The Day I Chose Myself Over My Family

In a typical Nigerian home, especially as the first son, your life is not your own. From the moment you can walk, you’re told to "lead by example," to "make the family proud." What they really mean is: sacrifice yourself for everyone else.

I was the first in my family to graduate from university. I studied hard, kept my head down, and tried to be everything my parents expected—a responsible son, a role model to my younger siblings, a provider even when I had nothing to give. When NYSC ended, I got a job in Lagos with a tech startup. It wasn’t the highest paying role, but it was a start. I was excited.

But at home in Makurdi, it was a different story.

“Why Lagos?” my mum asked over the phone. “Can’t you get something closer to home?”

My father was more direct: “Your younger ones are still in school. You have to assist.”

Assist. That one word weighed like cement blocks on my chest. I had just started earning forty-five thousand naira monthly, and suddenly I was expected to pay my brother’s school fees, send money for food, and still survive in a city that swallows money like groundnut.

I tried. For over a year, I juggled everything. Sent money home, skipped meals, shared a single room with two other guys in Ajegunle, and told myself this was what a good son does.

But I was burning out.

One night, after a brutal day at work, I got home to find my landlord had locked our gate. He said I owed two months’ rent. My salary had gone to pay my sister’s WAEC fees. I slept outside that night, mosquitoes humming in my ears like insults.

That was the moment.

I sat on the pavement, staring at the sky, and asked myself: When do I get to live for me?

A week later, I got an offer from a tech company in Nairobi. Better pay, better conditions, room to grow. But I hesitated. Not because I didn’t want it, but because I already knew what my family would say.

And they didn’t disappoint.

“Abroad again? So you’ll forget us?”

“Who will take care of your siblings?”

Even my uncle called to say, “You’re the first son. It’s your responsibility.”

But for once, I didn’t budge.

I told them I was going. Not to abandon them, but to save myself. To breathe. To build something sustainable, so that one day, if I decide to help, it would come from overflow—not from my survival fund.

I moved to Nairobi three months ago.

It's not been easy. I miss home, miss my mum’s soup, miss my siblings. But I’ve slept on a real bed every night. I eat without guilt. And for the first time in my life, I’m building a life that’s mine.

I still send money home—occasionally. I call when I can. But now, I do it as me, not as the sacrificial lamb they once expected.

Choosing myself was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But it was also the bravest.

And if I had to do it again, I would. Because the truth is—you can’t pour from an empty cup.