The Weight of Duty

·
August/September 2025Nigeria
Father

Illustration by William Igwilo / THE REPUBLIC.

THE MINISTRY OF ARTS / PEOPLE DEPT.

The Weight of Duty

Azubuike Obi writes about the passing of his father and the weight of trying to step into his shoes as expected by society.
Father

Illustration by William Igwilo / THE REPUBLIC.

THE MINISTRY OF ARTS / PEOPLE DEPT.

The Weight of Duty

Azubuike Obi writes about the passing of his father and the weight of trying to step into his shoes as expected by society.

I see it in my mother’s eyes, the way her eyes light up and fill with hope, with expectation, with longing, that the promised is here. She looks at me like she’s not really looking at me but at the things I will do, the things I will become.

It scares me, this weight. I have this creeping feeling that I will never be able to do enough. Sometimes, I feel like I will not live long enough to do anything at all. And this, this dying, does not scare me; rather, the people standing behind me, hearts laden with expectations, their falling haunts me.

My name is Azubuike. It literally means ‘Back is strength’ and figuratively, it could mean my past experiences or history is my strength, or that the people behind me are my strength. I fear for the people behind me. I fear I will never reach the heights they imagine I would; that I will fall, and all their expectations will come crashing down.

THE MOULTING

My father’s death dawned on me when I came to the realization of the weight that I now have to carry. Nobody prepared me for this. Nobody told me it was beyond being called ‘Dim’. Nobody told me that being a fatherless first son meant more than being called husband, that I could no longer live for me. I was not told that I had to be strong, feign strength when it eludes me, and endeavour to show strength at all times. Nobody told me that my father passing meant I was no longer a boy. I was not aware that I had to morph into a man the minute my father was laid to rest.

I saw it flash in their eyes when I shovelled sand into the grave. ‘Earth to Earth.’ I saw how their eyes screamed bravery when I did not disintegrate. I saw the silent nods when it was clear my sisters were the only ones who needed to be held. It still bothers me how my father has now become ‘the grave’.

I am the first son. Diọkpara. What it means is that I carry on from where my father stopped. It means that I step in and fill his shoes. It means that others cry, and I console. Never the other way round. Filling my father’s shoes means that, though I think the shrivelled thing in the golden-brown coffin is not my father, I cannot voice it out.

In the fleeting moment I allowed my gaze settle on the content of the coffin, I wanted to scream, to tell the world my father was taller. Dimkpa Mmadụ. I wanted to tell the world his presence was much more pronounced.

 I had comported myself, held it all together. Screaming out my thoughts would be hysterical, and Diọkpara cannot be doing that. I am now the head, and if I act that way, what do I expect of others? So I hold it all in, and on the days when my heart threatens to spill over, I go to the backyard of Mother’s restaurant, sit on a brick and cry my heart out. For the world can never behold my shame. For I cannot explain that I still harbour a little, just a little flame of hope, that Father will come back some day and apologize for this torture.

shop the republic

shop the republic

BROKEN CUPS OF MEMORY

This weight wraps itself around me and very nearly suffocates me. I see this weight in siblings’ eyes when I read them something I’ve written. The promised is here, their eyes whisper. The one who would make us proud. The boy is becoming. My youngest sibling looks at me as though I’m the best thing after sliced bread. He looks at me like one would a father, and I’m scared that I have already failed. I want to tell him not to put me on any pedestal. I am scared of making mistakes, because what would he do if I act stupidly? I mask this with anger: make sure my voice is firm enough, hard enough to show that I am equal to the task. What I really want is for my daddy to come back, to hold my hand and watch me make mistakes. I want him to come and correct me; to give me room to fail.

I remember when, in the latter part of 2022, strands of hair that would become beards began taking shape on my face. I would feel heat rising on my philtrum and occasionally have to wipe it off. In no time, hair started appearing on my jaw. I wanted to stall them.

The day I decided to shave for the first time, I nearly broke down. The song of grief was so loud, my vibrating fingers could barely hold on to the shaving stick. I wanted my daddy to come. I wanted him to hold my hand. To say do it this way, and not that. I wanted him to come and take the shaving stick from me. I hated that I had to watch YouTube to learn. Even more, I hated that I shaved it properly without his help. It meant that I was moving on; that I could do without him. I cannot.

When my brother’s beard started surfacing a couple of months after, I gave him tips I had learned on my own journey. I nursed hatred in my heart against myself for feeling comfortable enough to offer advice. For sitting in a chair that was not meant for me.

shop the republic

shop the republic

IMPRINTS

A few weeks ago, my sister was telling me how I have dues in the Umunna, which I would pay when I officially become part of the kindred. She said these dues are accumulating, and the earlier I joined and began paying, the better. My cousin sends money to his father to pay his, she said, casually. I was astonished at the violent, primal anger that surged within me. For my sister and my father. My sister, for talking about fathers paying dues so casually, as though that was not a luxury in itself. My father, for not being here to pay dues, to show me the way. I wanted to ask him why he died without putting me through all I needed to know.

One of my earliest memories of my father is of him hitting me. I was about 6. I had refused to go to school, even after being placated in every way possible—money, snacks, cheek rubs, extra money, a drive to school. My father gave me a slap that left me in a daze. I saw stars. Literally. I still hear the sound and sometimes feel the imprints.

