The Ibrahim family's life was like a fragile gourd hanging on a string — it swayed with every wind of hardship but had not yet shattered. The little mud house, crouched at the far edge of Yeti's town, stood as both a shelter and a prison. Its walls bore cracks like scars, as though the earth itself had begun to protest their existence. Yet, for all its flaws, it was home.
Every morning before the first rooster crowed, Ibrahim was already on his feet. His back bent not just from years of farm labor but from burdens invisible to the eye. He would stretch his legs, glance at the police cap resting on the shelf, then slip into his old faded trousers. The hoe on his shoulder was his new weapon, though he still carried himself with the posture of a man in uniform.
"Diallo, stand up," he called one morning, voice stern but carrying warmth. "The day is a market. Those who rise early trade well."
Young Diallo stirred on his raffia mat, groggy-eyed. He rubbed his face, wishing sleep would pull him back. Mariam, who had already begun blowing air into the firewood stove, scolded from the corner.
"Leave the boy. What will school add to his stomach? Did your own school save you from this farm?"
Ibrahim turned, looking at her with the patience of a man accustomed to her sharp tongue.
"Mariam, you speak like hunger alone is life. Knowledge is food too. Maybe not today, but one day."
She hissed, striking the match to the fire. The flame flared, reflecting the bitterness in her eyes.
---
Life moved like this — quarrels in the morning, toil in the afternoon, silence at night. Diallo learned to live between his parents' worlds. To his father, he was a student of honesty and diligence. To his mother, he was a reminder of promises never kept.
The neighbors gossiped, their voices like arrows.
"Honest Ibrahim, the former policeman who lost his job because he refused bribes."
"What did honesty give him? Hunger and a leaking roof."
"See Mariam now, growing thin like firewood."
Ibrahim would hear, smile faintly, and walk past. Mariam, however, kept those words deep inside, letting them fester like wounds.
---
One Saturday afternoon, as the sun scorched the earth, Diallo walked back from school with a tattered bag and shoes that had lost their soles. Some boys from the wealthier section of town taunted him.
"Scholar! Scholar! Where's your pen? Or has hunger swallowed it?"
"Go and farm like your father. School won't make you rich!"
Diallo clenched his fists but remembered his father's words: A man who fights with pigs only ends up smelling like them. He swallowed the shame and kept walking.
When he reached home, Mariam noticed the tears on his face.
"What happened?" she asked, though her voice carried more impatience than care.
"Nothing, Mama," Diallo muttered.
But Ibrahim, who had overheard, drew him close. "Tell me, son."
"They laughed at me… they said education is useless, that I will still end up poor."
Ibrahim held his son's chin firmly. His eyes, tired yet unbroken, burned with conviction.
"Listen to me, Diallo. Poverty is not in the pocket — it is in the mind. Let them laugh. A man with sense carries riches no thief can steal."
Diallo nodded, the words searing into him like hot iron, though hunger often made them hard to believe.
---
At night, when the oil lamp flickered, Ibrahim would tell stories of men who lived and died with honor. Sometimes Diallo listened wide-eyed; other times, he dozed off halfway. Mariam often sat in silence, pretending not to hear. Her mind was elsewhere — counting debts, worrying about the next meal.
One night, after Ibrahim finished his tale of a just king, Mariam broke the silence.
"All your stories of honor and justice… where have they brought us? This child wears torn clothes, his stomach cries every night. Do you not see?"
Ibrahim looked at her, sadness clouding his eyes.
"Mariam, do not teach this boy bitterness. If he loses hope now, he will be lost forever."
But Mariam, weary of hunger, turned her back to him. The house filled with silence again, but it was a silence sharper than any quarrel.
---
Seasons passed. Rain fell, sometimes too much, sometimes too little. Their farm struggled. Some days they ate yam without oil, other days they ate nothing. Still, Ibrahim refused to bend. He would rather starve than cheat a man of his sweat.
One afternoon, a former colleague from the police force visited. His name was Corporal Musa, a stout man with a belly that told stories of comfort. He sat heavily on their bench, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Ibrahim, you are wasting away in this bush," Musa began. "I know people. I can get you back into the force. But you must be wise. No one survives on honesty anymore."
Ibrahim chuckled dryly. "So you came to teach me dishonesty in my own home?"
Musa frowned. "Brother, the world is not fair. You cling to principles, but your children suffer. Even Mariam looks like a shadow of herself."
At those words, Mariam lowered her gaze. She wanted to speak, but Ibrahim cut her off.
"Leave my house, Musa. I may be poor, but I am not desperate enough to sell my soul."
