-By Abdul Mahmud
Last week, my phone rang. The voice on the other end was familiar. It was Mike Igini, the former Resident Electoral Commissioner of the Independent National Electoral Commission and my old comrade from the student movement. “Comrade Mahmud, how you dey na?” he asked with a chuckle. His call was brief, yet loaded with memory. After a few pleasantries, he said, “I’ve passed your number to Kennedy. He will call you”. I didn’t ask who this Kennedy was. The name was enough to stir my mind. I instantly thought of my former classmate at Essi College, Warri. Kennedy, the boy with quick wit and a restless mind. I had not seen him since late 1994. That year, I had returned to the High Court of Justice in Warri to challenge the expulsions of student leaders from Delta State University, Abraka. We met by chance, exchanged words, then life again took us in different directions.
The following day, the phone rang again. This time, it was Kennedy. His voice carried across the Atlantic. Ecstasy reborn. We spoke as though the years had collapsed into seconds. We caught up on our boyhood years, old teachers, and forgotten mischiefs. The laughter was genuine, the kind that makes the chest lighter. That call sparked many more. Kennedy reconnected me to other former classmates, some in Nigeria, others scattered abroad. The joy was overwhelming. But grief came too. Some of our friends had gone ahead. Daniel Ifemeni. Emuesiri Osagada. Names once called in classrooms and dormitories, now only spoken in remembrance. May their souls rest in power.
Memory is cruel and kind at the same time. It gives us joy, then leaves us with loss.
While I was still swimming in nostalgia, another surprise came. My former classmate, Akan Akpan, added me to the WhatsApp group of my year group at Lutheran High School, Ikot Ekpene. Another reunion, though virtual. Another rush of excitement. Names I hadn’t heard in decades suddenly lit up my phone screen. Those who departed our earthly shores. “War Party”, who wore his nickname like a warrior on the football pitch. “Tolade”, who was fascinated by the nickname he adopted from the Yoruba nation he had not visited. And the recently diseased Vincent whose remains have not been interred. We greeted each other with emojis, memes and laughter. Stories began to pour in. I realised something simple. Reuniting with the past is both an act of joy and an act of healing. I lived an itinerant life as a boy. My late father’s job as a senior federal government employee meant constant movement. Town to town. School to school. Friendships began and ended in cycles. Every new place was a chance to start again. At the time, I resented the uprooting. But looking back, it gave me a country of memories. Our country became my oyster.
These recent reunions have forced me to reflect. What is it about reconnecting with old friends that touches us so deeply?
First, it is the reminder of who we once were. Life has a way of pushing us into roles that are professional, political, and parental. We wear these masks daily until we forget the raw, unpolished versions of ourselves. Talking to Kennedy and chatting with my former classmates pulled me back to Warri, Ikot Ekpene and to the restless teenager I once was. That boy had dreams, fears, and an unshakable belief in our country and its people. He still lives in me, though buried under adult responsibilities.
Second, reunions remind us of the passage of time. Hearing the names of those who have died struck me deeply. Daniel. Emuesiri. “War Party”. “Tolade”. Vincent. They were once full of energy, running across fields, arguing in classrooms, laughing at jokes. Now they are gone. Death turns classmates into memories. And yet, in remembering them together, we honour them. We keep them alive in the small spaces of our conversations.
Third, reconnecting with old friends is a mirror. We see ourselves reflected in their stories. Some have succeeded. Some have struggled. Some carry scars we never imagined. But, through them, we recognise how far we have come. The boyhood fears and the mischiefs of teen years that have shaped the men and women we are today.
The virtual WhatsApp groups of my Lutheran High School and Essi College classmates have been a revelation. Technology has collapsed distance. Former classmates in Lagos, Abuja, Port Harcourt, Warri, Benin City, Ikot Ekpene, London, and cities in the United States now speak as though they sit in the same room. The groups are alive with memories. “Do you remember this teacher?” one asks. “Who recalls the mischief of the palm plot?” another teases. “Do you remember the cries of the bush baby?” another asks. Each story builds a bridge to the past. But these reunions are not just about nostalgia. They are about grounding. They remind us that we belong to a web of shared experiences. In a society where politics divides and hardship isolates, reconnecting with old friends brings warmth. It restores a sense of the family, one community of shared love and lived experience.
Old friendships are unique. They are not based on power, money, or status. They are rooted in innocence. They were formed before titles mattered, when all we had were chalkboards, football fields, and teenage dreams. That is why they feel pure when we return to them. Yet, there is also a lesson in humility. Reuniting shows us that life is unpredictable. Some of my classmates have achieved success beyond imagination. Others have endured pain, loss, or poverty. In these conversations, there is no competition. We share as equals. We encourage one another. We laugh at our past. We grieve our dead. And in doing so, we recognise the simple gift of life.
I have also realised that reunions are acts of gratitude. Gratitude for friendships that once carried us. Gratitude for memories that still make us smile. Gratitude for survival, for being alive to answer the call of an old friend. As I reflect, I think about the young people of today. Will they, in thirty years, find the same joy in reconnecting? Or has technology changed friendship too much? Our bonds were forged in classrooms, assembly grounds, and on football pitches. Today’s bonds are formed on screens. Time will tell if they endure the same way.
For now, I hold on to these reconnections. They remind me that the past is never truly gone. It waits quietly, until one phone call, one message, one WhatsApp group brings it rushing back. Reuniting with former classmates is more than nostalgia. It is a reminder of who we are, of what we have lost, and of what we still share. It is an act of memory, an act of love, and above all, an act of hope. So, when the phone rings and a familiar voice says, “Comrade, how you dey na?” – answer it. It may carry you back to the boy or girl you once were. And it may remind you that life, despite its trials, still holds spaces of joy reborn. While I wait for that call from a classmate of my primary school years in Benin City, Kwale, Sapele, or Warri, I am reminded that friendship is a river. It may dry in places, it may bend and twist, yet it always seeks a way to flow again. May the bonds of old companions be replenished, not merely by memory, but by love, and love again. For in the quiet return of friendship lies the miracle of time redeemed, and in its renewal, the heart learns once more that nothing of true value is ever truly lost.