Some friendships are like yam, solid, steady, comforting. At least, that’s what I used to think. But even yam has its surprises. One wrong slice and you’ll find a bruise buried deep inside, hidden until the knife reveals it.

He was my friend. At least, I called him that. We talked, laughed, and shared stories over late-night phone calls and lazy weekend meals. He had a way of making the world feel lighter. I trusted him enough to tell him things I didn’t tell anyone else, tiny vulnerabilities tucked between the words like bones in fish.

So when he came to me one afternoon saying he “needed to talk,” I listened. He spoke softly, seriously, as if what he was saying was sacred. And because I believed him, because I had never learned how not to, I revealed something of my own. A truth that had been sitting in the center of my chest for months. I told him how I felt. Not romantically, just honestly. About how much his friendship meant to me. How much I valued him.

He laughed. Not a gentle laugh. Not the kind you share with someone you trust. No—he laughed the way people laugh at a joke they didn’t know they were waiting for.

“It wasn’t real,” he said. All those things he had told me, the confessions that made me feel safe enough to share mine, he made up. A “social experiment,” he called it. “Don’t be so serious,” he added, still smiling.

Something inside me went quiet. He apologized later, of course. They always do. He said he didn’t mean to hurt me, that it was all just playful. That I was “resilient,” the kind of girl who doesn’t break easily. But he didn’t know that even the strongest yam softens when the heat is right.

A week later he stopped by in the morning, unannounced as usual. He said he hadn’t eaten. I told him I was frying yam anyway, he might as well stay. His face lit up, relieved. He always did love my cooking. Said it made him feel cared for. I sliced the yams into thick wedges, letting them sit in salted water before lowering them into the hot oil. They hissed and sizzled, turning golden, crisp at the edges. Honest food. Clean food.

The egg sauce came alive in the pan—onions sizzling, tomatoes melting into themselves, peppers releasing their heat. I folded the eggs into the mixture, just enough for ribbons to form. When I served him, he dug in immediately, humming with contentment as he ate. I didn’t touch my own plate.

“Why aren’t you eating?” he asked, pausing only long enough to raise an eyebrow.

“I’m not hungry,” I said, my voice steady, almost flat.

He laughed again, of course, he did. “You, serious? Abeg, eat jare,” he said, nudging the plate toward me as if that made it better. And once again, I watched him laugh at something he didn’t understand, something he didn’t even try to understand. I used to think he laughed with me. But sitting across from him that morning, watching the easy amusement dancing in his eyes, I began replaying every moment we’d shared. And suddenly I realized how often his laughter had come at my expense, how often I mistook mockery for affection. A pattern I should have noticed sooner.

Still, I smiled politely and told him to enjoy himself. “Eat before it gets cold,” I said. He obeyed, chewing happily, oblivious to the way I studied him—his careless grin, the way he shoveled the food in without pausing long enough to taste anything deeply. He had no idea that some ingredients take time to reveal their true nature, blooming slowly, warming from the inside out until they settle heavily in the body.

He finished his plate and leaned back, satisfied. He said he felt warm. He said it must be the pepper. “Maybe,” I replied. He spoke easily, casually, as if nothing had happened between us. As if words had no weight. As if trust were something to toss aside like an empty shell.

An hour later, he left, full, warm, and certain we were fine… that he was fine. 

I wasn’t surprised when I heard the news a few days later. Someone mentioned he’d taken ill unexpectedly. Nothing dramatic. Just… sudden. He had brushed it off, they said, joking that he was probably just tired. He’d been eating well lately. Too well, he’d laughed. I offered polite concern. I even sent my regards. I’m very considerate like that.

Some friendships crumble loudly, all fire and noise. Ours softened quietly, like yam in hot oil, changing shape, changing purpose, the inside yielding long before anyone notices from the outside.