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Musa was born on a Tuesday in a room with peeling paint and a radio that only works when you tap it twice. His mother said, "Omo okunrin ni e" [you're a man] as if that was already a job. By 10, Musa knew the sound of hunger; it was the way his stomach spoke before his mouth did. His father sold spare parts by the roadside, his hands smelling of oil and hope. When the man died, the house became quiet, not peaceful, just afraid. They called Musa and said, "Kazama namiji yanzu" [You're the man now]; no ceremony, no instruction, just weight. He left school early, carrying notebooks he would never finish, entering the sun like a contract.
Morning found him at the motor park shouting destinations he'd never been to ||Ibadan, Iwo road||. His voice grew strong, his dreams grew shy. At home, his mother prayed long prayers; his siblings ate in turns. Musa learned a new math: how to divide one meal into hope.
At 28, love found him at a bus stop. Her name was Sadia; she laughed like tomorrow. She asked him once, "Me ke damunka?" [What bothers you?]. Musa smiled; men smile when they're drowning.
They married small, no hall, no crowd, just promises and plastic chairs. Bills arrived quickly like relatives that never greet; work reduced, rent increased. Silence moved into the bedroom. When Musa failed to provide one month, the world reminded him who he was not: "Ogbodo se bi okunrin" [You must be a man]. He tried harder, slept less, spoke less. One night, sitting alone in the dark, he whispered, "Allah ko ka gaji danine?" [God, are you tired of me?]
The next morning, he woke up and continued, not because he was strong, but because stopping wasn't an option men were given.
Years later, Musa's son would ask, "Daddy, lafia de ko?" [Daddy, are you okay?]. Musa paused, smiled, and said, "Kallow" [Fine]. But the walls knew, the night knew, God knew, and somewhere deep inside, a boy born on Tuesday was still waiting to be asked before being needed.
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