Tears of Gold: Our Father's Legacy

​The heat in Gwagwalada did not just sit in the air; it pressed against the skin like a hot, damp cloth. Outside the three-bedroom bungalow, the afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on the dusty earth, turning the small yard into a furnace. ​Inside the kitchen, the air was heavy with the sharp, suffocating fumes of a sputtering kerosene stove. Mrs. Mercy stood over it, her eyes stinging as she used a worn wooden spoon to stir a pot of watery beans. She adjusted the edge of her wrapper, wiping the sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist. There was only one mudu left in the paint bucket in the store, and she was trying desperately to stretch it to feed seven hungry stomachs. Every stir felt like a prayer against an empty cupboard. ​In the parlor, the old ceiling fan spun with a low, rhythmic groan, doing little more than pushing the hot air around the room. Mr. David sat at the dining table, his shoulders hunched forward. Beside his right elbow lay a pair of old, black leather office shoes—their soles worn thin from years of walking to the ministry—and a small stack of utility bills with red markers on them. His eyes were glued to his small mobile phone, his thumb hovering over the screen. It was the middle of the month, and the state government was still silent. Last month’s civil service salary had vanished into old debts, and this month’s alert was nowhere in sight. ​"Theophilus," Mr. David called out. His voice was raspy, dry from a lingering cough he had been trying to ignore since the rains stopped. ​Theophilus stepped out from the dark corridor into the parlor. At twenty-four, his frame was lean, his shoulders slightly rounded from long hours bent over desks. He held a bulky, dog-eared physiology textbook with pages so worn they looked like old parchment. By now, he was supposed to be wearing a white lab coat, standing in a hospital ward. Instead, thanks to the endless university strikes and the long months spent waiting at home when his father’s pockets were completely bare, he was still stuck in his third year of Medicine and Surgery. ​"Yes, Papa?" Theophilus asked, stopping by the edge of the dining table. ​Mr. David finally looked up, his eyes bloodshot and heavy with the kind of fatigue that sleep couldn't fix. "The professor... that manual he asked you people to buy for the new semester. Have you checked the price at the campus bookstore again?" ​Theophilus swallowed hard, the back of his throat feeling dry. He had checked it that morning. Because of the new exchange rate, the price had jumped by another five thousand Naira. He looked down at his father’s hands—rough at the knuckles, trembling slightly as he held the phone—and then at the faded collar of his father’s only good office shirt. ​"They haven't brought the new stock from Lagos yet, Papa," Theophilus said quietly, keeping his face completely blank. It was a lie, but it was a necessary one. "The lecturer said we can manage with the library copies for now. I can just copy Fortune’s old notebooks to balance up." ​From the corner of the rug where he sat, Fortune looked up from his stack of 100-level Law handbooks. At nineteen, Fortune’s face still held the sharp impatience of youth. He had waited nearly three years after secondary school just for the family to gather his initial clearance fees, and now that he was finally in, every delay felt like a personal insult. He opened his mouth to correct his elder brother—to say that the professor had explicitly threatened to bar anyone without the manual from the lab—but he caught the sharp, warning look in Theophilus's eyes. ​Fortune shut his mouth, turning his attention back to his constitution textbook, his jaw tightening. They had lived this dance for too long. They knew exactly when to speak and when to let the silence cover their father’s shame. ​"We will find a way," Mr. David muttered, though his eyes drifted back to the blank phone screen. "A civil servant cannot work like an elephant and eat like an ant forever. The government will pay." ​The kitchen door creaked open, and Joy walked out carrying a plastic jug of water. At sixteen, her eyes were observant, taking in the heavy atmosphere of the parlor in a single glance. She didn't say a word about the heat or the lack of food. She just set the water down quietly in front of her father and sat beside Joseph and little Gloria on the sofa, the three younger ones huddled together like birds waiting for a storm to pass. ​Just then, the low groan of the ceiling fan ground to a sudden halt. The room plunged into absolute stillness. The light bulb on the wall flickered once and went dead. ​"NEPA!" Joseph whispered under his breath, a small, bitter sound. ​The heat in the room doubled instantly. The air became thick, suffocating. Mr. David stared at the dead bulb, his fingers tightening around the edges of his ledger until the paper crinkled. For a long minute, no one moved. The only sound was the distant, mocking buzz of a generator starting up in the wealthy compound down the street.