The news of Ibrahim's death spread through the community like harmattan fire. In the stillness of dawn, neighbors knocked on their wooden doors, whispering prayers as they gathered around the little mud house. Women wailed in shrill voices, their wrappers tied tightly around their chests, while men stood silent, shaking their heads in pity.
Mariam sat on the bare floor of the room, her wrapper loose, her hair untied, her hands trembling as she held Diallo. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but her cry was no longer the loud outburst of shock — it was the quiet sob of a woman whose world had crumbled.
Diallo, on the other hand, stared at his father's still body wrapped in a white cloth on the bamboo bed. His eyes were red, but no tears came. Something inside him had broken, something words could not reach. He felt a hollow space growing in his chest, a fear deeper than death itself.
The elders of the village came, men with grey hair and heavy walking sticks. They sat on wooden stools under the neem tree outside, debating what should be done. One cleared his throat.
> "We must bury him quickly. The man was honest, but death spares no one."
Another added, "He was too poor to leave anything behind. Even his burial will be a burden."
Their words stung Diallo's ears. He wanted to scream, to defend his father's honor, but his voice failed him. Poverty, again, was mocking them — even in death.
The preparations were rushed. Neighbors contributed what they could: a mat to carry the body, a little money for the imam, some men to dig the shallow grave at the edge of the village. No coffin, no grandeur — just dust returning to dust.
When the time came, Mariam clung to her son.
"Diallo, you are the man now," she whispered through tears. "Don't let life swallow you."
Diallo swallowed hard. He felt too young, too broken to carry such words.
The burial was brief. The imam recited prayers, his voice steady as the crowd echoed Ameen. Diallo watched as the earth was poured over his father's body, each shovel of sand sealing his fate, each thud echoing in his chest.
When it was over, the people dispersed, returning to their lives. The wailing stopped, the whispers faded, but for Mariam and Diallo, silence screamed louder than any noise.
That night, as rain threatened in the sky, Diallo lay on his raffia mat staring at the leaking roof. The house felt emptier without Ibrahim's voice. Shadows stretched across the walls like ghosts, and fear gripped his heart.
> What will become of us now? he thought. How will Mama and I survive?
He turned to his mother, who lay quietly, her face turned away. He could hear her stifled sobs. For the first time, Diallo felt the weight of manhood pressing on his shoulders.
Outside, the wind howled, rattling the weak wooden shutters. A storm was gathering, not just in the sky but in Diallo's life. He didn't know it yet, but this loss was only the beginning. The days after Ibrahim's burial were heavy with silence. The house, once filled with his coughs, his slow footsteps, and his occasional proverbs, was now hollow. Diallo noticed the absence in everything — the way the farm tools leaned untouched against the mud wall, the empty spot on the bamboo bed where his father once sat sharpening his cutlass, even the prayers that now felt incomplete without his father's "Ameen" echoing in the background.
Mariam seemed to shrink before his eyes. Her once fiery spirit dulled, her eyes always swollen from crying. She spoke less, ate less, and barely looked at him. Diallo did not blame her; grief had swallowed her whole. But deep inside, he longed for her voice, for her comfort — and most of all, for her support. Instead, he carried his sorrow alone.
One humid afternoon, a knock came at the door. A young boy from the post office stood outside with a brown envelope. Diallo took it, hands trembling. He knew what it was — the admission letter. He ripped it open eagerly, eyes scanning the neat print:
> "We are pleased to inform you that you have been offered admission into the Department of Political Science…"
Diallo's chest swelled with a burst of joy, but it lasted only a moment. His eyes drifted to the bottom of the letter where the requirements were listed: acceptance fee, registration fee, accommodation fee, textbooks. The total cost was more than his family had ever seen in one place.
He folded the letter carefully, pressing it against his chest. This was his father's dream — that he would rise above the soil, above poverty, above shame. But how could he?
The next morning, Diallo walked to his uncle's house in the neighboring village. His father's older brother, Alhaji Musa, was a trader with a large compound and several wives. Diallo clutched the letter like a weapon of hope as he greeted respectfully.
"Uncle, I came to share the good news. I have been admitted into the university," he said, showing the paper.
Alhaji Musa adjusted his flowing agbada, squinting at the letter. "Hmm, university. That is good, very good. Your father would have been proud."
