Strangling Ties

Who’s next?

Happiness was not the only one going through trials and tribulations as at the time, Zaid was also. Zaid was a bright boy with a big dream, he dreamed of becoming a doctor. Cliche right? Every boy kid wants to become one of those cliche jobs and Zaid was one of them. In the vibrant chaos of our neighborhood, where children played football in dusty streets and vendors hawked their wares, Zaid’s dream stood out like a beacon. From a young age, he’d sit in his room, surrounded by posters of human anatomy and medical pioneers, sketching diagrams of the heart with a pencil worn to a nub. His eyes sparkled with the vision of saving lives, of wearing a white coat, and of making a difference—one patient at a time. To him, being a doctor wasn’t just a job; it was a calling, a way to carve his name into the world through service.

You would think my parents shouldn’t have any issue with Zaid right? That should be their star child. Yes, they were indeed happy about him becoming a doctor. When he told my parents about his dream, my parents were happy and did everything to satisfy him. In their modest but proud home, filled with the aroma of jollof rice and the hum of evening prayers, Zaid’s announcement at the dinner table was met with beaming smiles. My father, a stern man, clapped his hands, declaring, “Our son will make us proud!” my mother nodded with tears in her eyes, envisioning Zaid as the family’s shining light. They poured their resources into him, sparing no expense. He got his personal car and driver, a sleek black sedan that turned heads in their neighborhood, chauffeuring him to school and back. He got his personal maid, who ensured his room was spotless, his clothes pressed, and his study desk always ready with sharpened pencils and fresh notebooks. He got his personal teacher to make him good in every aspect of science, a retired professor who drilled him in biology, chemistry, and physics until Zaid could recite the periodic table in his sleep. And yes, he was indeed good. He was the best student of his time, topping his class at Lagos Model College, where his name was etched on the honor roll year after year. His report cards were a source of pride, displayed on the living room wall like trophies, and that always made my parents happy. They never told him no or refused anything for him, from new textbooks to extra tutoring sessions, ensuring he had every tool to succeed.

Everyone was jealous of him, but knowing our kind of parents, we understood his favoritism. We the siblings, especially me, the penultimate child, watched from the sidelines. Our parents’ focus on Zaid was palpable, like a spotlight that left the rest of us in the shadows. I, meanwhile, tinkered with computers, dreaming of coding apps that could change lives, but my aspirations were dismissed as “child’s play” compared to Zaid’s noble pursuit. We didn’t resent Zaid; we adored him. His kindness, his quiet encouragement—like when he’d sneak me a programming book—made it impossible to begrudge him. Our parents, however, saw Zaid as their ticket to prestige, a way to elevate the family name in a society that revered status.

But all that came crashing down when he graduated and he was meant to go to the University. Zaid’s graduation from secondary school was a grand affair, with neighbors crowding into our compound, music blaring, and a feast of pounded yam and egusi soup. He secured admission to the University of Lagos to study medicine, a dream within reach. But our parents’ pride took a darker turn. They wanted to use him to cover up Happiness’s void so badly that they mounted huge pressure on him. Happiness had rebelled against their control. Her departure from their expectations left a wound in their pride, and Zaid became their new canvas. They saw online where some kids were inventing some things like a mini car and all just where people are being creative, stories of young Nigerians building drones or solar-powered gadgets that went viral on Twitter and i********:. And guess what? They wanted their son too to be on the radar. They wanted him to do something so big that the whole nation would know and their name would be on the internet. In their living room, surrounded by faded family photos and a TV, they’d scroll through articles, pointing at headlines like “Teen Builds Electric Bike!” and declaring, “Zaid, you must do this!” They envisioned their surname splashed across blogs, their faces on news channels, their legacy cemented not through Zaid’s medical expertise but through a spectacle of innovation.

They wanted that so badly, but Zaid tried to explain to them that he was studying medicine not engineering and the only thing he can try to do is become one of the best doctors but that wasn’t to my parents’ satisfaction because they googled them and realized they only pop out when you search for them and not just on a random day scrolling the internet. Zaid sat them down one evening, his voice calm but firm, explaining that medicine was about saving lives, not chasing headlines. “I want to help people, not build gadgets,” he said, his eyes pleading for understanding. But our parents, consumed by their vision of fame, dismissed his words. They saw doctors as respected but not “newsworthy” unless they did something extraordinary, like inventing a new surgical tool. Their obsession with viral fame blinded them to Zaid’s passion. And do you know what they resorted to? They told him to change his course from medicine to engineering. The words hit like a thunderclap. Zaid, who’d spent years memorizing medical texts, who’d aced every science exam, was stunned. The dining table, once a place of celebration, became a battleground.

