Nnamani Akinola
@akinolannamani6323
1 month ago
I landed at O.R. Tambo on a Tuesday. March 12th, 3:47pm. I remember because the sun was brutal through those glass walls and I had no jacket. Tunde was supposed to pick me up. He didn't.
I stood there for two hours with one duffel bag and my stomach in my throat.
Tunde was my best friend from university. We called him Big Bro. He was the one who planned everything, who always had a scheme, who talked you into things you'd never do alone. When he called me in Lagos and said "I'm opening a logistics hub in Cape Town. I need you here. My right hand. We'll build this together." I quit my job at the bank that Friday.
I didn't even give notice.
The business was called BridgeLink Logistics. I'd google-stalked the name, found nothing, but Tunde said they were still doing paperwork. "Trust me, bro. You know me." I knew him. I'd known him since 2014 when we shared a mattress in Awolowo hall.
I thought that counted for something.
He finally showed up at 6:12pm. Driving a borrowed Toyota Corolla with a crack in the windshield. No apology. Just "traffic is crazy here, man" and a fist bump. I should have turned around at that moment. I didn't.
For two weeks, I stayed in his girlfriend's cousin's flat in Khayelitsha. No Wi-Fi. One plug socket that sparked when you touched it. Every morning Tunde would say "meeting tomorrow. Big things." Every evening he'd say "tomorrow for sure."
The turning point was a Thursday. April 4th. I remember the date because I wrote it in my Notes app. I was sitting on a plastic chair outside a spaza shop in Philippi. Drinking a Coke that cost R15. Tunde had just dropped me off and said "go network, meet people. I'll send the address for our office."
I walked up and down the same street four times. Called him six times. Nothing.
Then I called the number for BridgeLink Logistics that he'd given me for "urgent client queries." A woman answered. "BridgeLink? No, this is Mama Grace's Hair Salon. We've had this number for five years. Who's Tunde?"
I sat down on the pavement. Right there. A goat walked past me. Goats don't walk past you in Lagos. I felt the entire weight of every decision I'd made since I was nineteen press down on my chest.
Tunde had no business. He never had a business. He had a dream, maybe. A hope. A fantasy he'd sold me like it was real estate. And I'd bought it with my whole life.
I didn't cry. I just sat there for an hour watching taxis load and unload. Watching people who actually had places to go. I was a ghost in a city I didn't know, with a friend I didn't recognize anymore.
I found a room in Observatory that weekend. A shared house with three strangers. I got a job washing dishes at a vegan restaurant in town. The pay was garbage, but they fed me. The owner was a white woman named Ingrid who never asked why I was there. She just said "you show up, you work, you eat. That's enough."
Tunde called me twice more. I didn't answer.
Now it's October. I live in a one-bedroom in Salt River. The window doesn't close properly and the neighbor plays gospel at 5am, but it's mine. I'm a line cook now. I make a mean vegan bobotie. Ingrid says I'm the best she's had in five years.
I don't know if I forgive Tunde. But I stopped being angry. Anger needs fuel and I ran out.
Some days I walk to the sea at sunset. Just sit on the rocks and watch the waves. I don't know what comes next. I'm not pretending I do. I'm just here. In Cape Town. A city I never planned to be in, doing a job I never imagined, living a life that isn't what I thought it would be.
But it's mine. Every broken piece of it is mine.
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16 days ago