My Best Friend Died in My Arms in Kano. I Never Told My Family How It Really Happened.

This was 2019, I was 22, fresh out of polytechnic, and living with my uncle in Kano while I searched for work. My best friend Musa was the only person who made that city bearable. We met at a cybercafe near Sabon Gari, bonding over our shared love for old Fela tapes and the struggle of being Northern boys with dreams that didn't fit our fathers' plans. One evening, Musa called me sounding strange. Said he needed to see me urgently at his place near the old market. When I got there, he was sweating and shaking, holding a small bag. He told me he had borrowed money from some dangerous people to start a phone repair business. They had come that afternoon, beaten him, and said if he didn't pay by Friday, they would kill him. I was young and stupid, and I told him we would figure it out together. That night, we went to a friend's house to hide. On the way back, three men on a motorcycle blocked us. Musa pushed me behind him and shouted for me to run. I didn't run. I watched them stab him three times. He fell into my arms, and I held him as he bled out on that dusty road. I screamed until my voice gave out, but nobody came. By the time I got him to the hospital, he was gone. I told his mother he was hit by a car. I told my uncle I wasn't there. The truth is, I have carried that night every day since. I should have run faster, gotten help sooner, or never let him borrow that money. Musa's death was not my fault, but I was there. And I have never told anyone the full story until now. The lesson: Friendship is not just about the good times. It is about showing up when the road is dark and bloody. I failed Musa by not being smart enough to save him. But I honour him by never forgetting that night, and by trying to be a better friend to the living.