Diallo's heart raced. "Yes, Uncle. But the fees… they are much. I was hoping—"
Before he could finish, Musa cut him off. "Eh, my son, things are hard. You know this country. Business is not moving. Even my own children, some are at home because I cannot pay their school fees. Do you expect me to neglect them for you?"
The words fell like stones on Diallo's chest. He wanted to remind his uncle of the times his father had labored on Musa's farm without pay, the days he had carried loads for him at the market, the loyalty he had shown despite his own hunger. But the words froze in his throat.
He bowed his head. "I understand, Uncle."
Musa patted his shoulder briefly and turned away, already calling for one of his wives to bring food. Diallo walked home slowly, each step heavier than the last.e
Back home, he placed the letter before his mother. "Mama, I went to Uncle Musa. He said he cannot help."
Mariam barely lifted her eyes. Her voice was low, almost absent. "Then we leave it in God's hands."
Diallo's jaw tightened. He wanted to scream — Mama, this is not just about God! It is about us fighting, about sacrifice, about hope! But when he looked at her tired frame, the lines etched by suffering, he could not bring himself to add to her burden.
Night after night, he lay awake, staring at the patched roof, listening to the rats scurrying in the corners. His friends spoke of preparing for university, buying mattresses and new clothes, while he carried the weight of an unopened future.
Desperation pushed him to the community mosque one Friday. After prayers, he approached the imam with the letter. The old man adjusted his spectacles, read it slowly, and nodded.
"You are a brilliant boy, Diallo. But I am only a servant of God. What you need is money, not prayers alone."
The imam's words, though honest, crushed him. Diallo turned to neighbors, knocking on doors, showing the letter like a wounded soldier showing his scar. Some shook their heads with pity, others muttered excuses, a few dropped coins that could barely buy him a loaf of bread.
The community that had filled their compound during his father's burial now seemed deaf to his cries.
Weeks dragged by. Diallo watched his friends travel to town to shop for their admission needs. He remained in the village, helping his mother fetch water, till the little farm, and sell firewood by the roadside. Every naira they earned went to food — barely enough to survive.
At night, he still read under the weak glow of the lantern. He borrowed old textbooks from classmates, scribbling notes furiously in his dog-eared exercise book. Sometimes he read aloud, imagining himself in a lecture hall, answering questions boldly. Other times, despair drowned him, and he wept quietly so his mother would not hear.
"Papa, you told me never to take shortcuts," he whispered one night, staring at the dark sky. "But what if honesty keeps me here forever?"
The wind carried no answer.
One evening, Mariam finally spoke as they sat outside, the moon casting pale light on their weary faces.
"Diallo," she said, her voice breaking. "You must understand. Since your father died, I have been like a tree without roots. People who used to greet me now pass me without looking. Even my own family has not sent a word. You are all I have, but I am afraid I have nothing left to give you."
Diallo swallowed hard. He wanted to comfort her, but he also wanted to shake her, to demand that she fight with him. Instead, he said softly, "Mama, I will find a way. Even if I must carry loads at the market, I will not waste this chance."
Mariam's eyes glistened with tears. She touched his hand gently. "You are your father's son."
But Diallo's determination came at a cost. He rose before dawn to work on people's farms, carried baskets of yams at the market, even fetched water for wealthier households — all for a few naira. Each coin he saved was a seed of hope, though the mountain of fees loomed far beyond his reach.
His body ached, his clothes tore, and hunger became his shadow. Yet he refused to bend.
The villagers watched in silence. Some admired his stubbornness, others mocked him, whispering, "He will soon give up. Dreams do not feed the stomach."
But Diallo pressed on, even as storms gathered in his soul. He was no longer just a boy chasing education; he was a young man wrestling fate with bare hands.
And in the distance, like thunder rolling across the horizon, life prepared its next trial.
The days blurred together like dust storms sweeping across the dry farmlands. Diallo moved through them as though his body was present but his soul was absent, tethered to dreams he could almost touch but not hold. Every morning, he woke before the call to prayer, his eyes heavy, his stomach light. With an old hoe in hand, he went to work on other men's farms, his sweat soaking the earth that never gave back enough.
Each evening he returned home with only a few crumpled naira notes — barely enough to buy garri, sometimes only enough for a handful of groundnuts. Yet every coin that slipped into the small tin under his bed was sacred. That tin, though pitifully light, was his only weapon against the mountain of fees that loomed in the admission letter folded neatly under his pillow.
