Brotha

I lost my mother when I was one year old, and that was something I learned to live with, accept, and sadly, grow used to.

When I was eleven, I met my best friend. The moment I saw him, his face looked so familiar, like I had known him forever.

He broke me out of my shell of being a “whitewashed” kid. We talked about girls, chased them, and even got girlfriends around the same time. He was the first person I could talk to about things we were way too young to be doing or watching. He was the funniest friend I ever had. There was never a time he didn’t make me laugh. He was the best friend I ever had.

But slowly, he started going too far.

He told me he stole from the mall and had to run out. He told me he wrestled another kid for a gun. He started getting into fights. I saw him heading down a path that led nowhere good.

Then my parents told me we were moving. I was heartbroken. I was losing my best friend right when I finally felt happy where I was.

Before I left, we barely talked. After I moved, we played a few Fortnite games, but eventually we stopped keeping in touch.

A couple years later, we followed each other on Instagram and started talking again — this time about spirituality. I wish I could’ve seen him in person and talked about those things, because I was really struggling with depression then.

By our sophomore year of high school, I finally started feeling confident again. I posted a picture, and he jokingly said I was “looking cute.” That made me laugh. I noticed he had joined a gang and was posting guns. I always told him to be safe.

During my junior year, playing football, I tore both shoulders and needed double surgery. I saw him making money and looking like he was doing well. He would always motivate me in football. I told him I’d come see him if I ever got any offers, because I was broke but really wanted to see him again.

Senior year came, and I was looking really good on the field. I was supposed to get Division I offers, but ended up getting none. I felt like I let him down. My team posted that I was going Division III, and I felt disappointed. But he reposted it and said, “I’m so proud brotha,” and that made me feel good.

Later, I got an opportunity to play American football in London. I told him, and he was so proud of me. He had just bought a brand-new Dodge Charger — both of us were finally doing good. I told him, “With all the money you make, you gotta come visit me.”

The school year went by. I focused on myself, smoked a lot, and let the days bleed away.

Then one day, I woke up from another wasted day and saw the news:

someone shot and killed my best friend.

My heart shattered.

The feeling that I would never see him again broke me.

The fact that I could never talk to him again felt unbearable.

The next day, I went to Amsterdam to clear my mind. His mom called me and told me he had passed, not knowing I already heard. I took some truffles, but it was the worst trip of my life — my stomach hurt from anxiety and grief. But somehow, through all that pain, I felt like I understood that he was okay. That his soul was moving to the other side, flowing like a waterfall, ready to be born again. And that I’d see him again someday.

One of his friends texted me and told me he always talked about me.

Hearing that made me love him even more.

I didn’t know he cared about me that deeply.

Now I’ve gotten sober.

I want to succeed for my best friend — to make him proud while he’s watching over me.

I’ll see you on the other side, bro.

I’ll see you again.