I Sacrificed Sleep, Work, and Energy for My Friend – When I Blocked Her, She Got a Job in 48 Hours
I slammed the brakes so hard. The car swerved, tyres screeching against the asphalt, because Nneka was standing directly in the middle of the road, crying, shaking, daring me to hit her if I was really “done with her.”
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The headlights carved her into a wild, ghostly silhouette, her hair whipping around her face like she’d stepped out of someone else’s nightmare, not mine.
She jabbed a trembling finger at me and shouted, “If you drive away, Adaeze, we’re finished.”
“Nneka, move, I don't want to cause a scene,” I said in a sharp tone.
My pulse pounded so violently I thought I’d pass out behind the wheel. Cars honked, people stared, but all I saw was Nneka’s twisted, desperate expression. The air around us vibrated with heat and exhaust, thick enough to taste, as if the whole world was holding its breath.
“Move, Nneka!” I yelled, but she stepped closer, pressing her palms against my bonnet like she needed me to feel her rage, her terror, her grip on me. Adaeze, don’t you dare leave!” she shouted.
“You’re scaring me. Move out of the way,” I said, my voice trembling. “You should be scared of losing me!” I looked at her and nodded in disbelief.
“I’m not losing you,” I whispered. “I’m freeing myself.”
In that frozen, breathless moment, I finally understood this wasn’t friendship anymore—it was captivity dressed as loyalty. How had I survived something so suffocating for this long?
Nneka and I met in our early twenties, two exhausted interns arguing over the last cup of terrible office coffee. We laughed at the same time. Something clicked instantly: simple, natural, familiar.
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Nneka became my closest friend faster than I expected. We survived long nights, whispering jokes between spreadsheets.
One night, she made a joke.
“Adaeze, you’re the only one who keeps me sane, which is worrying, because you’re not exactly stable yourself.”
“Then we are both in trouble,” I responded. We burst out laughing.
Nneka became a major part of my life. I was always there for her through many crises. She was the sister I never had, and I was so grateful we met.
I remember her first breakup. She crashed on my couch for a week.
“Adaeze, why would he do that to me?” She asked while crying as I hugged her.
I made her favourite noodles, and we watched movies. She cried until her eyes were swollen, and I held the silence for her.
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Another time, she had a health scare. She called me before her own mother. “Adaeze… please come,” she whispered. I rushed to her house and stayed by her side in a private hospital, praying she’d recover quickly.
“I don’t want to die, Adaeze,” she whispered, staring at me from the hospital bed with those dramatic, puppy eyes she always used when she wanted sympathy.
“You won’t die, Nneka,” I said, pulling my chair closer. “Not until you pay back the debt you owe me.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Which debt?”
“The emotional one. I’ve always been there for you.”
She let out a weak laugh. “Please, you are my friend. At least that gives your life purpose.”
“Careful,” I said, handing her the fruit bowl. “If you annoy me, I'm taking my fruit bowl”
She gasped. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me,” I said.
We both burst into laughter, and she slowly sat up, taking a bite of the fruits I’d bought her.
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“You know,” she said with her mouth full, “if this is my last meal, at least it tastes good.”
“Relax,” I rolled my eyes. “The only thing dying here is your sense of drama.”
We laughed.
Over the years, I became her emergency contact, her therapist, and her safe place. I almost forgot myself. Every crisis led her to my door, and I never hesitated.
Meanwhile, my life slowly stabilised. I got a steady job and a small flat. I finally had the peaceful routines I’d waited years for.
Nneka remained chaotic, floating between jobs, living in emotional storms. No matter how unstable things got, I always came running when she said she needed a comforting hug, even when I was busy dealing with work projects.
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Then came a point I felt the imbalance. Every time I chose myself, guilt gnawed at me. I felt responsible for her happiness in a way that terrified me.
Could it be because I’d never had a friend due to my introverted nature? Is that why I felt responsible for her? These are questions that kept lingering in my mind.
Despite the exhaustion, I stayed because loyalty felt like love. History felt like an obligation. She was my only friend. I kept trying to understand and accept her.
But deep down, I knew our friendship survived because of me. I was the one pouring into it, and the imbalance was quietly draining my joy, identity, and energy.
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Nneka lost her job, and everything unravelled that week. My phone rang the moment she stepped out of the building.
I picked it up, and her voice trembled, “Adaeze… they fired me. Just like that.”
My chest tightened. “I’m coming, Nneka.”
So, I went and picked her up and brought her to my place to comfort her like I always did. I felt sorry for her because I could imagine how she felt losing a job, and bills don’t wait for one to find a new job.
“I'm sorry, Nneka, you didn't deserve that,” I said to her while leaning towards her as she lay on the couch.
What should have been one bad day stretched into weeks. Nneka barely went home. My couch became her second bed. At first, I nurtured her through it, but the demands escalated quickly.
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One afternoon, she asked me, “Adaeze, can you drive me to the supermarket? I can’t be alone today.” I had work and reports due. A manager was watching me closely. But what could I have done? My friend needed me. I grabbed my keys anyway.
When I hesitated, even for a second, she frowned.
“So, you’re abandoning me now? When I’m literally falling apart?” She said, trying to make me feel guilty that I was abandoning her.
“Why would you say that, Nneka? I hate when you sound as if you are questioning my friendship.” I felt guilty and swallowed my exhaustion and drove.
Every night, she’d cry on the phone. “Adaeze, my life is over. I don’t know what to do.”
I offered solutions such as CV updates, job applications, and temp work, but she waved everything away. “I just… can’t right now. Just listen.”
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Our calls stretched past midnight. I would wake up dazed and drag myself through work. I realised that each time I tried to share my stress, she sighed out loud. “Adaeze, seriously… can we not make this about you?”
She insisted we hang out daily.
