal activities. I was definitely not going to express my disapproval to the one person keeping me “safe”. The specific details of what happened that night will have to be saved for another article, but I ended up in a relationship with a girl that same day. She was also 13.
In hindsight, those midnight escapes, early substance abuse and two-week long “relationships” were more than just rebellion – they were my attempts at connection. In some weird psychological way, those risky decisions helped me discover myself. I could finally learn to trust a stranger, and risk my education alongside them. This is sad to say, but Meli eventually got expelled for a completely different reason and we lost contact, but I think of him often. I think of that night as a pivotal moment for me – a reintroduction to myself.
High school ended, and so did a lot of the bonds that were formed during those years. A few remain, but few and far between. Now, University became my playground. I felt ready though, seasoned in the game of connection. I didn’t need parties or late night hangouts to build connection – I needed authenticity, from myself.
I’ve chosen to not conclude this article with a lesson learnt, because truthfully – the journey is still evolving. Rather, what I can share is that I’m in a new phase, the adulting one – and it’s rocky, but easier to navigate. I’m learning courage, accountability, honesty. I’m learning about what it means to be human. I’ll be back to share more, soon.