“Engineering is where the future is!” my father bellowed, waving a phone displaying a tech blog.

“You’ll invent something great!” my mother added, her voice tinged with desperation.

Zaid was perplexed, he never believed his parents who always gave him everything could turn against him for their own selfish reason. The boy who’d been their pride now felt like a pawn in their quest for glory.

But he wasn’t ready to back down for them because he knew if he did, they would turn him to a puppet like they tried to do with Happiness, thereby ruining her dreams in the process. And he wasn’t ready to be that guy with the dead or suppressed dreams. Zaid had seen Happiness’s spirit dim under their control. He refused to let his own light be snuffed out. And what he did shocked us all. He went on to apply for a scholarship and with his super smartness, got it, and it wasn't even a Nigeria scholarship, a London scholarship, all expenses paid. Late at night, while the house slept, Zaid worked tirelessly on his application, his laptop glowing in the dark, crafting essays about his passion for medicine. His grades, his eloquence, and his determination shone through, earning him a full scholarship to a prestigious medical school in London. When the acceptance email arrived, he read it in silence, his heart racing with hope and fear. My parents’ knowledge about it riled them up because they now knew they wouldn’t have any hold on him anymore. They tried so much to refuse him from traveling, including tearing up his admission letter, not knowing it was just the copy, not the original, which Zaid purposely gave it to them when he was announcing it to them, thinking they would be proud of him and forgo their initial obsession about invention popularity. He’d stood in the living room, holding the letter, hoping for their blessing. Instead, their faces twisted with anger.

“You’re abandoning us!” my father shouted, shredding the paper.

My mother wept, accusing him of ingratitude. But Zaid, wise beyond his years, had safeguarded the original documents, anticipating their reaction.

But they flared up and told him he wouldn’t be able to go. They tried to seize his visa and passport to hinder him from traveling, but he kept it far away from home, and they vexed them further. Zaid had entrusted his documents to a trusted teacher, storing them in a safe at school. Our parents’ attempts to control him grew desperate—locking his bedroom door, cutting off his allowance—but Zaid’s resolve was unshakable. On his travel day, he came home to say goodbye, and my parents tried to prevent him from leaving by gathering some men to try and hold him down, but Zaid was more than prepared for them. He already made preparations for more men, they took my parents’ men down, and he left, but not before he said bye to us, his siblings. The morning of his departure was chaotic. The compound was filled with shouting, as hired thugs—local toughs our parents paid—tried to block Zaid’s path to the airport taxi. But Zaid, ever strategic, had rallied his friends and cousins, who outnumbered and outmaneuvered the men. In the midst of the scuffle, Zaid stood tall, his backpack slung over one shoulder, his eyes resolute. He hugged each of us tightly— me, and our younger siblings—whispering words of encouragement. He reached out to Happiness the last time, and she showed how happy she was that he was getting his freedom and urged us to as well, and then he left. Happiness over the phone, her voice bright with pride.

“Go be free,” she whispered.

Zaid nodded, a tear escaping as he stepped into the taxi, the Lagos skyline fading behind him.

We sobbed, because we knew what this meant for the three of us left, especially me, who was the penultimate. The house felt emptier, heavier, as our parents’ anger turned inward. Zaid’s departure was a rebellion, a crack in their control that left us both inspired and afraid. I, the penultimate, felt the weight most acutely, knowing I’d be the next target of their ambitions. He left, but made sure he changed his name when he got abroad, he became the best of the best but published without our parents’ name. In London, Zaid thrived, excelling in medical school, publishing research under a new name—Zaid Adeyemi, shedding our family surname to reclaim his identity. His articles on innovative surgical techniques appeared in journals, earning him accolades, but never once mentioning our parents. And we don’t even know how they got to know, but they did and were so pained about it, but there was nothing they could do about it. One evening, our father stumbled across a medical journal online, Zaid’s name glowing on the screen. He roared in frustration, slamming his phone down, while our mother wept, realizing their dream of fame had slipped through their fingers. Zaid had become a star, but on his own terms, leaving us—his siblings—to find our own paths in the shadow of his courage.