“Can we hang out today? It keeps my mind from spiralling,” she said.
“It’s okay, Nneka, anything for you.”
“Where do you want us to go?”
“We can go to any eatery; you know the best ones,” she said, smiling because she knew how I treated her when we went out.
Sometimes I felt tired from work. If I tried to reclaim a day to myself, she sulked. “You’ve changed. Ever since you got your life together, you act different.”
I was drowning in resentment. My life was slipping away under the weight of hers.
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One night, she called at midnight, sobbing about a text from her ex. I left my warm bed, drove across town, and held her as she spiralled. I got home at 4 a.m. Due to that, I overslept and missed a crucial work meeting.
“Adaeze, this isn’t sustainable,” my manager’s voice was sharp. Shame wrapped around me. That was my first time coming to work late. That happened because I could not abandon my friend who needed me.
That evening, Nneka texted:
“Can you pick me up in an hour? I need fresh air.”
“I can’t. I need rest,” I replied, my fingers shaking.
She responded to me instantly, “You’re selfish. After everything I’ve been through?”
I read that text and stared at it for a while, not knowing what to say to her. For the first time, I put my phone down and didn’t look back.
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Two days later, Nneka stormed into my flat without knocking. “Adaeze, what is going on with you?” I kept my voice steady. “Nneka, I can’t be your only support. It’s hurting me.”
She scoffed. “You’re being dramatic. Friends show up.”
“Yes, but not like this,” I said while not looking her in the eyes because I felt like no matter what I did for her, she never appreciated me.
She sat on my couch with tears trembling in her eyes, not the soft kind but the heavy, deliberate ones meant to corner me into guilt.
The room felt thick, the air turning damp and metallic, like the moment before a storm. Time slowed just a little
“No, Adaeze! You’ve changed. Success changed you. Now you think you’re better than me.”
Something inside me stilled. Not anger but realisation. Nneka did not want to get better. She wanted me to stay beneath her need.
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When I set a clear boundary that I could not drive her around anymore or be her emotional crutch, she erupted, “You’re abandoning me like everyone else!” I completely ran out of words.
The real betrayal came the next day, a day we had planned to go out. A mutual friend texted me saying, “Wow… you really dropped Nneka at her lowest? That’s cold, Adaeze.”
My heart sank. I sat on the couch, trying to process what she meant. Even the quiet hum of the fridge felt harsh, scraping at my skin as the light in the room dimmed around me.
Nneka had been telling people I “left her to suffer,” twisting everything into a story where I was the villain.
Every sacrifice, the sleepless nights, and every moment I placed her needs above my own were erased. That lie was the final break in a bridge already crumbling. I was done.
There was no more putting someone else first. I didn’t answer her calls after that. Not the angry ones, the manipulative ones, or the ones dripping with guilt. I was finally free.
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I later understood that Nneka did not want a friend. She wanted a lifeline she could yank whenever life got inconvenient. And that was me. I finally let go.
I cut her off and blocked her because that was not the kind of friend I needed. I didn’t want any communication with her at all. The silence that followed was strange at first.
There were no frantic calls. No emergencies disguised as friendship. Just a quiet life. Maybe that was what I needed after all.
Slowly, I felt liberated. I slept without interruptions, ate without tension, and finally breathed fully. There came a point when I told myself I might never need a friend again after what I experienced with Nneka.
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One day, a mutual friend mentioned to me that Nneka was struggling, using keke everywhere she went, stretching small savings, and asking around for help. My chest ached, but I stayed firm. I had done enough.
I heard she’d taken a job at a cleaning agency. I smiled. Cleaning wasn’t her dream, but it was honest work. Her first independent step in years. That was what I wanted for her. That evening, I unblocked her.
Then one soft evening, her name lit up my phone. She sent a simple message: “Adaeze… I’m sorry. I leaned too hard. I wasn’t fair to you.”
We agreed to meet at a café. Nneka looked smaller, humbled. The faint clatter of cups and the warm smell of roasted coffee wrapped around us, slowing the moment, making her apology feel heavier than her words. She took a deep breath.
“I blamed you for problems I didn’t want to fix. And I talked behind your back. I’m ashamed.”
I nodded slowly.
“I cared about you, Nneka. But I was losing myself.”
Tears welled in her eyes.
“I know. If we ever rebuild this… it has to be different. I can’t lose a friend like you.”
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I wanted her to be my friend again despite everything. So we set clear boundaries: we would be honest with each other, give each other personal space, and make sure there was balance in our friendship.
When we stood to leave, the cool evening air brushed my arms, a gentle reminder of how fragile fresh starts can be.
Our goodbye hug was careful, fragile, but hopeful in a way I never expected. I hoped she had changed and would finally show me the version of a friend I had always wished for: the caring, honest, and genuine one.
For the first time in years, it felt like two women meeting on solid ground. Not one propping the other up until she collapsed.
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When I look back, the hardest part wasn’t letting go of Nneka. It was letting go of the version of myself who thought love meant limitless sacrifice.
I believed loyalty was measured in exhaustion. That I had to shrink so others could breathe. That being a “good friend” meant never saying no.
Real friendship isn’t built on imbalance. It doesn’t demand your sleep, your peace, or your identity. It doesn’t guilt you into bondage. And it should not feel suffocating.
You cannot save someone who enjoys being saved more than they enjoy growing. And you cannot keep setting yourself on fire to keep someone else warm.
Nneka and I may rebuild something someday. Or maybe we won’t. Either way, I choose to move forward without guilt. Because some relationships survive only when one person stays silent about their pain, and silence is the cost I refuse to pay again.
So, I ask myself and anyone reading this: How many friendships in our lives would fall apart instantly if we finally said, “This is hurting me, and I can’t keep doing it”?
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.
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