Musa left, shaking his head. Mariam's silence that night was heavier than thunder.
---
Yet, amid the hardship, Diallo grew sharper. His teachers praised his brilliance, his ability to memorize long passages, his hunger for knowledge. He often stayed back after school, drawing maps, solving equations, or reading borrowed novels. He dreamed not just of escaping poverty, but of becoming someone his father would be proud of.
Still, hunger gnawed at him. Some nights, when he lay on the raffia mat listening to his parents' muffled arguments, he wondered: Was honesty really worth all this suffering?
But each morning, when his father called him with that same unbroken tone — "Diallo, the day is a market…" — he rose, believing again, if only for a while.
The sound of the morning bell from St. Peter's Primary School echoed faintly across the town. For most children, it was a call to lessons; for Diallo, it was often a reminder of how late he was. The path to school was long and dusty, and before he could even think of the classroom, there were chores — fetching water from the stream, helping his father weed the farm, sometimes even cutting firewood for the house.
One morning, as he balanced a clay pot on his head, a group of girls passed by, giggling.
"See Diallo, the scholar who still fetches water like a village boy," one mocked.
Diallo felt his cheeks burn but he pressed on. His mind clung to his father's words: A man who bends to mockery will crawl forever.
When he finally dropped the pot at home, his mother snatched it from him.
"You are always slow! How will I cook for your father before he returns from the farm?"
"Mama, I tried—"
"Don't tell me you tried. Try does not put food on the table."
The boy swallowed his words. He had learned that silence was often safer.
---
School itself was both a refuge and a battlefield. Diallo loved sitting in the front row, eyes fixed on the chalkboard. His hand always shot up first when the teacher asked questions. Yet, the poverty that clung to him like a shadow never let him be.
During break time, while others unwrapped meat pies or biscuits, Diallo sat quietly, chewing roasted groundnuts he had picked on the way. His best friend, Dave, sometimes shared a slice of bread with him.
"Don't worry, Diallo," Dave would say with a grin. "One day we'll buy the whole bakery."
Diallo forced a smile, though deep down he knew Dave's parents could afford that dream already, while his own family barely scraped by.
---
Evenings were filled with small village dramas. The neighbors gathered at the compound square, gossiping under the fading sun. Women compared whose husbands provided more; men boasted about farms, goats, and secret deals with politicians.
Diallo often sat quietly in a corner, listening. His father rarely joined the boasting. Instead, Ibrahim would sit on the wooden stool outside their hut, whittling sticks with a small knife. Sometimes he called Diallo to sit by him.
"Do not envy these men," he whispered once, nodding towards a group laughing loudly across the square. "Their pockets are heavy, but their hearts are empty. Learn to value peace, even when your stomach is not full."
Diallo nodded, though his eyes kept drifting to the boys playing with footballs bought from the market — a luxury he could never dream of.
---
On Sundays, the family went to church, though Mariam often complained that the offering box was "another way for pastors to eat." Still, Ibrahim insisted they attend.
"Faith is not about money, Mariam. It is about hope," he said one morning as he adjusted his threadbare shirt.
Diallo liked church. Not just for the sermons but for the chance to mingle with children from wealthier homes. He listened to them talk about radios, bicycles, even travels to the city. It made him dream bigger, even if those dreams felt far away.
After service, the Reverend once pulled Ibrahim aside.
"Brother Ibrahim, you are a man of integrity. But do not let pride starve your family. Sometimes compromise is survival."
Ibrahim only smiled politely. "Pastor, if compromise is survival, then what is death?"
The Reverend had no answer.
---
There were lighter moments too. One rainy evening, Diallo and his friends — Dave, Obinna, and Fred — raced barefoot through the puddles, their laughter piercing the storm. They played hide-and-seek, their voices echoing against the walls of the little town. For a while, hunger and hardship were forgotten.
When they collapsed under the eaves of an abandoned shop, panting and drenched, Fred teased Diallo.
"Scholar, one day you'll carry books so big you'll forget how to play!"
Obinna added, "Or he'll wear glasses and talk like those professors on the radio."
Even Dave laughed. Diallo chuckled too, though secretly he liked the idea of becoming someone important, someone respected.
But when he returned home, soaked and shivering, his mother scolded him again.
"Instead of reading your books, you waste time with those boys! Do you think food will fall from the sky?"
Ibrahim intervened softly. "Let him be a child, Mariam. Life will burden him soon enough."
---
Nighttime was always the hardest. The lamp burned dimly, casting shadows on the cracked walls. The family gathered around their small meal — sometimes garri soaked in water, sometimes plain yam without sauce. Mariam often sighed heavily before eating, as if the food itself was an insult.
