After my father’s burial, life changed faster than I ever imagined. The mourners had barely left, the chairs were still stacked near the compound, and the red soil on my father’s grave was still fresh. That was when the whispers began. Relatives who had hugged me and called me “son” suddenly avoided my eyes.
Others stayed behind, talking in low voices. I was still grieving, still numb, but I could feel something dark forming around me. I did not know that the real fight was only beginning.
My father had worked hard all his life. He owned a small piece of land, a few rental rooms, and some livestock. Nothing fancy, but enough to educate us and keep the family respected. Before he died, he trusted me to handle family matters because I was the firstborn.
I thought that responsibility came with support. Instead, it came with jealousy. Within days, uncles started questioning my role. Aunties demanded documents. Cousins who never visited when my father was sick suddenly became very active.…CONTINUE READING