Have you ever met someone who walks into your life quietly but leaves an impact so profound that you can’t believe you got along without them before? That’s the power of a true friend—the kind of friend who doesn’t just sit with you through your highs and lows but also insists you question the very way you see the world. For me, that friend was Aisha. And although we met in the most unassuming of ways, she reshaped my life in ways I didn’t realize I needed—as friends like her often do.

The Day I Became An Unintentional Taxi Driver

I first met Aisha on an unremarkable Tuesday afternoon in Abuja. I was running late—Nigerian time late—to a volunteer meeting I clearly wasn’t in the mood for. As my rickety old sedan groaned to a stop outside the community center, a poised woman with long braids tapped on the passenger window and asked if I could give her a lift home after the session. I barely knew her, but helpless to say no, I muttered, “Sure,” and inwardly vowed to fake a work call to avoid any awkward silences.

Fast-forward an hour, and it was me awkwardly clutching my sides because I was laughing so hard. Aisha had managed to analyze the chaotic meeting entirely through movie references. “That one guy? Total Thanos energy—snapping his fingers and expecting miracles like we’re in Infinity War!” It was ridiculous, but it broke the ice in a way only she could. She had a knack for making the most mundane scenarios feel like inside jokes only we shared. By the time I dropped her off, I forgot I was even grumpy—and that’s saying a lot.

Lessons (and Tough Love) in Vulnerability

Aisha became my person in no time. She was witty, warm, and endlessly curious—a self-proclaimed “optimistic realist” who seemed to float effortlessly between lived experience and the larger-than-life aspirations we dared to share with each other. But above all, Aisha had a gift for holding up acts of vulnerability as things to be embraced—not avoided.

I’d always prided myself on being independent, strong, and—let’s face it—too stubborn to ask for help. Growing up in a Nigerian household, “toughen up” was the unofficial family motto. Even on my loneliest days in London as a Master’s student—or when my relationships crashed spectacularly—baring my heart felt like a weakness.

But not for Aisha. She could talk about her failures with the same dazzling confidence as her successes, carrying emotional honesty like it was light luggage and not the eternal overstuffed carry-on I made it out to be. “It’s like jollof rice,” she once told me during one of our late-night phone calls. “The smoky taste only comes when there’s fire—you just have to survive the ‘burn.’” That quote lives rent-free in my mind every time I process anything challenging in my life.

Even with my steady stream of excuses, she refused to let me mask my feelings. “Harriet, you survived Abuja’s traffic without tears last week. You clearly have the emotional range. Use it.” Aisha had this way of delivering hard truths with humor and genuine kindness that made it impossible to wallow for too long.

The Art of Boundary Setting (Aisha Style)

One of the most transformative lessons Aisha taught me was arguably simple but ridiculously hard: learning to set boundaries, especially in relationships. She always had this commanding air that shouted, “I love you, but I love me more.” Whether dealing with intrusive aunties asking why she wasn’t yet married or overbearing men whose jokes aged like unrefrigerated milk, Aisha’s response was respectfully firm: “I owe you my kindness, not my peace.”

Let me tell you—it sounded so bold that I started practicing in front of my mirror. She would remind me that boundaries weren’t walls but doors with locks. You choose when—and to whom—you want to open them. Aisha’s clarity in relationships challenged my people-pleasing tendencies, helping me notice when I gave too much of myself and got too little in return.

When I finally walked away from yet another romance riddled with red flags (“He doesn’t like Burna Boy? Girl, what are you doing?!”), Aisha celebrated it like I’d graduated magna cum laude from the school of self-respect. “Freedom feels good, doesn’t it?” she laughed over our post-breakup pepper soup. And you know what? It did.

Finding Joy in the Small Things

One of the most surprising gifts of Aisha’s friendship was her ability to savor life’s simplest moments. Saturday mornings weren’t for Instagram-filtered brunches at some overpriced café; they were for ogi and akara in her kitchen while blasting Fela Kuti and debating which of us had the better jollof recipe (mine, obviously). She had a way of slowing time in a world that demanded you rush. And for someone like me—always moving, chasing, achieving—that was revolutionary.

Aisha showed me that joy isn’t always bold and loud. It’s sitting in your car, crying with laughter because your friend just reenacted an entire Nollywood scene to cheer you up. It’s rediscovering how good puff-puff tastes when shared after a long day. It’s dancing barefoot in your living room because who cares and why not?

A Real Friend, A Forever Lesson

Now, don’t get me wrong—Aisha isn’t a superhuman. She’s messy, she’s late way too often (pot calling kettle black, I know), and she’s probably wrong about pineapple belonging on pizza. But the beauty of a friend like her isn’t that they’re perfect. It’s that they reflect back to you the version of yourself you forgot existed: brave, vulnerable, and endlessly capable of joy.

If there’s one takeaway from my friendship with Aisha, it’s this: real connection—whether it’s with a friend or romantic partner—always involves a bit of fire. It should challenge you, teach you, and make you laugh so hard you forget why you were mad at yourself in the first place. The people who change our lives don’t roll out grand speeches; they meet us in the chaos, teach us it’s survivable, and stay through the burn.

So, here’s to the Aishas of the world—the friends who quietly walk beside you but leave footprints on your path you’ll never forget. And if you don’t have one yet? Trust me, one day, they’ll show up—maybe in the form of an unintentional taxi ride, an awkward laugh, or a platter of akara.

Don’t forget to cherish them when they do.