Immediately after my wedding, barely a few weeks in, someone I knew called and said he had sent a monetary gift for me through a close friend of mine. My heart leaped — because at that point, I was swimming in debt from the wedding.
I called my friend. He confirmed receiving the money.
I thanked him and sent my account details immediately.
But he shocked me.
He said,
“I won’t send the money to you.”
I laughed — thinking it was a joke. But he was dead serious.
“I won't send it until you’re ready to collect what I bought with it,” he added.
I was confused.
I called and called. He kept repeating the same thing. His tone got cold, almost dismissive. It hurt me more than I can explain.
I called the person who had sent the money, told him what my friend was doing. He seemed surprised but told me to reach out to my friend again.
I was furious. I decided to cut both of them off.
A few days passed. Then one night, my friend called again. I ignored it.
He called again. And again. My phone rang until it felt like it would vibrate off the table.
I switched it off.
He kept calling for days. Eventually, I blocked him — on calls, on chats, on life. I told myself: He betrayed me. He stole from me.
Six months later, I felt the weight of the silence. I realized how much I missed him — my friend, my brother.
So I went to his house.
They told me he had moved.
Gone.
No one knew where he went. No forwarding address. No explanation.
I was angry all over again.
I concluded he had run away with the money. That he had played me.
Even though I had moved on from the money, the betrayal began to rot inside me again like an old wound reopened.
Three years later.
I was stuck in Lagos traffic, heading to the Island.
I saw someone on the other lane.
Something about the posture, the shape of his head, the way he tilted slightly to the right.
But… he was in a wheelchair.
I told myself,
“It can’t be him. He wasn’t like that before.”
Still, I begged the driver to stop. My heart was pounding as I crossed the road.
I walked closer. He turned.
It was him.
My friend.
In a wheelchair.
Before I could speak, he wheeled toward me and hugged me.
No hesitation. No resentment. Just warmth. And pain.
I stood there, stunned. My mouth dry. My hands weak. I had rehearsed this day in my head, where I’d scream at him, call him a thief, ask if karma crippled him. But I said nothing.
Then he pulled a backpack from behind his chair. Slowly, he brought out a faded blue file.
He handed it to me.
I opened it — and inside were land documents.
And pictures of an uncompleted building.
My eyes scanned the papers.
It was my name written all over the documents.
Not his.
Not his wife’s.
Mine.
“I didn’t want you to waste the money Aunty sent on clearing wedding debts,”
he said quietly.
“So I bought land in your name... so you could become a landlord like me.”
My hands trembled.
My lips quivered.
I dropped to the floor right there on the roadside and began to cry.
He sat quietly in his chair. His face was tired. His eyes sunken.
“You insulted me,” he said calmly. “You insulted my wife too. You called us thieves. But it was her idea. The night we tried to call you… I had just been in an accident. I was lying in the back of a tricycle, bleeding, and told her to call you.”
He paused.
“You didn’t pick.”
I cried harder.
“When my wife died in the hospital… I called again. That’s when I found out you had blocked me. You blocked me everywhere.”
There were no tears in his eyes. Just silence. And truth.
“I never stole from you. I am not your enemy. I was trying to protect your future. But money… money will always reveal how deep the love truly runs.”
He turned and wheeled away.
A cab stopped.
He got in and left.
Just like that.
I’ve never stepped foot in that house he built in my name.
I can’t.
Not until I see him again.
Not until I hold him and say the words I never said.
I’m sorry.
Please… don’t be quick to assume people have ghosted you.
Don’t jump to conclusions.
Sometimes, the silence is a scream for help you ignored.
Sometimes, the person you thought betrayed you was the one holding your future in their hands.
Sometimes, people disappear not to rob you — but because **life hit them harder than they could bear.
Before you block someone forever — ask them why.
You never know the battles they were silently fighting… for you.
The End.
#copiedImmediately after my wedding, barely a few weeks in, someone I knew called and said he had sent a monetary gift for me through a close friend of mine. My heart leaped — because at that point, I was swimming in debt from the wedding.
I called my friend. He confirmed receiving the money.
I thanked him and sent my account details immediately.
But he shocked me.
He said,
“I won’t send the money to you.”
I laughed — thinking it was a joke. But he was dead serious.
“I won't send it until you’re ready to collect what I bought with it,” he added.
I was confused.
I called and called. He kept repeating the same thing. His tone got cold, almost dismissive. It hurt me more than I can explain.
I called the person who had sent the money, told him what my friend was doing. He seemed surprised but told me to reach out to my friend again.
I was furious. I decided to cut both of them off.
A few days passed. Then one night, my friend called again. I ignored it.
He called again. And again. My phone rang until it felt like it would vibrate off the table.
I switched it off.
He kept calling for days. Eventually, I blocked him — on calls, on chats, on life. I told myself: He betrayed me. He stole from me.
Six months later, I felt the weight of the silence. I realized how much I missed him — my friend, my brother.
So I went to his house.
They told me he had moved.
Gone.
No one knew where he went. No forwarding address. No explanation.
I was angry all over again.
I concluded he had run away with the money. That he had played me.
Even though I had moved on from the money, the betrayal began to rot inside me again like an old wound reopened.
Three years later.
I was stuck in Lagos traffic, heading to the Island.
I saw someone on the other lane.
Something about the posture, the shape of his head, the way he tilted slightly to the right.
But… he was in a wheelchair.
I told myself,
“It can’t be him. He wasn’t like that before.”
Still, I begged the driver to stop. My heart was pounding as I crossed the road.
I walked closer. He turned.
It was him.
My friend.
In a wheelchair.
Before I could speak, he wheeled toward me and hugged me.
No hesitation. No resentment. Just warmth. And pain.
I stood there, stunned. My mouth dry. My hands weak. I had rehearsed this day in my head, where I’d scream at him, call him a thief, ask if karma crippled him. But I said nothing.
Then he pulled a backpack from behind his chair. Slowly, he brought out a faded blue file.
He handed it to me.
I opened it — and inside were land documents.
And pictures of an uncompleted building.
My eyes scanned the papers.
It was my name written all over the documents.
Not his.
Not his wife’s.
Mine.
“I didn’t want you to waste the money Aunty sent on clearing wedding debts,”
he said quietly.
“So I bought land in your name... so you could become a landlord like me.”
My hands trembled.
My lips quivered.
I dropped to the floor right there on the roadside and began to cry.
He sat quietly in his chair. His face was tired. His eyes sunken.
“You insulted me,” he said calmly. “You insulted my wife too. You called us thieves. But it was her idea. The night we tried to call you… I had just been in an accident. I was lying in the back of a tricycle, bleeding, and told her to call you.”
He paused.
“You didn’t pick.”
I cried harder.
“When my wife died in the hospital… I called again. That’s when I found out you had blocked me. You blocked me everywhere.”
There were no tears in his eyes. Just silence. And truth.
“I never stole from you. I am not your enemy. I was trying to protect your future. But money… money will always reveal how deep the love truly runs.”
He turned and wheeled away.
A cab stopped.
He got in and left.
Just like that.
I’ve never stepped foot in that house he built in my name.
I can’t.
Not until I see him again.
Not until I hold him and say the words I never said.
I’m sorry.
Please… don’t be quick to assume people have ghosted you.
Don’t jump to conclusions.
Sometimes, the silence is a scream for help you ignored.
Sometimes, the person you thought betrayed you was the one holding your future in their hands.
Sometimes, people disappear not to rob you — but because **life hit them harder than they could bear.
Before you block someone forever — ask them why.
You never know the battles they were silently fighting… for you.
The End.
#copied
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