Ice

Photo: Katerina Pavlyuchkova

Ice got him to stop talking. The hospital room was quiet except for the beeping sound from the vital signs monitor that constantly interrupted my thoughts. 

“He was rushed in early this morning by friends,” said the nurse at the reception as I ran past her desk after she gave me his room number.

Where are your friends now? I finally said to myself after I managed to calm myself down from racing up the hospital stairs to Room Q105. There were no friends to be found but me, his emergency contact.

My phone had rung as I stepped out from Saturday morning Mass. “This is Sharon from Parkview Hospital. Am I onto Mr Chuks?”. “Yes,” I replied as I tried to gather my thoughts. “You are written as the emergency contact to a Mr Ebuka Okpala. He is currently admitted and needs your assistance.” I immediately made my way to Lagos Island, thankful for the weekend’s mild traffic, to find out what had happened to my friend, the life of any party. Many girls have come in and out of Ebuka’s life and have always thought we shared something more than friendship. We shared a bromance that was the envy of many of our friends, but I’ve had to draw the line recently. This drawn line has me sitting by a hospital bed with his hands in mine, asking that he says just a word.

I was in my final year of junior secondary school when I visited 5, Adewale Jones Street, Lekki Phase 1, for the first time. That Saturday morning, Mum and I had made the journey in a yellow taxi from Alagomeji. Ebuka and I were classmates at Cabel Junior High on Victoria Island. We had carried each other’s bags home for the weekend. Mine was a limited edition of a spiderman bag I got as a birthday present a few months back. After giving me a severe talking to, Mum obtained Mrs Okpala’s number from the parent’s diary and called the day before. She explained the mix-up and arranged the exchange for the following day. We arrived at the duplex, and Mrs Okpala welcomed us in.

Well, the rest is history, as they say. Mrs Okpala and mum hit it off immediately. They were both catholic mummies with only one male child. I felt they saw a connection because a brief Saturday morning outing turned out to be an all-day event, accompanied by take-away packs as we headed back home. From that day, Ebuka and I became brothers. We got to know each other too well through many sleepovers, hangouts, and study sessions at both our houses, finishing secondary school with the Best Clique of the Year award. Although we lived in different parts of the city, we still met as often as possible, thanks to Uncle James. Uncle James was, for many years, the Okpala’s family driver and a man full of wisdom. He always said to me, “You are a gift to oga’s son”. He drove us to school parties, excursions, final year prom and even to the university hostel for the first time. We both attended Citycoast University, a private university just on the city’s outskirts. We didn’t have much, but my parents made sure I went with Ebuka, who was very gracious throughout our stay, always providing when I was short because of the limited funds from home. Ebuka studied Architecture and I, Accounting. That, however, did not stop us from competing; all things were up for competition: studies, sports clubs, movies and girls. Since secondary school, Ebuka was known for his shy nature, and I was saddled with the burden of always being the middle man in his communication with the ladies. We both had our share of fun on campus. We covered for each other whenever the other had something to attend to when parents came visiting. Ebuka finished top of his class and got admitted for a master’s at Imperial College. I, on the other hand, had to battle the dreadful professional accounting exam called ICAN. For the first time in years, we had to go our separate ways: Ebuka to the UK and I to hustling buses to work on weekdays and ICAN classes on weekends. And as the months rolled by, our friendship grew cold. Communication was reduced to birthday greetings and updates on family and friends.  

Two and a half years later, Ebuka was back. I was a chartered accountant working with an international auditing firm on Victoria Island, and Ebuka was set to work at an interior design firm. His parents had moved to Abuja as his father’s political career was picking up steam. The house in Lekki was left in his care while the rest of the family moved to Abuja. I immediately moved in with Ebuka. The initial months after his return was good times as we had a lot to catch up on. From work on weekdays to hanging out at clubs, concerts, and beach parties on weekends. The period at the Lekki residence was wild. The apartment was always full of strange faces, claiming to be Ebuka’s colleagues or friends, some of them sleeping over.

It was after one of these events that I saw it for the first time as I walked into Ebuka’s room to ask for a lighter. Yes, smoking had become part of me since Ebuka’s return. A new habit that Patricia, my girlfriend and registered pharmacist, hated. The white crystal was laid on his work table. “What is this?” I asked. “Oh, that. Meth,” he answered. He noticed I was waiting for more as I stood, staring at the substance. “Methamphetamine. It is a drug that helps me concentrate when working.”

That evening, as I called my Patricia, the word methamphetamine popped into my head. She was complaining about me not creating enough time for us to hang out together without being in the company of Ebuka and his gang, but I wasn’t really listening. Meth just continued its solo dancing in my head. Days later, I found out that Ebuka was buying it off the streets from Rilwan. Everybody knew Rilwan, your stop shop for everything that could get you in trouble. If Rilwan sold it, it was no good. I had a heated argument with Ebuka after I researched the substance and told him he was not using it to concentrate at work. His explanation about picking up use of the substance while studying at Imperial did not add up as I already know him to be very studious. I questioned him further, and he couldn’t give me a direct answer. That was the line I couldn’t cross with him. I moved out of his family house days after without saying a word, and we never spoke since. Nine months after, there I was by his side. And for the first time since we met, Ebuka had nothing to say. His eyes were shut, and his hands’ warmth seemed to have evaporated.

“Mr Chuks, I am Dr Bola.” I turned to see a lady in a white coat.

“How are you related to the patient?”

“We are family friends.”

She gave me a second look. I guessed she was expecting family. “Do you know if your friend was using methamphetamine, commonly known as Ice?” I couldn’t reply as all the saliva had dried up in my mouth at the word ice. “Mr Chuks,” the doctor called out several times. “Not sure,” I replied. “Mr Ebuka was brought in with an overdose of what I think is methamphetamine. We managed to revive him, but I fear the damage has been done.” The doctor walked out and promised to return to examine him later. I was with him all day, not knowing what to say as he was always the one to start a discussion. I spent most of the time praying and talking to him about fun times we had shared. I picked up my phone, noticing I had unread messages. I stepped out of Q105 while the hospital staff attended to him. Ten missed calls. Some from Mum but most from Mrs Okpala. And a text message I didn’t want to open because the bit I could see was, “How is Ebuka . . .” It was not a question I had an answer to. I looked into Q105 through its glass door, and Ebuka still hadn’t said a word.

About the author

Wale Mariano (Olofinkua Joseph Olawale Omaseye) is a Lagos-born researcher, designer, writer, music lover and, most importantly, hustler. Born in the Yaba area of Lagos, he spent most of his early years in Lagos and Benin city. He holds a master’s in Thermofluid from the University of Lagos. He live and works in Lagos as a consultant.

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