They say the fastest way to die is by living in absolute distress — a world shaped to deprive one of itself, yet rotting in wails of sorrow. But I say peace was never a gift until we die.
The pain of watching your loved ones pass is a grief no man escapes. Frankly, we all must die someday, yet none of us know when.
All hands are not equal; that is why life gives us time — to play by our rules, to shape our own future. Such was the case of the Ibrahim family.
Diallo Ibrahim grew up in Yeti's town, a boy born into hardship. His parents were poor, so poor that three square meals a day was a luxury they could not afford. Yet, in their poverty, they preserved one treasure for their son: education.
His father, Ibrahim, had once been a police officer. But he lost his job after refusing to bend to corruption. With no pension, no savings, and no favors to call upon, he became a farmer — a man who traded his badge for a hoe. Many mocked him, saying he was a fool for throwing away power and comfort. But Ibrahim always answered in one line: "Honesty is the seed of every true reward." The Ibrahim family lived on the edge of survival. Their mud house leaked whenever rain fell, their lamp went out often for lack of kerosene, and their farm sometimes yielded less than the seeds they had sown. Yet Ibrahim would rise before the sun, tilling the ground with worn hands, his police cap resting on a rock nearby — the only relic of his former life.
"Papa," young Diallo would ask, "why did you stop being a policeman?"
Ibrahim would smile faintly, brushing the dust from his brow.
"Because some things are worth more than bread, my son. A man may lose his job, his land, even his name, but if he loses his honesty… he loses everything."
Diallo would nod, though he barely understood. But Mariam, his mother, would shake her head at those words. In her silence was both love and resentment.
At night, when the house grew quiet, she would whisper, "Your honesty does not fill my child's stomach, Ibrahim."
And Ibrahim, staring into the darkness, would reply, "Perhaps not today. But it will fill his soul tomorrow."
Fate, however, had a cruel way of testing men. For Ibrahim, tomorrow was shorter than he imagined. The Ibrahim household carried on like this, caught between the pride of Ibrahim's ideals and the bitterness of Mariam's unspoken hunger. Diallo, barely twelve at the time, watched everything. He watched his father's back bent under the sun, his hands rough with calluses. He watched his mother's eyes, shadowed with worry, as she cut half-ripe plantains into thin slices to stretch a meal.
The neighbors often whispered. Some called Ibrahim "the stubborn one," others laughed that his honesty was the foolish kind that left children barefoot and bellies empty. But Ibrahim never flinched.
One evening, as thunder rolled over Yeti's town, three men arrived at the Ibrahim home. They wore police uniforms — creased, sharp, smelling of tobacco and power. One of them, Inspector Garba, had once been Ibrahim's colleague.
"Ah, Ibrahim," Garba said with a grin that didn't touch his eyes. "Still living like this? A good man like you deserves more."
Mariam's face lit briefly with hope. Maybe they had come to offer her husband reinstatement. Maybe fate was finally smiling.
Garba leaned close, his voice low. "There's a way back, old friend. One job, nothing difficult. We'll make you rich, and you'll wear your uniform again. You only need to turn a blind eye when the orders come."
Silence stretched. Ibrahim's jaw tightened. The lamp flickered in the corner. Diallo's young eyes darted between his father and the men.
"I will not," Ibrahim said finally, his voice firm as stone. "The uniform I once wore is stained enough. I will not add my own shame to it."
Garba's smile fell away. "Think carefully. Men who refuse the hand of friendship often find themselves crushed by it."
The men left with heavy boots on the clay earth. Mariam closed the door with trembling hands, then turned on Ibrahim.
"You fool!" she spat, tears brimming. "Do you want us all to die poor? Can honesty cook soup? Can pride put clothes on your son?"
Her words cut sharper than any knife. Diallo shrank into the shadows, his small heart beating fast.
But Ibrahim only sat in silence, his eyes distant. "Better to die a hungry lion," he murmured, "than live as a fat jackal."
That night, Diallo did not sleep. He lay on his raffia mat, staring at the ceiling where the rain had left dark stains. His father's words echoed in his ears, but so did his mother's. Which was true? Which was folly?
---
The next morning, Ibrahim rose before dawn as always. He went to the farm with his cutlass, the weight of yesterday's confrontation heavy on his shoulders. Diallo followed him halfway, carrying a calabash of water.
