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“My elder brother finally returned from London yesterday. No heavy boxes, no 'abroad' accent—just a small nylon bag and the same shoes he wore 12 years ago.
Last night, we sat on my thin mattress, sharing a single sachet of noodles. The silence was louder than our old, noisy fan. We’re both in our late 30s—no wives, no kids, no house. Just two 'rich men’s sons' living like strangers in the city where our father once owned three filling stations.
When he d!ed, the vultures came. Uncles we thought loved us claimed he owed them millions. Without a Will, they took everything—even the cars—while we were still moûrning.
Daniel ran to London to save us. I stayed behind, doing laborer work despite having a degree, sending every kobo I earned for 'papers' and 'permits.' I stayed hungry so he could survive.
But last night, Daniel cried. “Brother,” he said, “the more I worked, the more the money vanished. It’s like pouring water into a basket. Every time I saw money, a bill or a police case swallowed it.”
Now, we are two graduates starting from zero at almost 40, sharing one room and one fan. My tears won’t stop. My brother is broken, and I am exhausted. Is this bad luck, or something following us from our father’s house?”
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