09/02/2026
Some nights, when everywhere is quiet and my books lie open in front of me, I still hear my father’s laughter.
It comes suddenly, like he just stepped into the room again. Like nothing ever happened.
But then reality returns, heavy and cold.
I was fifteen when we lost him. The call came late at night. I remember my mother screaming, neighbors rushing in, confusion everywhere. They said there was an accident on the highway. A truck lost control. Multiple cars involved.
My father didn’t survive.
I didn’t cry immediately. I think my brain refused to understand what death really meant. I kept expecting him to walk through the door the next day, complaining about traffic and asking what we cooked.
But he never came back.
The burial day felt unreal. Everyone crying. Everyone saying, “Be strong.” I hated that phrase. How do you become strong overnight?
That was when my sister became everything.
Ada was older than me by three years, but after our father died, she felt like ten years older. She comforted our mother, handled visitors, made sure I ate, even forced me back to school when I wanted to give up.
At night, when grief hit hardest, we would sit outside together.
“You’ll become something great,” she used to say. “For Dad.”
I didn’t believe her then, but she kept saying it until I started believing a little.
She became my strength.
Years passed, and life moved on the way life cruelly does. Pain softened but never truly disappeared. I got into university and started studying pharmacy. It was tough, but every time I felt like quitting, I remembered my father’s dream of seeing me wear a white coat.
And Ada? She celebrated me louder than anyone.
Until last year.
She started falling sick. At first, we thought it was stress. Then hospital visits became frequent. Tests, drugs, admissions. Words doctors say softly when they don’t want to scare you.
But we understood.
Very sick.
Now the roles have changed.
The girl who once held me together is now the one lying in hospital beds, smiling weakly and telling me, “You’ll be fine.”
Sometimes I leave lectures and rush to the hospital. Other days I leave the hospital straight to the lab. I read at night with fear pressing against my chest, wondering what tomorrow might bring.
People see me in class and think I’m quiet or too serious.
They don’t know I’m fighting not to lose another parent figure.
They don’t know I study pharmacology while praying silently that the drugs I memorize will somehow help my sister.
They don’t know how tired I am.
But I keep pushing.
Because my father worked himself to the bone for us.
Because my sister carried me when I was broken.
Because giving up would make all their sacrifices meaningless.
So I balance lectures, practicals, hospital visits, and sleepless nights. I push through exhaustion. I chase grades even when my heart is heavy.
Some days I feel like I’m drowning.
But then I remember Ada’s voice years ago:
“You’ll become something great.”
So I wake up again.
Attend classes.
Read my books.
Pray.
Hope.
And keep moving.
Because right now, strength is all I have left.
And I owe it to them to become the best pharmacy student, and the man, they always thought I could be.
