The strong man

The man groaned like an old generator running out of fuel in the middle of the night. Perhaps he had been crying for years and nobody noticed. 

Every morning, he wore his suffering like a freshly ironed shirt, buttoned it to the neck, and stepped into the Lagos sun.

He met friends who asked “How far?”

“We dey manage,” he replied.

That was all. Nobody asked what exactly he was managing.

Was it hunger?
 Was it debt?
 Was it the landlord’s knock?
 Was it school fees waiting
 at the end of another term?

Or the shame of returning home with empty hands to children who believed their father could solve everything?

He became a man before he learned how to be afraid.

They told him: “A man does not cry.”

So he buried his tears where nobody could find them.

They told him: “Be strong.”

So he carried everybody until his own knees buckled.

His mother called, there were pills to buy.

His brother called, there was help to render.

His wife looked up to him, there were bills to pay.

His children ran to him, there were dreams to fulfil.

Everybody came with an empty cup and he kept pouring.

Nobody noticed that the cup was becoming empty.

At night, when NEPA took the light and darkness filled the room,
he would sit beside the window listening to generators and arguing with the silence.

Sometimes he wanted to cry, but even his tears had learned discipline. So he stared into the darkness and whispered, “God, abeg.” Two words that became a whole prayer.

Then morning came, and the world demanded of him again. So he rose. Again and again and again. Until one morning, he didn’t.

Outside, life continued.

Danfo conductors shouted destinations.
Traders opened their shops.
Children hurried to school.
Somebody complained about traffic.

The world did not stop because one tired man finally did.

At his funeral, people say beautiful things about him.

“He was a good man.”

“He was hardworking.”

“He never troubled anybody.”

“He was always smiling.”

Yes, always smiling. As though a smile has ever been proof that a man is not drowning or in need of help.

They lowered him into the red earth. Men stood around the grave with their hands behind their backs, fighting the tears they had been taught to fear.

And somewhere among them stood another man, with rent to pay, a mother to care for, children expecting miracles, wife demanding attention and a storm inside his chest.

Someone touched his shoulder.

“Be strong.”

He nodded.

Of course he had to be.

That was what killed the other man.

To be strong, he had lived silently, suffered silently, cried silently, broken silently and died silently.

And perhaps that is the tragedy: we heard the sound of the earth falling on his coffin, but we never heard the sound of him falling apart.