"Papa," he asked softly, "is it bad to want more?"
Ibrahim stopped, looking at his son. The boy's eyes were wide, innocent, but already shadowed by questions too big for his age.
"It is not bad," Ibrahim said, placing a rough hand on his son's head. "But you must ask yourself — at what cost? The world will offer you gold in exchange for your soul. If you accept, you may eat today… but you will starve forever."
Diallo nodded, but inside, doubt lingered. His friends at school spoke often of shortcuts, of easy ways. He wondered if his father's stubbornness was really wisdom, or simply weakness.
---
Days turned to weeks. The farm yielded less, and Mariam grew more withdrawn. She still cooked, still washed, still loved her son, but the brightness in her laughter had faded. Sometimes, she would sit outside their mud house and watch the women whose husbands had taken "dirty jobs." Their children wore shoes. Their pots smelled of meat. And she would sigh.
Diallo noticed these sighs. He carried them with him like invisible stones in his pocket.
---
One Sunday, after church, Diallo overheard a group of boys from his school — Obinna, Fred, and Dave. They stood beneath the mango tree, their shirts half-tucked, their laughter loud.
"Diallo!" Obinna called. "Why do you look so serious all the time? Life is short, my brother. You think book will feed you? Look around, eh!"
Fred pulled out a crisp note from his pocket, fanning it like treasure. "Na small runs we dey do. Girls dey follow us, money dey flow. You still dey follow your papa dey suffer?"
Dave, quieter than the rest, only smirked. His eyes darted like a man who knew danger too closely.
Diallo forced a smile, but inside, something twisted. He wanted to belong. He wanted to know what it felt like to walk into class with pockets full of money instead of empty hands.
When he went home that night, he found his father mending a broken hoe, humming an old Hausa tune. Ibrahim looked up and smiled at him, pride in his weary eyes. Mariam sat in the corner, silent, her face turned away.
And Diallo knew he stood between two worlds — one of honor and hunger, the other of danger and plenty.
---
That evening, Ibrahim called him outside. The sky was streaked with red as the sun sank behind the hills.
"Diallo," he said, "this world will test you. It will laugh at your honesty, spit on your hard work, tempt you with shortcuts. But remember, my son — woe is a folly. Those who laugh at truth today will weep in chains tomorrow."
Diallo swallowed, his chest heavy. He did not understand fully, but the words branded themselves into his soul.
Diallo often felt the sting of difference in school. His uniform was patched at the elbows, his sandals worn until the straps dangled. Obinna and Fred would sometimes laugh at him, not out of cruelty, but from the blindness of comfort. Their fathers were merchants and politicians; their mothers wore lace gowns on Sundays and carried handbags that cost more than a farmer's yearly harvest.
But for all their privilege, they had soft hearts.
"Diallo," Obinna once said, pushing a lunch pack into his hands, "take this. Mama cooked too much rice again."
Fred was the same. Whenever Diallo needed a pen or a shirt, Fred would slip it to him without asking questions.
And then there was Dave — quieter than the others, observant. He didn't give much, but his silence felt heavy, as though he was always studying the world, waiting for something.
Diallo sometimes envied them, but he never resented them. He simply carried their kindness like small treasures in his heart.
Still, when he went home, the contrast hit him hard. The rich boys had food to waste, but Mariam often boiled the same soup for three nights, stretching bones until they melted into water. Diallo would watch her hands tremble as she stirred the pot, hiding her frustration. He would watch Ibrahim eat last, leaving the bigger portion for his wife and son, even if his own stomach growled.
---
The Ibrahim family carried their burdens quietly. But in Yeti's town, whispers traveled faster than the harmattan wind. Some said Ibrahim was cursed for refusing his former colleagues. Others said he was a fool who let pride chain his family to poverty.
Diallo heard these things. Children at school repeated what they overheard at home. Sometimes he fought them, other times he walked away, carrying shame like an invisible cloak.
But each night, as he lay on his raffia mat, his father's words returned:
"A man may lose his job, his land, even his name, but if he loses his honesty, he loses everything."
Diallo wanted to believe it. He wanted to hold on to the nobility in his father's struggle. But a question kept gnawing at him:
If honesty is everything, why does it feel like we have nothing?
---
That question — heavy, unanswered — became the shadow of his childhood.
And fate, already sharpening its blade, would soon answer it in ways Diallo could never imagine.