In 2011, my family took one of the biggest decisions of our lives — we sold our inheritance, dreaming of a better future. Eight siblings, one struggling father, and a burning hope that at least one of us could break the cycle of poverty. I am Kunle, the first son, and this is the story of how we sacrificed everything to send my youngest brother, Tobilola, to the United Kingdom… only for him to forget us completely.
Our father, a humble vulcanizer, raised eight children through sheer strength and determination. Life was tough; hunger and struggle were normal, but he did his best. He owned about ten plots of land, his only meaningful legacy. After a terrible accident nearly claimed his life, he shared the lands among us so there would be no problems after his death. Each of us received a plot — I got two because I was already married with a child. We held onto those lands, hoping development would one day increase their value.
Then opportunity came.
On February 12th, 2011, my old secondary school friend Johnson called from the UK. He had been there since 2008 and was doing well. He sent me foreign currencies worth over ₦700,000 — a shocking miracle for someone like me. He promised to help me relocate, but I declined because of my family responsibilities. Instead, I pleaded with him to assist my younger brother, Tobi, who had just graduated with excellent results. Johnson agreed to give him accommodation and help him settle, but we had to fund his travel.
I called a family meeting.
We were poor. No one was doing well. I begged my siblings to let us sell our lands and send Tobi abroad as the light of the family. After many arguments and tears, everyone agreed. Altogether, we raised ₦8 million from our combined lands. On December 10th, 2011, we happily escorted Tobi to the Murtala Muhammed International Airport. We prayed, we cried, we believed.
Two years passed. Then three. Then more.
Gradually, Tobi stopped answering calls. He didn’t send a dime. We weren’t angry at first — we assumed he was still trying to settle. But my friend Johnson always told me how blessed Tobi was, how he had secured a good job quickly and was comfortable.
Yet, home became a burden to him.
By the time he finally sent money in 2017, it was ₦2 million — and it came with a harsh message:
“Stop being pests. You sent me to the UK; it doesn’t mean I should live my life for you.”
That message shattered our hearts. We had never depended on him for luxury, only survival. One of my sisters fell critically ill during this period. Even with the ₦2 million, we couldn’t save her. She died. Tobi didn’t care.
Before our father died last year, he called us all together and begged us never to harm Tobi or seek revenge. With tears in his eyes, he apologized on his behalf.
Today, 14 years later, we hear Tobi owns a hotel in Ikoyi. He is wealthy. Still unmarried. Still absent from his family’s life. Still unwilling to look back.
We survived the pain. We survived the betrayal. My first son is now in the university — sponsored entirely by Johnson, the friend who once stood up for me in secondary school and never forgot.
Sometimes, family is not blood. Sometimes, family is love, loyalty, and presence.
For me, family is Johnson. Family is my other siblings who have stood beside me. As for Tobi, I only wish him long life and more money — but his chapter in our family story has long been closed.
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