The weight of an only son.

I’ve always believed that if you’re born male into a humble Nigerian home — especially as the only son — life hands you a load that’s invisible but heavy. It’s not just tradition. It’s not just expectation. It’s something deeper. Something you feel in your chest long before you understand it.

I was born second, sandwiched between two sisters. My father was a pastor — a kind, God-fearing man who served the government as a civil servant until retirement. My mother was a strong deaconess and a fashion designer, juggling threads and thorns of survival while keeping our home stitched together.

Ours wasn’t a loud household. We didn’t complain much. But quiet doesn’t mean easy.

From early on, I saw my father struggle — not with integrity or character (he’s one of the purest men I know), but with finances. Despite his humility and the respect he earned in his community, he was never able to give us more than just enough. Sometimes not even that.

He never took bribes. Never insulted his colleagues. He rose to leadership positions naturally — class rep in school, student union president in seminary — yet never had the money to reflect the power of those titles. A good man, but in a bad system.

And I watched him slowly age under the pressure.

At 20, I left home. Not out of rebellion, but survival. I was in 100 level in university when I realized things weren’t going to change unless I changed something. I packed what little I had and moved to a neighboring state, determined to find work, earn something, be something — anything that could ease the burden on my parents and maybe rewrite this story.

But leaving didn't mean freedom.

Alone in a new city, I faced depression like a thief in the dark. It stole my joy, my motivation, and nearly my sense of self. There were nights I felt numb, like nothing mattered. Days I questioned if I was even meant to make it out. I didn’t tell my family much — I didn’t want them to worry. I just carried the weight quietly.

There’s something no one tells you about being the only male child in a Nigerian family: you're expected to be the future. No matter how little you start with, you must become the one who changes the family name. Who pays the bills. Who builds the house. Who becomes what your father couldn't and protects what your mother built.

But I was falling apart.

Still, I kept moving — slowly, some days crawling — but I never stopped. Because I couldn’t. Not with my father’s eyes behind me, hoping. Not with my mother’s silent prayers beside me. Not with the invisible pressure of being “the one.”

There’s a demon inside me I still wrestle with — the voice that says I’ll never make it, that I’m already behind. That I’ve failed.

But I write this not for pity — I write it as proof. Proof that survival isn’t always loud or dramatic. Sometimes, it’s a quiet boy in a room in another state, far from home, refusing to give up.

Sometimes, it’s a son carrying a weight too big for one person, but still walking forward.

If you’re like me — if you’re that “only son,” or the “only hope,” or the one your family leans on silently — just know this:

You’re not weak for struggling.

You’re not lost for falling behind.

You’re not alone.

This is the weight we carry. But it won’t crush us. It’s shaping us into something stronger.

And one day, we’ll look back and realize: we weren’t just surviving — we were becoming.


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If you’ve ever felt this kind of weight, share your story too. You never know who’s reading, who needs to hear it.