Life has a way of teaching lessons no book ever can. My mother, Mrs. Choffo Claire, was a social woman with a wide circle of friends—friends who always appeared when there was a place to go, or enough food to eat. But when the real weight of life fell on me, I realized those numbers were nothing more than empty names.
I never asked for this kind of life. I never sinned in any obvious way, yet here I was, facing responsibilities too heavy for someone my age. Perhaps it was because my family had always been the kind of Christians who answered “present” when called but rarely set foot in church. Life is a mystery, indeed.
It started that morning. My youngest brother needed to go to school, but my mother was in the hospital. Taking him was no small task—my own school and its teachers were less than supportive of my situation. I had to plead with the administration just to get a temporary reprieve. Finally, a kind lady agreed to hold my brother for a while so I could attend my lessons.
With a heavy bag full of books, my school uniform, a pen, and the baby, I trekked under the harsh sun back to our home. Every step was a reminder of how little help there was in the world. No one stopped to offer a lift. No one asked why I was struggling. Everyone, it seemed, was too busy facing their own battles.
When I got home, I made food for the family. After a brief rest, I set out to ask my mother’s friends to help hold the baby while I went back to school. One by one, I visited them, only to be met with complaints and excuses. Doors closed, voices raised, and faces turned. I realized then that most of the people around us weren’t friends—they were just names in a book, numbers without substance.
I returned home, exhausted and disillusioned, understanding a bitter truth: in life, some people are there for the parties, the laughter, the food—but when it comes to real support, real sacrifice, they vanish. And sometimes, you have to carry the weight yourself, because that is the only way life will teach you resilience.
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