I did not know that this imprint would be one of many. The others did not involve physical contact, as there was no longer a need for that. My father dreamed, so I did not have to. He was one of those who were unable to receive higher education, who would have done greatly if they did. He, in turn, lived through me and my siblings. I genuinely like(d) school. I triumphed in school, succeeded in school because my father created an environment where I was able to. He would look at me and smile as I solved Quantitative Reasoning questions while others slept. I would know he was there, staring and smiling, but I would continue, not acknowledging his presence after greeting. I hate that I don’t remember his smile. I do know it would be described as ‘ear-to-ear’.

I cannot look up and get hold of that smile, and it grates me. I cannot apologize for taking his presence for granted. I hate how final death is, how imposing, how unknowable, how indecipherable death is. How do you mean I can’t just call this person and say, let’s talk about this tomorrow? What exactly do you mean by telling me I’m unable to speak to this person, to apologize, just because a hideous thing has struck?

Relatives say I look too much like my father. They say this with good intentions, with smiles. But I do not think I am worthy. I do not think I can look like my father. I do not think I will ever be able to. I pray to God and tell him I don’t want male children, because I would not be able to raise them. I think I am failing my brothers already. I don’t want to leave any more broken people on the way.

WHAT HAPPENS WHEN DREAMS WITHER?

When I realized I did not want to be a lawyer anymore, I felt the weight of duty pressing and dragging me down. It was not that my family would not be supportive. It was not that I chose a less noble profession. It was that in choosing what I now wanted, I had killed a dream I dreamt with my father. It was that the new profession may not be able to afford me the security law would have granted. Weeks later, my sister told me teachers in the university were not that badly paid, and jokingly (or, maybe not), I asked her what if I wanted to be nwa teacher (primary school teacher). She looked horrified and reminded me I was the first son and whether or not I liked it, I had responsibilities to fulfil.

This weight on my shoulder is shrinking me, but I am learning to carry it. I try to avoid my mother’s eyes because the sheer force of hope they bear fears me. I help my youngest brother in the little ways I can, in ways I can carry. I walk on eggshells every day, hoping that I survive, and this is not the day my chapter ends.

 My immediate elder sister knows something is off, but I reassure her, tell her it’s all good. I tell her I’m fine, because this crippling sense of failure will hit with more pangs if I say I’m not, if I acknowledge my tiredness and affirm its existence with words. My failure as de facto husband and father actively begins the day I voice out my tiredness. My failure will become visceral the day I admit that I’m losing me to this hunchbacking role I was inadequately prepared for. So, I reassure her and keep it moving.

I take and take from my elder sisters. I take because it makes them feel dependent on me, and me, slightly so. I take and save what I earn, but I don’t tell them I feel like something is going to happen, and that I will not be able to contribute. I save because it still chips at me that I was 17 and unemployed when my father passed and unable to contribute a cent. I hated going with my uncle to purchase the coffin and him paying without asking for contribution from me. I hated the assumption of my not having. I hated even more that the assumption was true. It felt and still feels decapitating. So now, I save and save, so that I can show whoever dies next that I am enough, that I can step into this role of provider.

I tell my siblings not to die. I don’t know how I would ever be able to face fresh grief again. I beg them to hang on tight. While I hope they do hang on, I have thought deeply about them dying. And I cannot bear it. I prepare myself anyway. I try to measure the love I give, make sure I don’t leave myself bare, make sure I love with one foot on the ground. And in this, too, failure cripples me.

I look at my brother and feel immense pain at not being able to support him as much as I would love to. I don’t know how to explain to him that if I give him what I have, that would mean having nothing if this fear that simmers in me happens; in the eventuality of somebody dying.

I have thought about dying. Deeply so. Leaving here and every baggage with it. But is it not a bigger failure? What would they say? What would I tell my father? That I was the Diọkpara who took his life to escape his lifelong inheritance? I want to say this inheritance aches. That I want a break before this inheritance breaks me.

shop the republic

shop the republic

WILD ECHOES

I derive joy from working with children; the dependence isn’t choking, the love isn’t burdensome, the expectations are ones I can meet. I see that look of expectation, but it’s not as acute coming from them– strangers. I leave home every weekday, hoping that I’m leaving my imprints, hoping that I’m adding my quota, so that in the eventuality of dying, a few good words might be said.

There are voices in my head and they tell me I will never be able to do enough. They tell me I am an imposter in this role. That I am not worthy. I believe them. It does not matter what I do. It does not matter how much I give or withhold. What I say and how I say it does not matter. The voices tell me it will never be enough. That however hard I try, I cannot stop my failure from happening.

THE BECOMING

Amidst all, I’m learning not to be at the farthest end of my grace. I’m learning to do little things for me: I spend some time after school, reading; I wake up early in the day to write; I take little walks when I can afford to; I try to be kinder. I’m learning to let go, to confront what my reality now is, and allow later sort itself out. I’m learning to ask questions. I am learning to live.

I shun the voices in my head. I tell them I will triumph. On some days, they overpower me and I’m most irritable. On most days, I have them flung to oblivion where they belong and trudge on.

It’s been almost three years since his passing, and unlike when my grief was new and glittery, showing off every second, and making sure I stayed down, I no longer have to will my father’s face to come. I see him everywhere. I see him when my youngest brother tops his class. I see him when my pupils read whole passages without help. I see him when my brother made his university’s merit list. I see him when my pupils think critically when presented with new arithmetic questions. I see him in their failing and in their pushing forward.

I leave home every day, saddling my bag of responsibilities—known and unknown—hoping this is not the day my failure materializes. That I get to spend one more day, trying, learning, living⎈

BUY THE MAGAZINE AND/OR THE COVER