The Fire We Shared

I’ve longed for the right time to write about this beautiful yet haunting memory—but today, I need to breathe it out of my chest. I served in a serene and soulful community called Ndemili in Delta State. It was the kind of place that quietly steals a piece of your heart and keeps it. Even after my service year ended, I found it difficult to leave. There were too many reasons: the warmth of the people, the aroma of good food that danced through the air, the richness of the culture... but above all, it was because of one person—Emeke, though everyone and me called him Aji. Aji was more than a friend. He was a brother the universe gifted me for that season.

The Fire We Shared

He saw me, like someone who had known me long before we met. We took risks together, laughed from the belly, and walked through Ndemili not just by foot, but by soul. He made sure I felt every heartbeat of the land—from its rivers and dark earth to the softness of its women’s body, voices and their beauty. One of our last nights together still clings to me like skin to bone. We sat behind his house, drunk—maybe on palm wine, maybe moukite. It never really mattered, because those were our drinks. Always either one or the other. In my hand, I held a plump, well-tied blunt whose fire we guarded like it was sacred. We passed it back and forth in tiki-taka, Barca's style, a skill we’d mastered.

The Fire We Shared

The night was heavy with unspoken sorrow. We both knew what was coming—I was leaving. Then, Aji reached brought out his old MP3 player. He didn’t say much. He just hit play. Jahmiel’s voice poured into the night, and suddenly, the stars above felt closer, like they were listening too. I sat there—half drunk, half broken—while the songs filled me like scripture: “I Need You,” “Wild Wild West,” “Should I,” “Live Without Limits,” “Success Scary,” and “Strongest Soldiers.”

The Fire We Shared

That last one tore through me. “The strongest soldiers always get the hardest fight.” It was like God whispering to me through Jahmiel, through Aji, through the crackling speaker in the dark. That night, without knowing, Aji gave me something more powerful than a goodbye. He gave me a lifeline. Because the years that followed were my darkest. I lost two people who meant the world to me—within one year. I watched them fade, watched their bodies fight for breath. I held pain in places I didn’t know existed. The kind of loss that changes you forever.

The Fire We Shared

But in the middle of all that, Jahmiel’s songs—those very ones Aji played for me under the open sky, and many more i later discovered—became my anchor. My comfort. My gospel. And that memory... that night... remains one of the most painful and most beautiful gifts I’ve ever received.