My Friend Stopped Going To Therapy After Our Car Crash — I Involved His Family Against His Wishes
The phone shook in my "good" hand as I pressed the call button. Kemi's voice message from the night before kept looping in my head: "If you bring them into this, John, we are done." I stared at his unopened therapy appointment card on my table in Adabraka, then at my leg brace, then at the missed-call log from his counsellor.
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Source: UGC
Outside his bedsitter in Osu, the evening air smelled of fried kelewele and car fumes. Inside, the curtains stayed drawn as if he wanted to erase the sun. I knocked, then knocked again.
"Kemi, it's me. Open."
No answer.
I pushed the door because he never locked it when I came over. The room reeked of stale sweat and cold rice. His sling lay on the floor as if he had flung it away in anger. A half-filled bucket sat in the corner. He had not bathed. He had not eaten.
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I found him on the mattress, eyes open, staring at nothing.
"Kemi," I said softly. "How many days?"
His lips moved, but no sound came out at first. Then he whispered, "I am not going again."
"Not to physio or counselling?"
"Any of it," he said. His voice sounded dry, like sand on metal. "I'm tired of being pulled open like a wound."
Source: UGC
My ribs tightened with a sharp, familiar ache. I had my own pain, my own exercises, my own fear of never walking properly again. Still, I sat on the edge of his mattress.
"Please," I said. "Talk to me."
He finally turned his face towards mine. "You can't fix this, John."
His eyes slid to my crutch by the wall, then back to me, heavy with warning.
"If you call them," he said, "you will regret it."
My name is John, and I'm in my early thirties. I live alone in a small apartment in Adabraka, close enough to hear trotro mates shouting destinations, close enough to smell waakye in the mornings, but far from anything that feels like home.
My family lives up north, and work keeps me in the city. Weeks can pass where my voice only rises for customer service calls and quick greetings at church. Then Kemi entered my life. He made the city feel less like a waiting room and more like a place I could breathe.
Source: UGC
I met Kemi when we both worked on a small community project in Madina, organising youth sessions and neighbourhood clean-ups. He had this calm, steady laugh that made stressful days lighter. He spoke softly, but he noticed everything. The kid who looked hungry, the woman who stood aside as if she did not belong, and the volunteer who needed encouragement.
Kemi is twenty-eight, brilliant, and stubborn in the way only wounded people can be. He has lived without his family for almost a decade. He rarely mentions the details, but I know enough to understand the shape of it.
There was money involved, and a career choice his family never approved. He refused to follow the path they planned. The argument became distance, and the distance became silence. He built a life with the kind of independence that mimicked strength until you see what it costs.
Source: UGC
So we became each other's anchor. After work, we met for kenkey and pepper, or grabbed jollof from a spot in Osu, or just sat in my room with a football match playing low while we talked about life. When I felt the city closing in on me, Kemi showed up. When he looked like he carried stones in his chest, I listened.
We promised, without ever saying the words, that we would not let each other drown alone.
That promise felt simple until the night the crash tested every part of it.
We took a short weekend trip to Aburi because the city had been heavy with expectation. We walked under trees, ate grilled corn, and sat with chilled drinks. Kemi even smiled properly, the kind that reaches the eyes. On Sunday evening, we drove back to Accra, tired but calm.
The rain started outside Nsawam, suddenly and hard. Headlights blurred. A truck splashed water across our windscreen, and for a moment I saw nothing but white glare.
Source: UGC
"Kemi, slow down," I said.
"I am slow," he replied, but his fingers squeezed the steering wheel.
A car ahead braked sharply. The tyres skidded. The world tilted. Metal screamed. My chest slammed forward, then snapped back, and the seatbelt bit into my ribs. I heard Kemi shout my name, then came that silence that tells you life has changed.
We ended up at 37 Military Hospital after the ambulance and the questions. I broke my leg and fractured ribs. Kemi broke his arm and dislocated his shoulder. The pain came in layers, each day revealing a new corner of suffering.
