The sun had barely risen when Ibrahim sat outside their mud house, sharpening his old cutlass against a flat stone. Diallo watched from the doorway, his school bag slung over his shoulder. The silence of the morning was broken only by the sound of metal scraping stone and the distant cries of goats.
"Papa," Diallo began softly, "the principal said if I don't pay the WAEC registration before next week, they'll remove my name from the list."
Ibrahim stopped sharpening. His hand trembled for a moment, and he placed the cutlass aside. His eyes were heavy, tired, and deeper than the lines on his face. He turned slowly to his son.
"I know, Diallo. I know."
"But what are we going to do?" Diallo pressed, his young voice cracking between hope and fear.
From inside, Mariam's voice rang out, sharp and edged with frustration.
"What do you mean 'I know'? Have you found the money? Or will my child stay at home while his mates write exams?"
Ibrahim closed his eyes. He had gone to his fellow farmers, begging for small loans, but all had their own mouths to feed. He had even tried selling part of his cassava farm, but the buyers laughed at the size of the land. He thought of pawning his old police wristwatch, the only valuable thing he had left, but sentiment kept him from parting with it. The days passed, and with each sunrise, the burden of WAEC registration pressed harder on Diallo's mind. His classmates had already filled their forms; some boasted of lesson teachers, others compared textbooks their parents had bought. Diallo, though brilliant, had nothing—no form, no lesson fee, not even a guarantee of sitting for the exam.
One afternoon after school, Fred caught up with him under the neem tree that shaded the dusty road home.
"Diallo, wait."
Diallo stopped, clutching his worn exercise book. Fred looked around before slipping a brown envelope into his friend's hand.
"What's this?" Diallo frowned.
"Money," Fred whispered. "For your WAEC registration. Don't ask me how I got it. Just use it. I can't watch you throw away your future."
Diallo's chest tightened. His hands trembled as he opened the envelope and saw crisp notes staring back at him. He swallowed hard.
"Fred… I can't take this. What will your father say?"
Fred laughed bitterly. "My father won't even notice. He counts his money in bundles. Just take it, abeg. You're my friend."
That night, Diallo laid the money before Ibrahim. For the first time in weeks, his heart leapt with hope.
"Papa, God has answered us. Fred helped me. Here is the money for my WAEC registration."
Ibrahim looked at the notes in silence. His eyes narrowed. "Fred? Or Fred's father?"
Diallo stuttered. "Fred gave me… I don't know—"
Ibrahim's voice thundered. "Then return it. At once."
Diallo froze. "Papa, but—"
"No 'but!'" Ibrahim snapped, standing tall in the dim lantern light. "We do not build the future on stolen ground. If the money is not his, it is not yours. Return it, or you will not sit for that exam."
Mariam, listening from the doorway, bit her lips. Her eyes darted from the money to her son's despair. She said nothing then, but later that night, when Diallo had fallen asleep, she slipped the envelope into her wrapper and sat by Ibrahim.
"Where did the money come from?" Ibrahim asked again.
"My brother sent it," she lied softly.
Ibrahim's eyes widened. "Your brother? The same family that cast you away for marrying me? The same people who swore never to hear your name?"
Mariam turned away, her voice firm. "Yes. People change."
Ibrahim studied her face, his heart heavy. He wanted to believe her, but deep within, he knew she was hiding something. He sighed and rubbed his forehead. "If it is true, then we thank God. But Mariam… remember this: lies are like shadows. They always return at dusk."
The money was used. Diallo registered for WAEC.
The months that followed tested the Ibrahim household. Diallo read late into the night, the dim kerosene lantern burning until smoke blackened the walls. His friends teased him for carrying textbooks even to the farm, but he ignored them. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, yet determination burned fiercer.
On the day of the first paper, the exam hall buzzed with nervous chatter. Diallo sat in the front row, beads of sweat dripping down his temple as the invigilator called for silence. He whispered a prayer, gripping his pen as if his whole life depended on it — because it did.
When the exams ended, relief washed over him, though uncertainty lingered. Would his results reflect his effort?
Weeks later, the admission letter arrived. Diallo was accepted into university. Mariam wept with joy. Ibrahim, though proud, stared long at the paper, then at his son.
"You are leaving us soon. But remember — poverty may follow you, but never let dishonor lead you."
Diallo smiled faintly, but his mother only sighed.
Meanwhile, Ibrahim's health began to fail. The long days on the farm wore him down. His cough worsened, and his back bent further under the weight of tools and sorrow. Yet he worked on, as if trying to prove to the world that honesty could still feed a family.
One evening, after a long day, he sat outside staring at the horizon. Diallo sat beside him.
"Papa," he whispered.
Ibrahim did not look at him. "Diallo… one day, men will offer you wealth without work, shortcuts without sweat. Promise me you will not take it."
Diallo hesitated, then nodded. "I promise, Papa."
A storm rumbled in the distance, dark clouds rolling across the sky. The wind rustled the trees as Ibrahim coughed again, clutching his chest.
The sky had grown darker that evening, heavy clouds rolling in with a mournful groan. Diallo sat close to his father, watching him cough into his palm. The sound was deep, rattling, as though each cough tore at the edges of his chest.
"Papa, maybe we should go to the clinic," Diallo whispered.
Ibrahim waved him off weakly. "This body is only tired. The farm dust has settled in my throat, nothing more."
But Mariam's face, hidden in the doorway, told a different story. Her brows furrowed, her lips trembled as she wrung the edge of her wrapper. She had heard this cough before—in neighbors who never lived long after it began.
The following morning, Ibrahim rose before dawn as usual, determined to prove his words. But after a few steps into the compound, he staggered, his hoe falling from his grip.
"Papa!" Diallo rushed to his side, steadying him.
