The Friends You Lose Along the Way

Why Success Can Leave You with Nobody to Celebrate It With

There is something nobody tells you when you are young. You will lose people. Not necessarily because they die. Some will simply disappear from your life. Some will leave because you changed. Others because they changed. Some because success came between you. Some because envy quietly entered a friendship that once knew no jealousy. Others because life became too busy for the things that once mattered. And one day, when you finally arrive at the place you spent half your life trying to reach, you may look around and discover something frightening: The people you wanted to celebrate with are no longer there. That is one of the lessons life teaches too late.

At 20: We Had Almost Nothing — but We Had Each Other

At 20, we did not have much. Sometimes we had barely enough money to buy a meal. We travelled in overcrowded buses, walked long distances and borrowed clothes for important occasions.

But we had something money could not buy. We had each other. A friend could arrive at your house without calling. You could sit under a tree for three hours discussing football, politics, women, school, God and the future. Nobody asked what car you drove. Nobody cared about the size of your house. Nobody demanded that you prove your love with expensive gifts. A young man could fall in love with a young woman without first calculating the value of her handbag, her phone or the car she expected him to drive. And a young woman could love a young man because he made her laugh, respected her and dreamed with her, even if his pockets were almost empty.

Those were the days when love was sometimes measured in time, not money. We shared one bottle of soft drink among friends. We ate from the same bowl. We borrowed one another's shoes. If one person had money, everybody ate. If one person was sick, everybody worried. If one person failed an examination, the others came to console him. We were poor together. But somehow, we were rich in friendship.

C. S. Lewis captured something profound about friendship when he wrote that it begins with the discovery: “What! You too?” --- the wonderful moment when two people realize they share something they thought belonged only to themselves. That was youth. We discovered one another. And we did not yet know how precious that discovery would become.

At 30: Everybody Became Busy
Then came 30. Marriage. Children. Jobs. Bills. Responsibilities. Life suddenly became serious. The same friends who once visited without invitation now needed appointments. “Let me check my schedule.” “I'll call you back.” “Maybe next weekend.” Next weekend became next month. Next month became next year. And before we realized it, we had become strangers who knew one another's childhood stories.

At 30, we were still young enough to be beautiful, handsome, ambitious and hopeful. We were building careers. We were chasing promotions. We were looking for houses. We were falling in love. We were raising children. We were trying to prove that our lives were going somewhere. And somewhere along the way, friendship became another appointment competing for space on a crowded calendar.

The American sociologist Robert Putnam later documented a related social trend in Bowling Alone: declining participation in community life and less frequent interaction with friends, neighbours and family. His argument was not simply that people were becoming busy; it was that the social connections that hold communities together were weakening. Perhaps we are discovering the price. We have never had so many ways to communicate. Yet many of us have never felt so alone.

At 40: Life Begins --- Or So They Say

Then comes 40. “Life begins at 40.” Perhaps. But 40 also begins to reveal the bill for the first half of life. The mirror changes. The hair changes. The waistline changes. The energy changes. A grey hair appears. You pull it out. Another appears. Eventually, you stop fighting them. You have begun to understand that time does not negotiate. At 40, our friends have taken different roads. One became a doctor. Another became a businessman. Another entered politics. Another remained a teacher. Another migrated. Another became wealthy. Another struggled. One divorced. Another lost a child. Someone's marriage survived. Someone else's did not. Some became successful. Some became bitter. Some became humble. Some became strangers. And this is where competition sometimes enters friendship.

You discover that your friend's success can make you uncomfortable. You congratulate him publicly but secretly ask yourself: “Why not me?” Your friend's new house becomes a reminder of your unfinished dream. His new car becomes evidence, in your mind, of your own failure. Her promotion becomes something you celebrate with your lips while your heart quietly asks why your own turn has not come. That is how envy enters. Not always loudly. Sometimes it enters wearing the clothes of friendship. Psychologists have long studied social comparison --- the tendency to evaluate ourselves partly by comparing our lives with those around us.

The danger is that we stop asking: “Am I doing well?” and start asking: “Am I doing better than him?” That is a dangerous question. Because somebody else's success can become our personal failure. And a friend can slowly become a competitor.

At 50: Some Friends Have Become Memories

At 50, something else happens. People begin disappearing. Not from Facebook. From life. Some die. Some lose their parents, brothers, sisters, uncles. People you knew. People who knew you. Some move away. Some become too sick to visit. Some friendships simply expire. There are people whose telephone numbers remain in your phone even though you no longer know where they live. Their names are still there. Their voices are still somewhere inside your memory. Their faces return occasionally when an old song plays. You remember the foolish things you did together. You remember the places you went. You remember the jokes nobody else would understand. And you suddenly realize: Those were not ordinary days. Those were your treasures.

At 50, the children of yesterday begin calling you “Grandpa.” The knees complain. The eyes require stronger glasses. You begin attending more funerals. And you begin to understand the cruelty of time. It does not only take years. It takes people with it.

At 60: The People Who Knew You before You Became Important

Then comes 60. For some, it is a celebration. For others, it is an awakening. You have achieved some of the things you once prayed for. Perhaps you own the house. Perhaps your children have graduated. Perhaps your name is known. Perhaps people now stand when you enter the room. People call you: “Sir.” “Alhaji”. “Chairman.” “Honourable.” “Doctor.” “Chief.” “Boss.” But there is a strange irony about importance. The more important you become to the world, the fewer people may remain who can treat you as an ordinary human being.

