Tosin*, 25, shares the struggles of being a first son and middle child. What began with buying bread for his father after work, slowly became paying for an entire household. Then came the request that finally broke him and changed how he saw his father forever.
The first time my father suggested I take a loan to help pay our rent, I was 23. I might have laughed if I hadn’t been so sure he wasn’t joking.
We were sitting in the living room on a Sunday afternoon. He had one of his loose note sheets in front of him on the centre table, where he often scribbled random thoughts.
Whenever rent is approaching, he starts writing numbers on those sheets; what’s left to pay, who might be able to help, what can wait. He looked up from the small square paper and said it as casually as someone suggesting we buy more toothpaste.
“You know banks can give salary earners loans.” I looked at him as he continued. “If you collect the ₦3.5 million, we’ll sort out the rent first. As time goes on, we’ll be paying it back.”
For a few seconds, I genuinely thought I’d misunderstood him. I remember asking, “Me?”
He nodded. “Yes. You have a salary.”
I earned ₦120,000 a month at the time and had only been working full-time for about a year. I started doing the math in my head and asked him the only question that made sense to me.
He didn’t really answer. Instead, he said something like, “God will make a way. Besides, you’re a responsible son. This is why children are blessings.”
Even though he hasn’t succeeded in getting me to take a loan, every few months, whenever rent comes up again, he brings it back into the conversation.
“You’ve not checked the loan?” “Your office doesn’t give advances?” “You know your bank will approve a loan because you’re working.”
Each time, I felt the same mixture of confusion and guilt. What loan? How would I repay it? What exactly was the plan here?
I am 25 now, and I earn about ₦150,000 a month from my 9-to-5. Sometimes, I make a lot more money from freelance projects as an animator, but that’s not guaranteed income.
My father wasn’t thinking about a loan for me to move out, start a business or pay for a master’s degree. He was talking about paying the rent for the three-bedroom apartment we currently live in with my two siblings, an apartment that isn’t mine.
The thing that made the gentle suggestions even stranger was that it had already become normal for my father to call me for money. Fuel, internet, groceries, generator repairs, the security man’s salary, transport money, his blood pressure medication, random emergencies, the requests come so often that I’ve stopped thinking about them individually.
How did we get here? The answer starts with bread.
I was 22 and fresh out of NYSC when I got my first proper job. One day, my father called me while I was coming home from work and asked me to… “Buy two loaves of bread when you’re coming.” That was all. Then it became bread and eggs, then I cannot buy that without Geisha or Titus, then detergent and bleach, nothing that ever felt big enough to refuse.
But the requests just kept expanding until at some point, I became responsible for all the not-so-small house expenses without anyone formally acknowledging that this was happening. I think that’s why the loan conversation shook me. For the first time, I couldn’t pretend these were small favours anymore.
This is particularly painful because my father hasn’t had stable work in years, but my grandfather was successful. So my father inherited opportunities, connections and resources most people never get access to. He lived on my grandfather’s wealth, lived in his house, never paid rent until he was well into his own 30s when my grandfather died.
And somehow, all of it disappeared.
Growing up, I heard endless stories about the influential people my father knew personally, from business and religious leaders to politicians whose names we always hear in the news, the prominent ones. As I got older, I realised the stories were true, and that almost made things worse!
Today, he has no meaningful retirement plan, savings or investments.
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The financial struggle became worse at home after my mother left. When she moved out in December 2025, my siblings and I weren’t even surprised. If anything, we were surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. The woman had endured enough emotional and financial abuse that I don’t even want to get into.
My mother spent years absorbing the consequences of my father’s terrible financial decisions, and once she left, those consequences became impossible for us to ignore.
My sister responded to the gap differently than I did. She’s the firstborn and only daughter, and at some point many years ago, she developed strict boundaries. She contributes financially, but on her own terms. She decides what she’ll pay for—part of the rent and big bills like domestic staff salaries—and what she won’t. My father doesn’t like it, but he can’t seem to do much about it.
I haven’t figured out how to set my own boundaries. Partly because I’m the first son and I feel a larger sense of responsibility, but also, I’ve spent most of my life wanting my father’s attention and approval as a middle child.
The loan conversations became more frequent shortly after my mother left. I can’t afford to move out. Now, I’m supposed to go into debt for a house I don’t own? It reminded me that the point of staying on with my parents after school was originally to save money. Instead, I’m slowly becoming financially responsible for a house that isn’t mine, and it’s affecting every part of my life.
In 2024, I was talking to a woman I really liked. I met her at a creative event, and we spoke almost every day. Eventually, she suggested we meet up properly. I remember opening my banking app before replying. I could technically afford one date, but I just couldn’t stop thinking about everything else.
What happens if we actually like each other and this becomes a relationship? I was already struggling to imagine paying rent, building savings or moving out. A relationship felt like another responsibility I couldn’t afford. Eventually, I stopped pursuing things, and the conversation died naturally.
That wasn’t the first time.
Around the same period, something else changed. My relationship with God started falling apart. My father has a habit of mixing financial requests with spiritual language. He rarely says, “Give me money because I need your help.” Instead, he’ll say things like, “God rewards responsible sons,” or “I had a dream about your future.”
Sometimes, he’d even remind me that fathers can curse their children.
For years, those statements worked. Even when they made me uncomfortable, there was always a part of me wondering if refusing him made me a bad son. Eventually, I realised I wasn’t getting anything from church anymore. I tried different churches, but nothing changed. Then one day, I simply stopped going.
I expected guilt, fear or something. Instead, nothing happened. The more distance I got, the more I started questioning how much of my obedience came from faith and how much came from fear. I’m still figuring that out, but what I do know is that the rent issue changed something in me.
The most recent time the loan came up was in January 2026. I had just come back from work and was eating in the dining room when he mentioned that rent would soon be due again. Before I even looked up from my plate, I knew where the conversation was going.
“Have you spoken to your office?” I said no. “Why?” I didn’t answer immediately. He sighed and started talking about how children these days don’t understand sacrifice, how he had dreams that I would become successful because I was a responsible son, and how God wouldn’t abandon me if I obeyed my father.
I remember sitting there thinking that I was even eating food I’d bought. I’d probably paid for the rice, the gas that cooked it and the internet bill that month. Yet somehow, I was the one being made to feel like I wasn’t doing enough.
I wanted to hate him but I couldn’t. That’s the problem. I still love my father and want him to be proud of me. I still see flashes of the person he could have been. But every time he brings up that loan, I feel myself moving further away from him.
These days, my younger brother is the thing I worry about most. He’s still in secondary school, talented and bright. And university is approaching. Nobody has officially said anything, but my sister and I both understand what might happen next.
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