Recovery tested us differently.
I clung to routine. I prayed. I spoke scripture under my breath when physio made my muscles shake. I told myself God did not bring me this far to leave me halfway. I attended every session, even when I wanted to stay in bed.
Kemi fought the physical pain, but the emotional pain swallowed him. He started strong, attending physiotherapy and meeting a counsellor recommended by the hospital.
Source: UGC
For two weeks, he tried. Then something in him loosened, and he began to cancel.
"Let's go," I said one morning, balancing on my crutches. "Your shoulder needs work. Mine too."
He stared at the wall. "I'll go next time."
"There is always a next time until there isn't," I said.
He flinched. "Don't preach at me."
After that, he skipped meals and stopped answering messages. When I visited, he sat in darkness, phone face down, curtains drawn. Sometimes he lay down fully dressed, as if even removing his shoes required too much hope.
One afternoon, I found him on the floor, back against the bed, his injured arm hanging awkwardly because he refused the sling.
"Kemi, please," I said, lowering myself into a chair, ribs screaming. "Wear it."
He laughed without humour. "So what? Let it heal wrongly. At least then I'll have a reason."
"A reason for what?"
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He looked at me, eyes flat. "To stop trying."
My throat tightened. "Don't say that."
"You want me to talk?" he said, voice rising. "Fine. I see the crash again when I close my eyes. I hear it. I taste metal. I wake up sweating. Then I remember I have nobody. You have church people. You have prayers. You have a God you trust will carry you. Me, I have silence."
"You have me," I insisted.
He shook his head slowly. "You have your own broken body. You can't be my whole world."
Still, I kept pushing. I sent voice notes. I bought food. I sat with Kemi while films played that he did not watch. I rescheduled appointments, begged, joked, reasoned, and prayed.
Nothing changed. Kemi's depression grew teeth and began to bite me, too. I arrived at my own sessions exhausted. My leg ached worse. My ribs tightened. My sleep was fractured.
One night, after I limped home from physio and found twelve missed calls from Kemi, followed by one short text, my hands started shaking.
Source: UGC
"I can't do this," I whispered to my empty room.
Then I cried, not because my bones hurt, but because my strength finally admitted its limit.
The next morning, I visited Kemi and tried a new approach. I stopped pleading. I spoke plainly.
"Kemi," I said, "your pain matters. But I am sinking too."
He sat on the edge of his mattress, eyes hollow. "So you're tired of me."
"I am not tired of you. I am tired of watching you die slowly in front of me while I pretend my own body is not failing."
His jaw tightened. "Nice. Now you blame me."
"I don't blame you," I said, keeping my voice steady. "I blame the crash. I blame the trauma. But I need help. We need help."
He stood up abruptly, then winced as his shoulder protested. "Help from who? That counsellor who keeps asking about my childhood like it is entertainment?"
Source: UGC
"Help from people who can share the weight," I said.
He stared at me, and I knew he understood what I meant before I said it. His face hardened.
"No," he said.
"Kemi, listen."
"No," he repeated, louder. "My family is not help. My family is the reason I learned how to survive alone. Don't ever call them."
"You are not surviving," I whispered.
His eyes flashed. "You think you are better than me because you go to therapy and church and you smile at nurses? Fine. Go and heal. Leave me."
"I can't leave you," I said.
"Yes, you can," he snapped. "You already want to."
That sentence exposed the truth I had tried to hide from myself. A part of me wanted relief. A part of me wanted to focus on my own recovery without carrying someone else's despair. I felt ashamed of that part, but it existed.
Source: UGC
That afternoon, I sat in my room staring at my phone. I had only one contact from Kemi's past, an old number saved years ago when he briefly mentioned an auntie in Tema. I had never called it because Kemi's boundary felt sacred.
But now, the boundary felt like a wall built to keep him trapped in darkness.
I prayed, quietly, asking for wisdom and forgiveness in the same breath. Then I asked myself one brutal question.