Ibrahim chuckled faintly, brushing him off. "The body weakens sometimes. A strong man does not run to the doctor because of a little dizziness."
Yet he did not go to the farm that day. He sat outside beneath the neem tree, clutching his chest as the morning sun rose higher.
Mariam served him hot pap, but he barely touched it. She exchanged worried glances with Diallo, who sat with his schoolbooks but could not concentrate.
"Diallo, go to school," Ibrahim said, his voice hoarse. "Your books must not suffer because of me."
Diallo hesitated. "But, Papa—"
"No argument. Go."
He went, but all through his classes, Diallo's mind remained with his father.
The cough worsened. At night, the sound echoed through the small house, jolting Diallo from sleep. Sometimes Ibrahim coughed until tears streamed from his eyes.
Mariam tried boiling herbs in a rusty pot, forcing him to inhale the bitter steam. She rubbed his chest with balms, whispered prayers under her breath, and laid her palm on his forehead.
"You're burning, Ibrahim," she whispered, her voice breaking.
He squeezed her hand. "It will pass. The poor do not fall sick for long; they either heal… or go."
Her heart cracked at his words.
Diallo stayed up late, his books open before him but his ears strained to each cough, each sigh. He prayed silently, whispering, "God, don't take him. Not now. Not when my future is only beginning."
By the third day, Ibrahim could no longer rise from bed. His body seemed smaller, shrunken into the mat. His once-strong shoulders drooped, his breath shallow.
Neighbors began to notice. One old man passing by the compound asked, "Why hasn't Ibrahim gone to the farm? Is he well?"
Mariam forced a smile. "He is resting. The work has been too much."
But after the man left, she sat by her husband and wept silently.
That afternoon, Diallo skipped his tutorial class and went to a wealthy classmate's home. Standing awkwardly before the boy's mother, he swallowed his pride.
"Aunty… please… my father is sick. We need money to take him to the hospital. I will pay back, I promise."
The woman eyed him coldly. "You people always want to borrow. Do I look like a bank? Go and ask your relatives."
Diallo's throat burned. He bowed, muttered thanks, and left.
When he returned home, Ibrahim noticed his swollen eyes. "Where did you go?"
Diallo shook his head. "Nowhere."
But Ibrahim knew.
Ibrahim's voice grew faint. He barely ate, barely spoke. Diallo spent the morning fanning him to ease his sweating.
"Papa," Diallo whispered. "Please, let us go to the hospital."
"Hospital needs money," Ibrahim rasped. "Money we don't have. Better to keep it for your schooling than waste it on a dying man."
"Don't say that!" Diallo cried, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Mariam wiped her face roughly and forced firmness into her tone. "Ibrahim, you are not dying. You will see your son graduate, insha'Allah."
Ibrahim smiled weakly. "Mariam, your faith is bigger than your purse. May God reward you."
That night, his breathing became labored. Every minute felt like an hour. Diallo could not read. He sat watching the rise and fall of his father's chest, terrified each breath might be the last.
Word spread that Ibrahim was gravely ill. Some neighbors came, murmured sympathies, and left. None offered money. Poverty had a way of making compassion expensive.
Mariam went to her distant cousin who lived two streets away. Kneeling, she begged, "Please, just enough for medicine. Ibrahim is dying."
The cousin shook her head, avoiding her eyes. "You know how things are. My children's school fees are due. I cannot help."
Mariam stumbled back home, defeated.
That evening, Ibrahim called for Diallo. His lips were dry, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Son, listen. One day, the world will tempt you. Money without sweat, wealth without honor. Don't take it. Promise me."
Diallo clutched his father's hand tightly, his heart breaking. "I promise, Papa."
Ibrahim closed his eyes, breathing shallowly. "Good… then my labor is not wasted."
For a brief moment, hope returned. Ibrahim awoke with more strength. He asked for water, even ate a little yam porridge Mariam cooked.
"See? I told you it would pass," he said, smiling faintly. "Tomorrow, I will walk to the farm."
Diallo grinned for the first time in days, clutching his father's hand. "Yes, Papa! You are strong."
But Mariam saw through the illusion. His eyes were too dim, his cough too deep. She knew this was the false calm before the storm.
That night, Ibrahim asked to sit outside. Wrapped in a blanket, he gazed at the moonlit sky.
"Mariam, do you remember when we first met? You said the stars looked like scattered grains of millet."
She nodded, tears glistening. "Yes. And you said you would gather them all for me."
He smiled. "I never could. But I gave you Diallo. That is more than stars."
Her sob broke the night's silence.
The dawn broke heavy. Ibrahim's cough returned with vengeance. He gasped for air, his chest rattling as though each breath was a battle.
Diallo and Mariam knelt by his side, helpless.
"Hold on, Ibrahim," Mariam cried, wiping his face. "Please, hold on."
Ibrahim opened his eyes, his gaze fixed on his son. "Diallo…" He coughed, blood spotting his lips. "Be a man of honor. Even when hunger bites, don't sell your soul."
"I won't, Papa! Please don't leave me," Diallo sobbed, clutching his hand.
Ibrahim's grip weakened. His lips moved again. "Mariam… forgive me… for not giving you the life you deserved."
She pressed her forehead to his. "You gave me love. That was enough."
His chest rose once more… and fell. Then silence.
The kerosene lantern flickered, casting shadows on the wall. Outside, the storm that had rumbled days ago finally broke, rain pouring as though the heavens themselves mourned.
Diallo collapsed over his father's still body, his cries tearing into the night.
Mariam wept too, rocking back and forth, whispering broken prayers.
Fate had spoken. The pillar of their home was gone.
And though Diallo had gained admission into the university, the road ahead suddenly stretched darker, lonelier, and more uncertain than ever before.