My Best Friend

What makes your best friend your best friend?

Recently, I realize all my pieces have either been plain depressing shit or the complicated things people like to overlook. So, I'd like to talk about something simple for a change.

Some lady on TikTok who claimed she's a literature graduate from Oxford (there was no proof of that, by the way) proposed a writing exercise — focus on a single, simple thing and write on it.

So I'll be writing about my best friend today.

My phone.

And just in case you're wondering, no, it's not an iPhone. I honestly wish it was, but it's not — boy, am I broke! It's an Infinix, and not the new models with those back cameras the size of a gas burner, it's an Infinix Hot 8i. That might be equivalent to Windows 2000 or XP.

Okay, I exaggerate, but you get the gist.

Hmmm, how does one even describe their best friend?

I guess it'll be safe to start with looks.

The screen had a long, diagonal crack that slightly distorts texts that run under it. The power button is burned out — too much pressure from my thumb, maybe. The volume buttons too — both of them. The fingerprint sensor is in good health though. There's also an intelligent feature called “Double-tap to wake or close screen”. I wouldn't really call it intelligent though, the wake part hardly ever works.

Oh, and it's blue.

My mum bought it for me September 24th, 2021, a month after the hand-me-down Samsung my aunt had given me gave up the ghost. Literally. It just refused to wake up, and after that were 30 gruesome days of staring at the off-white ceiling and squinting at the fan like it'd fall any second.

Nothing in the world can replicate that feeling of the first phone set-up. Well, first because the phone caught a virus some months ago, and I had to restore the default settings — basically restart it.

I used to like to think that the phone was a girl, even though it was clearly blue. It just had a lot of attitude: it'd just ‘hang’ and refuse to cooperate. But then, my friend gifted me a 32GB SD card and it hasn't hung ever since, so I don't know, it might be a boy after all.

So, what actually makes my phone my best friend?

Well, for one, it's the first thing I meet in the morning, and the last thing I leave the next morning. Yeah, I know, my sleep schedule is fucked, but I'm not complaining. Also, I should add that sometimes I check up on it once or twice during my 4-hour sleep.

Another reason why my phone is my best friend is that it is my primary source of comfort. Shit could be hitting the roof, and all hell might be breaking loose, but with my phone in my hand, I almost won't worry. Almost.

The first time I got a carryover, I didn't cry. I watched the third season of Bridgerton instead. For the following weeks, I didn't think about that ugly letter that had ruined my three years of hardwork and midnight readings.

I cried the second time though.

Hmmm, what else?

Yeah, my phone knows me. Like really knows me — the real me. The parts that I'm proud of but too scared to show the people who think they know me, and the parts I'm not proud of and try to hide from. Somehow they all eventually end up on it — Google search, ChatGPT, Notepad, somehow. My phone knows how “un-tenacious” I really am and my constant need for affirmation. It knows I'm the most optimistic pessimist — always watching out for the worst case scenario. It definitely knows I'm a terrible procrastinator. Why else should there be four set alarms with 10-minute intervals for the same event? I'm probably forgetting a lot more, but my phone wouldn't.

So tell me, why won't I love it?

My phone has seen the start and end of many relationships and friendships (actually just two or three relationships), and it'll see the start and end of many more. But guess who's never left? Well, except that one time my little sister let it hit the floor, shattering the poor screen on impact. Those two phone-less days were the fucking worst. Imagine visiting hell after a trip to heaven!

I know I've already said a lot of wonderful things about my best friend, but the dearest one to me is the fact that it never calls my name. Never sends me on errands, never asks to talk to me, never sneers when I make impossible plans. It's just … there — being a phone.

I've seen those videos of the Methaphone, and I'd like to assure you that I don't need it. I'm not addicted. Maybe if data wasn't so expensive in Nigeria, I would be. But it is, so I'm not, and for that, I thank God.

I've honestly enjoyed this writing exercise, but I think I'll stick to my sentimental nonsense next time.