Deep cleaning is downright dangerous. One minute you’re tossing out old receipts, and the next you’re staring at photos from a life that feels both impossibly close and impossibly far. Old laptops, mysterious USB sticks, photos from questionable angles — all little time capsules of who you once were. Half embarrassing, half endearing, all proof that you’ve lived.
One such harmless photo pulled me all the way back to 2005. My bank balance had traveled to a place no one should ever go: below zero. The dark side, where overdraft fees sit impatiently waiting, rubbing their greasy little hands together. Funny how when you don’t have money, the banks are the first to charge you more.
But life has a wicked sense of balance. I was broke, yes, but I had just landed my very first engineering job at Solectron. Finally, an aha moment for me — and for my entire family, who had carried quiet doubts about what would become of me. A job at last. A promise that I’d earned it. Proof that I’d be fine. That I was, in fact, going to become the master of my own destiny. And thanks to my dear friend Irete, I wasn’t sleeping on the street. She gave me her couch, unlimited mushroom garlic pasta, and all six seasons of Sex and the City — on cassette, mind you. Pre-Netflix, but “Roo on a couch binge-watching” was already a movement.
Now, let’s clear one thing: I wasn’t a Carrie. I was firmly Team Samantha. Carrie had her shoes and endless relationship drama; Samantha had her power moves and unapologetic charm. But Irete? She worked at Apple in Cupertino, back when owning a MacBook was practically a secret club reserved for employees. She had a style entirely her own — the only woman I’ve ever known who would iron her bedsheets after spreading them on her queen bed. The kind of woman who gifted me an Estée Lauder Pleasures perfume set and taught me the art of spending on myself — spoiling myself. A woman of style, a big heart, and an infectious smile. We’d already built our bond in college — two Nigerian women navigating the world in our own ways — and that connection only deepened as life pushed us into new chapters.
One night we decided to host our first “grown-up” party. Half the room had just graduated, walking with the shiny new confidence of people who believed they’d “made it.” The other half were in their final semester, sipping wine with that smug look of “almost there, almost cool.”
The night blurred quickly — the wine flowed, laughter filled the living room, and the humor was peak early 20s: relentless teasing, inside jokes, the kind of laughter that makes your stomach ache. Then came the moment, tattooed in my memory.
A thump. Loud enough to snap me out of my haze. I squinted, trying to focus, following the sound of unstoppable laughter. And there she was: Irete, toppled off the couch, still clutching her drink like a champion, laughing so hard she couldn’t get up. The party paused, but the laughter didn’t.
That’s all I remember from that night — not the details, not the conversations — just the sound of laughter that wouldn’t end. And maybe that’s the point: overdrafts fade, IKEA furniture breaks, but the laughter sticks.
But let me clarify! The abbreviated term ROFL came later. Irete rolled first.
The best kind of wealth is friends who make you laugh until one of you fall off the couch.
ROOHISM 