One night, as they chewed silently, thunder rumbled outside. The roof leaked in several places, drops of water falling into their bowls. Diallo quickly shifted his mat to a dry corner.
"Papa," he whispered, "one day, I'll build you a house without holes. You'll never have to worry when it rains."
Ibrahim smiled faintly, pride glistening in his weary eyes. "And that day will be my true harvest."
Mariam only looked away, muttering under her breath, "If that day ever comes…"
---
The years dragged, each one heavier than the last. Yet, despite the quarrels, the hunger, the ridicule, the Ibrahim family endured. Diallo's mind sharpened, his dreams grew taller than the mud walls that caged them, and Ibrahim's principles remained unbroken.
Years crawled forward like weary oxen, but Diallo's hunger for learning never dimmed. Each school term brought fresh challenges — new fees his parents could barely pay, new uniforms he wore until they were threadbare, new textbooks that came only when his classmates were done with theirs.
When he entered Senior Secondary School, the pressure thickened. Teachers spoke of WAEC like it was a sword hanging over their necks. The board in class often carried one word in chalk: PREPARE.
---
One afternoon, Mr. Patrick, the stern Mathematics teacher, paced across the classroom.
"WAEC is not a game!" he barked, striking the desk with his cane. "Those who fail will return here again. Those who pass… may never see this school compound again. So tell me, which one do you want?"
"Pass, sir!" the class chorused.
Diallo's voice was the loudest. He wasn't just shouting to please the teacher; he was declaring a prayer to the heavens.
That evening, when his friends rushed to the football field, Diallo stayed behind, scribbling formulas into a torn notebook. Dave jogged past and called out, "Scholar! Leave x and y alone, come and score a goal!"
Diallo forced a smile but shook his head. "This exam is my own World Cup."
Obinna laughed. "Don't worry, if you fail, my father will still give you work in his office."
Fred added jokingly, "Or you can come and wash my father's car. The pay is not bad."
They laughed. Diallo laughed too, though the thought of it tightened something in his chest.
---
At home, preparations were a different battle. WAEC registration meant fees — money that simply did not exist. One evening, Mariam paced the room furiously.
"Ibrahim, this is too much. The school is asking for registration, textbooks, lessons, uniform. Where do you expect us to find all this?"
Ibrahim sat quietly, rubbing his tired palms together. "We will find a way."
"You always say that! But look around you — nothing changes. My son will be mocked again while other children write their exams with ease."
Diallo watched them argue, his heart pounding.
"Papa, Mama," he interrupted softly, "don't fight. I'll manage. Even if I have only one pen, I'll write my WAEC."
His words silenced the room. Ibrahim's eyes glistened with pride. Mariam sighed, shaking her head.
"Such is life," she muttered bitterly.
---
The nights grew longer, the lamps dimmer. Sometimes there was no kerosene at all, and Diallo studied under the moonlight outside their hut. His textbooks were second-hand, with notes from other students scribbled across the margins. Still, he traced every line as if they were treasures.
One night, Dave found him bent over a book by the stream.
"Diallo, are you mad? Mosquitoes will finish you here."
"I can't read at home," Diallo whispered. "The lamp is out again. At least here, the moon is bright."
Dave sighed and dropped a loaf of bread beside him. "Eat. And don't kill yourself before the exam."
Diallo's stomach growled, but his eyes never left the page.
---
Mock exams came, and though many students complained, Diallo thrived. He topped his class in English and Government, earning applause even from teachers who once dismissed him as "the poor boy who won't last."
But at home, the victory was hollow. Mariam's voice grew sharper each day.
"You read, you read, you read — yet this house is still empty. When will your books turn to food? When will your exams buy kerosene?"
Ibrahim always defended him. "Let the boy read, Mariam. One day, his pen will feed us all."
Mariam scoffed. "By then, we'll all be bones."
Diallo said nothing, though her words cut deeper than any cane in school.
---
As the WAEC timetable drew nearer, the tension in the household thickened. Every knock at the door made Mariam flinch, afraid it was the school demanding unpaid fees. Diallo sometimes thought of quitting, of saving his father the burden. But each time the thought crept in, he remembered Ibrahim's voice:
"Do not crawl, my son. Stand. Even if your knees shake, stand."
So he stood.
And with every borrowed note, every moonlit page, and every silent tear swallowed in the dark, Diallo prepared for the battle that would shape his destiny.
But life was a patient hunter.
Already, in the silence of Mariam's bitterness and the cracks of Ibrahim's stubbornness, the seeds of tragedy were being sown.