The Friend Who Changed My Life

It all started with jollof rice—and a debate so fiery, it could’ve set off Brooklyn’s entire fire escape system. I was 16, fresh off a summer trip to Lagos, and brimming with pride about the superiority of Nigerian jollof when I met Sam. Well, met isn’t the right word. More like collided. Sam, a Ghanian-American kid I only knew vaguely from the neighborhood basketball court, overheard me waxing poetic about my mom’s legendary Sunday pot of jollof—and he wasn’t having it. “Nigerian jollof?” he said, eyebrows raised like I’d just confessed to rooting for Thanos. “You mean rice with trust issues?”

The room erupted in laughter. I was halfway between annoyed and impressed. I don’t remember exactly what I fired back with—probably something deeply unoriginal like, “What do you even know about spices?”—but I do remember this: Sam and I left that argument begrudgingly intrigued by each other. Neither of us knew, then, how life-changing that collision would be.

When Friendship Pushes You Out of Your Comfort Zone

Before Sam came into my life, I prided myself on being... careful. Other kids might’ve sneaked into late-night parties or skipped a class here and there, but not me. No, sir. I was the dutiful oldest child of immigrant parents, groomed for a life of responsibility. You know the type: good grades, guilt-packed work ethic, and an unhealthy fear of disappointing people—sometimes to the point of not trying new things at all.

Sam didn’t believe in comfort zones. He approached life—and people—with a magnetism that turned small moments into grand adventures. The first time he suggested we hop on the train to Coney Island to try funnel cake, I flat-out refused. “For what?” I asked, skeptical. “To eat fried dough and freeze to death by the beach?”

“Bro,” he replied, with a look that suggested I’d just asked if Beyoncé was overrated, “you’re way too serious. Come. Live a little.”

And somehow—miraculously—I did. That day, my cautious mind realized something crucial: Sam didn’t just invite me to try new things; with him, trying was a requirement.

Over time, Sam became the kind of friend who would nudge me to submit short stories to mediocre contests, roast me (lightly) for never wearing colors other than black, and eventually, convince me to apply for an overseas study program in London my junior year of college. "Your life’s been written in one font, Malik,” he said once, mid-discussion about courage. “Switch it up. Try italics—hell, even Comic Sans.”

It was easy to laugh him off in the moment, but the truth? Sam saw a version of me I wasn’t brave enough to imagine yet.

The Love Lessons I Didn’t Know I Needed

Here’s the funny part about a truly remarkable friend: they teach you about more than just friendship. They sneak life lessons into every interaction, whether you realize it or not. For me, much of that came down to relationships.

Sam had this easy, unbothered confidence with people that I envied. He was the guy who could strike up a conversation with a stranger and walk away ten minutes later with an invitation to their next barbecue. Meanwhile, I was the brooding novel-reader in the corner, wondering what human flaw could prompt someone to describe “The Hobbit” as boring.

But Sam’s secret was disarmingly simple: instead of performing charm or perfection, he chose to be relentlessly himself. Once, on a Saturday afternoon at Prospect Park, he gave me this unforgettable piece of advice while watching a girl walk in our direction: “Stop thinking about how smooth or interesting you sound. Just lean in. People respond to honesty more than effort.”

Did I use it right away? No. You don’t unlearn years of awkward head-nods and rehearsed lines overnight. But over time, I started taking these baby steps toward sincerity. Whether it was confessing my nerves on a first date or owning up to liking 90s boy bands (yes, even *NSYNC—don’t judge me), I found that the relationships I built through honesty were sturdier—and way more meaningful.

The Day My Friend Gave Me Back to Myself

It’s impossible to talk about Sam without mentioning the heartbreak. Our friendship lasted about a decade before I lost him to a car accident. The phone call came out of nowhere, like a fist through glass. I was 25. He was gone.

Grief is messy and selfish, isn’t it? For weeks after the funeral, I tortured myself wondering if I’d made our last conversation count. (For the record, it was about plantains—he insisted they should always be fried, and I still disagree.) But eventually, once the tidal wave of sadness subsided, what lingered was this: even in his absence, Sam continued to push me forward.

He wasn’t just my friend; he’d become my inner compass. On the nights I doubted my writing or feared stepping into spaces where I didn’t automatically belong, I could almost hear his infectious laughter or feel his patient encouragement: “Malik, are you going to write safe forever? Or are you going to write something that matters?”

So, I chose to write what mattered. I chose courage—not perfectly, not every day, but more often than I did before him. And I think, more than the debates and the adventures and the jollof wars, that’s the biggest way Sam changed me: he rewired the way I see myself, my potential, and my ability to turn fear into fuel.

How To Honor The "Sams" In Your Life

Chances are, if you’re reading this, you also have—or had—someone like Sam in your life. Maybe they’re a childhood bestie who taught you the art of sarcasm, or maybe it’s an old roommate who made you believe in your voice. Whoever it is, here’s my loving advice for you:
- Be Present: The people who shape us are here for a season, a moment, or, if we’re lucky, a lifetime. Be present for the ones shaping you now. - Share the Credits: Don’t be afraid to credit the people who’ve impacted your growth. Shout them out! Build a playlist, draft a sappy thank-you text—whatever it takes. - Carry Their Lessons Forward: Great friendships don’t end; they ripple. Let their wisdom push you to take risks, show up authentically, and craft newer, deeper connections.

A Final Word

If Sam were here, he’d probably roll his eyes at how soft this article turned out. (“Bro, are you trying to make people cry?”) But here’s what I think he’d secretly appreciate: You don’t have to know someone forever for them to leave an eternal mark. Sometimes, all it takes is one friend who believes in you before you learn to believe in yourself.

So here’s to Sam—and here’s to whoever your “Sam” is. May we cherish them, honor their lessons, and live a little braver every day because of them.