The young man who once borrowed your shirt may now be afraid to call you. The friend who used to enter your room without knocking may now wait outside until someone announces him. And some of the people who knew you before the money, before the title, before the house and before the respect are gone. That is when you discover the difference between being known and being recognized. Thousands may recognize your name. Very few know your heart.

And Then One Night... Imagine an old man sitting alone in a beautiful house. The house has everything. Beautiful furniture. A large television. A refrigerator full of food and different beverages. Photographs on the walls. Awards in glass frames. A smartphone. Five thousand Facebook friends. Ten thousand followers. Messages arriving every few minutes. “Happy birthday, Sir.” “Congratulations, Boss.” “Good morning, Chairman.” But at 2 a.m., he feels a pain in his chest. He reaches for his telephone. He scrolls through his contacts. One name. Then another. Then another. And suddenly he realizes that he cannot call most of them. Some are too distant. Some are too busy. Some are no longer alive. Some became strangers years ago. And the terrible question comes: “Who can I call at 2 a.m.?”

That is when five thousand Facebook friends can feel like nobody. Social media can give us the appearance of connection without necessarily giving us the intimacy of friendship. A “like” is not the same as a hand on your shoulder. A comment is not the same as somebody sitting beside your hospital bed. A follower is not necessarily a friend. A contact is not necessarily a relationship. We have learned how to count friends without learning how to keep them.

Be Careful Whom You Step On
There is an old saying: “Be careful whom you step on while climbing the ladder. You may need their hand when you come down.” It is more than a warning about success. It is a warning about humanity. You may be the boss today. Your driver may be the person you never greet. The cleaner may be someone you consider invisible. The junior worker may be somebody whose opinion you dismiss. The old schoolmate may be somebody you are now too important to answer. But life has a strange way of turning the wheel. The person you ignored today may become the person you need tomorrow. And the person you humiliated may be the one who remembers you kindly when you need kindness most.

Success is not wrong. Ambition is not wrong. Wanting a better life is not wrong. Building a beautiful house is not wrong. Making money is not wrong. The mistake is believing that these things are substitutes for people. They are not.

The Tragedy of Winning Alone
There is a particular kind of loneliness that comes with success. It is the loneliness of having everything except someone with whom to share it. You finally buy the house you dreamed about. But the friend who dreamed about it with you is gone. You finally travel to the country you talked about at 25. But the person who promised to go with you has died. Your child graduates. You want to call your old friend who helped you survive your own difficult years. Then you remember. He is no longer there. And suddenly the achievement tastes different.

This is why the old African wisdom that a person becomes a person through other people remains so powerful. We do not become fully human alone. Our stories are made from other people's fingerprints. Some people helped us when nobody knew our names. Some believed in us when we doubted ourselves. Some shared their last meal with us. Some lent us money they could barely afford to lose. Some sat beside us when we cried. Some loved us before we became successful. Never forget those people.

To The Young: Don't Trade Friendship for Success

Young man. Young woman. Go ahead. Study. Work. Build. Dream. Make money. Buy the house. Start the business. Travel the world. Become successful. But while climbing, do not destroy the people who loved you when you had nothing.

Call your old friend. Visit your former classmate. Check on the uncle who helped you. Remember the neighbour who fed you when your parents could not. Remember the teacher who believed in you. Remember the girl who loved you before you had a car. Remember the boy who walked beside you when you were both carrying empty pockets. And if you become rich, do not become so rich that your friends become afraid of you. If you become powerful, do not become so powerful that nobody can tell you the truth. If you become important, do not become so important that you forget the people who knew you when you were nobody.

There is an old saying often associated with Maya Angelou: people may forget what you said or did, but remember how you made them feel. The exact attribution is disputed, but the wisdom behind it is worth preserving. So ask yourself: How do people feel when they leave your presence? Important? Respected? Loved? Or small? Because one day, your achievements will be reduced to memories. But the way you treated people may be the story they tell about you.

And To Those Who Are Already Old...

Perhaps you are reading this with a little sadness. Maybe you have already lost people. Maybe there is someone whose telephone number you still cannot bring yourself to delete. Maybe you still hear the laughter of an old friend in your mind. Maybe there is somebody you quarreled with years ago and never reconciled. If they are still alive, perhaps it is not too late. Make the call. Send the message. Say: “My friend, I miss you.”

Do not wait for a funeral to discover that pride was a foolish price to pay for friendship. Do not wait until the hospital bed to ask for forgiveness. Do not wait until the cemetery to say what you should have said while the person was alive. Because relationships are not renewable resources. Some people come into our lives only once. And when they leave, no amount of money can buy them back.

The Final Lesson
Perhaps the greatest lesson life teaches too late is this: You do not need thousands of people. You need a few people who know the real you. People who remember you before the grey hair. Before the money. Before the title. Before the house. Before the photographs. Before the applause. People who can walk into your room without an appointment. People who can tell you, “My friend, you are wrong.” People who will sit beside your hospital bed without asking what they will gain. People who will answer the telephone at 2 a.m. Those people are worth more than a thousand followers. So, young person, as you climb the ladder of life, look behind you occasionally. Do not climb so fast that you leave everybody behind. And when you reach the top, do not discover that there is nobody there to celebrate with you. Because the saddest thing is not to fail in life. The saddest thing may be to succeed --- and have nobody left who remembers the person you were before you succeeded.

One day, when the house is quiet and the night is long, you may look at an old photograph and whisper: “Those were the days.” And perhaps you will finally understand. They were not the days because you had money. They were the days because you had each other. And you did not know then --- that you were already rich.

FUSEINI ABDULAI BRAIMAH
+233208282575 / +233550558008
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