Mariam watched her son from the shadowed doorway of their hut. She rarely spoke now. Grief had settled in her bones like cold harmattan wind. Her once sharp tongue — the one that could cut down gossiping neighbors or bargain fiercely with traders — had gone silent.
She cooked, she fetched water, she prayed. But she no longer dreamed.
Diallo noticed. Sometimes he would catch her staring blankly at Ibrahim's cutlass, still leaning by the wall. Other times, he would hear her whispering to herself, fragments of prayers swallowed by the night air.
"Mama," Diallo said one evening as he sat by her side, peeling cassava. "If Papa were here, he would tell us not to give up."
Mariam gave a weak smile, but her eyes betrayed her emptiness. "Your father had strength that I do not have. You must be both son and father now, Diallo. Do you understand?"
He nodded, but the weight of those words pressed down on his chest. How could a boy barely seventeen carry the role of both son and father?
One market day, Diallo's friend Fred approached him under the mango tree where young boys usually gathered to rest. Fred had always been loud and boastful, but today his tone was quieter, almost secretive.
"Diallo, my brother," Fred began, leaning closer. "I heard about your admission. Congratulations. But I also heard you are still struggling with the fees."
Diallo sighed, wiping sweat from his brow. "It is true. I am working, saving, but the money is too much. I don't know if I can make it in time."
Fred's eyes darted around, then he lowered his voice. "There is a way. Some boys in town are making money fast. Carrying goods, sometimes helping with business. You know… not all of it is straight, but it pays."
Diallo stiffened. He remembered his father's words: "Never take the crooked path, even if it looks faster."
"I cannot," Diallo said firmly. "I will not throw away my father's teachings."
Fred chuckled, slapping his shoulder. "Suit yourself. But remember — prayers don't pay school fees. When you see me riding a new bicycle, don't envy me."
True to his word, weeks later Fred began flaunting new clothes, new shoes, even a wristwatch that glittered in the sun. Villagers whispered, wondering where he got the money. Diallo knew. And the betrayal cut deep — Fred had once been like a brother, sharing books and food with him. Now he mocked him for holding onto honesty.
One evening, as Fred passed by, he called out loud enough for others to hear, "Ah, Diallo! Scholar without shoes! When will you join us in the real world?"
The laughter of other boys stung like thorns. Diallo clenched his fists, but he walked on in silence.
Diallo's desperation drove him to knock on more doors. Some neighbors avoided him outright, pretending not to be home when he called. Others listened with sympathy but offered nothing.
"Times are hard, my son," they all said, though Diallo noticed the chickens roaming in their yards, the bags of rice stored in their kitchens.
It dawned on him painfully: when Ibrahim was alive, their family had been respected, even relied upon. Now that he was gone, they were invisible.
One night, lying awake, Diallo whispered into the darkness, "Papa, you were right. A man without power is like a shadow. People step on him without care."
The weeks slipped by until only days remained before the deadline for acceptance fees. Diallo opened his small tin box and counted the coins and notes again and again. It was barely enough for one textbook, let alone the fees.
For the first time, anger overwhelmed him. He hurled the tin across the room, the coins scattering across the mud floor. Mariam rushed in, startled.
"What is it?" she asked.
Diallo's eyes burned with tears. "I worked, Mama. I worked until my hands bled. And still it is not enough! Do you not see? Everyone has abandoned us. Even God has abandoned us!"
Mariam gasped. "Diallo! Do not say such things—"
But he stormed out before she could finish, his chest heaving with fury. That night, he did not return until dawn, his eyes swollen from weeping under the stars.
The following week, a letter arrived from the university reminding admitted students of the payment deadline. Diallo stared at it, the black ink blurring through his tears. He folded it neatly, placed it back under his pillow, and sat in silence.
Mariam watched him, her heart breaking. She wanted to comfort him, but she too felt powerless. All she could do was pray.
But Diallo's heart was changing. Something inside him was hardening, like iron placed in fire.
He whispered to himself, "If no one will help me, then I will fight alone. By any means."
It was a dangerous thought — one that planted seeds of choices his father would have feared.
And as the evening winds rose, carrying dust across the fields, it seemed as though the universe itself was preparing for a storm — not of weather, but of fate.