Growing up in London, Kwabena and I were best friends.
Yet, in many ways, we were opposites.
Kwabena was a tough-as-nails kid whose thick Jamaican accent dulled his words into blunt instruments which thumped his hearers into a dead-perfect silence.
For only in silence could they try to figure out what he meant when he said things like, ‘Small Up Yuhself’
Kwabena had a tendency to exaggerate, everything.
With him, life was what you made it up to be. I was less theatrical.
So he was the apples to my oranges, the night to my day.
Our differences, however, were the superglue of our friendship.
The first person plural of ‘we’ was us. So the only ‘I’ in our friendship was in our intimacy. But, sadly, this “bromance” was to be sorely tested by a ‘siren’ with no ‘off’ button.
Rachel was the new girl.
On her first day in school, the teacher introduced her to the class and instantly my 12-year-old eyes…