If Kemi harms himself or loses his arm because he refuses treatment, will I live with the guilt of doing nothing?
My chest tightened. My hand hovered over the screen.
I pressed call.
When the line connected, my voice came out small.
"Hello, Ma. Please, my name is John. I'm Kemi's friend. Something happened, and he needs help."
They did not respond with warmth, not at first. The silence on the other end felt like judgment.
Source: UGC
Then the woman cleared her throat. "Kemi has not spoken to us in years."
"I know," I said. "But he's not well. We had an accident. He is injured, and he has stopped therapy. He is not eating. He is not coping."
"What do you want from us?" she asked.
"I want him alive," I replied, and my voice cracked on the last word.
Two days later, a small delegation arrived in Accra: an auntie, an older cousin, and a man who introduced himself as Kemi's elder brother. They stood in Kemi's doorway, tense and unsure.
Kemi saw them and froze. Then he saw me behind them, leaning on my crutch. His face twisted.
"John."
"Kemi," I said. "Please, hear me out."
"You did it," he whispered. "You called them."
"I did," I admitted. "Because I couldn't watch you disappear."
He let out a harsh laugh. "So you sold me off to the sharks."
His brother stepped forward. "Kemi, we came because we heard you are hurt."
Source: UGC
Kemi's eyes stayed on me. "You chose yourself," he said. "You wanted peace, so you handed me over." I flinched because a part of that was accurate. I wanted breathing space, but I wanted him held up by more than one wounded friend.
"I chose survival," I said quietly. "For both of us."
He shook his head, tears gathering. "Get out."
I wanted to argue and justify every step. Instead, I nodded and limped away. Forcing my presence would only deepen the wound.
They took him to Tema, where the auntie lived, and arranged follow-up care. Later, I heard they found a therapist and paid for more physiotherapy. Someone could sit with him through the panic nights, not just send voice notes. They had resources I did not.
Still, the cost hit me hard. My phone stayed quiet. Kemi blocked me on every platform. Trust can vanish faster than friendship.
Source: UGC
In the weeks that followed, I focused on my recovery. I attended every appointment, did my exercises, and returned to work slowly. I leaned on my faith, not as a weapon against sadness, but as a rope to pull me forward. I avoided our spot in Osu. In church, my chest ached, not from ribs this time, but from missing him. I whispered his name in prayer anyway.
People talk about friendship as if it were endless patience and loyalty that never bends. In reality, friendship comes with limits, and those limits cut deep when someone you love suffers.
Before the crash, I thought support meant staying no matter what. After the crash, I learned something hard: support also means knowing when you cannot carry a person alone, especially when you are injured too.
I still wrestle with what I did. I broke Kemi's trust. I crossed a line he drew for a reason. I cannot pretend that part does not matter. Betrayal does not become kindness just because the intention sounds noble.
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But I cannot ignore the truth I lived. Kemi's depression began to swallow both of us. I woke up anxious, struggled in my own therapy, and felt myself slipping into a dark place I never expected. If I had continued like that, I might have lost my recovery, my job, and my stability. I might have become another broken body in need of rescue.
So I made a decision that protected me and created a safety net for him, even if that net came from people he feared. I chose a solution that could hold more weight than I could. The consequence was painful, but it was real.
If Kemi ever speaks to me again, I will apologise without excuses for the way my choice hurt him. I will also tell him the honest part. I loved him, but I needed to live. I needed to heal. And I needed him to have more than one person in his corner.
Sometimes the most loving thing you can do is to admit you are not enough.
If you were in my position, with your own body broken and your only friend slipping away, would you protect the bond at all costs, or would you risk the bond to protect a life?
"This story is inspired by the real experiences of our readers. We believe that every story carries a lesson that can bring light to others. To protect everyone's privacy, our editors may change names, locations, and certain details while keeping the heart of the story true. Images are for illustration only. If you'd like to share your own experience, please contact us via email."
Source: YEN.com.gh
