THE SCARS OF DUTY

The Weight of Beginnings In the small, sweltering village of Ikodi, tucked along the murky banks of a river in Rivers State, Nigeria, Dikume was born on February 14, 1995, under a sky threatening to unleash a deluge. The air carried the briny scent of fish and the damp breath of mangroves, mingling with the strained cries of his mother, Afie, as she labored in a mud-walled hut. Outside, his father, Matthew Abalama Samuel, stood with calloused hands clasped, praying for a son to carry the family’s name. When the midwife announced a boy, Matthew’s smile broke through the humid night, but even then, an unspoken weight settled on the newborn’s fragile frame. Ikodi was a village where dreams wilted under the sun’s glare, where zinc-roofed shacks sagged like exhausted elders, and the river ruled every life. Yet Matthew, a skilled fisherman, refused to let hope die. A man of quiet brilliance, his mind was sharpened by the books he’d pored over in his youth. He’d excelled in secondary school, dreaming of university and a life as a teacher, but poverty slammed that door shut. Instead, he cast nets into the river to feed his family and volunteered at Ikodi’s crumbling community school, teaching children to read and write for free. His voice, warm and steady, brought algebra and folktales to life for students on rickety benches, their futures as precarious as his own had been. Dikume, named after his grandfather, was a bright, optimistic boy despite the shadows of poverty. His large, dark eyes sparkled with a quiet hope, and though shy and reserved, he carried a spark of determination. He considered himself fortunate to have a father who loved him fiercely. Matthew’s words were a lifeline: “Life won’t always be like this, Dikume. Hard work and education will change everything.” On moonlit nights, as they rowed out to fish, Matthew painted vivid pictures of a better future. “Even at forty, I’ll go to university,” he’d say, his voice firm with conviction. “It’s our ticket out of this.” Dikume clung to those words, his young heart swelling with belief in a life beyond Ikodi’s muddy paths. But the weight of being the first son crushed that optimism early. By five, Dikume had three younger siblings: Richard, born in 1997, bold and restless; Golden, born in 1999, gentle and curious; and Rhema, born in 2001, the only girl, whose giggles were the family’s rare light. As the eldest, Dikume was tasked with their care cooking watery yam porridge, fetching river water, and walking them to school through paths where trouble lurked. At eight, his small hands were blistered from stirring pots over smoky fires, his shoulders aching from carrying Rhema when she tired. “Stay safe,” he’d murmur to his siblings, his voice soft, as if speaking too loudly might summon more burdens. The hardest nights were those spent fishing with Matthew, especially on Christmas Eve. While other children in Ikodi unwrapped gifts or played under lantern light, Dikume and his father braved the cold river, mosquitoes buzzing and harsh winds biting their skin. The canoe rocked under them, the water black and unforgiving, as they hauled nets to ensure food for Christmas Day. “We’re building something bigger,” Matthew would say, his breath visible in the chill, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Dikume nodded, his small body shivering, but the weight was too much for a boy. The contrast stung other children’s laughter echoed from the village, while he fought exhaustion and fear, his hands raw from the nets. Yet Matthew’s reassurances and Dikume’s own determination kept him focused on a dream: finishing primary school and moving to Port Harcourt, where his uncle, Matthew’s elder brother, had promised to take him in for better education. Trauma wove through these years like a dark thread. Matthew and Afie’s marriage was strained, their love eroded by poverty’s relentless grind. Late-night arguments pierced the shack’s thin walls, Matthew’s frustration at his broken dreams clashing with Afie’s sharp retorts. “You think I don’t try?” she’d cry. “You think this life is enough?” Dikume would huddle with Richard, Golden, and Rhema, shielding them from the storm, Rhema’s small hand clutching his. The silence that followed was heavier than the shouts, etching scars on Dikume’s heart. The deepest wound came at ten. Matthew had set out at dawn, his canoe cutting through the mist. By noon, word reached Ikodi: a sudden current had overturned his boat. His body was found tangled in his nets, his dreams drowned with him. Dikume stood by the riverbank, trembling, as they brought his father home. Afie’s wails filled the air, but her grief hardened into resolve—she had four children to feed alone. “You’re the man now, Dikume,” she said, her voice flat, her eyes distant. He was ten, and childhood was gone. The years after were a grind of survival. Afie worked longer hours selling smoked fish, leaving Dikume to raise his siblings. He cooked, disciplined, and worked odd jobs—cleaning fish, hauling market goods—to ease the family’s hunger. The community called him “responsible,” but their praise felt like chains. At school, where Matthew’s colleagues still taught, Dikume shone, his father’s love for learning alive in him. But the school’s cracked walls and outdated books mocked his ambitions. Higher education was a fantasy; survival demanded money now. By his teens, the family moved to Port Harcourt, chasing the promise of opportunity, but found only crowded slums and oil-stained streets. Dikume’s dream of living with his uncle for better schooling faded his uncle’s own struggles left no room for another mouth. The expectations never relented: uncles and aunts reminded him of his duty as the first son to fund his siblings’ education, settle family disputes, and marry to preserve the lineage. The oil boom enriched some, but for Dikume’s family, it brought polluted rivers, scarce fish, and corruption that locked jobs behind bribes he couldn’t pay. At 30, in 2025, Dikume stands scarred but unbroken. The trauma of loss, neglect, and duty marks him as deeply as the poverty and systemic barriers of Port Harcourt. His boyhood optimism has dimmed, his shyness now a quiet intensity, a shield against a world that demands too much. Yet Matthew’s words echo still, a faint spark of defiance urging him to break free from duty’s chains and forge his own path. But in a society where family is everything and survival is a fight, can Dikume afford to choose himself?