When Childhood Carries More Than a Paint Bucket

I know a family of six: a father, a mother, and four children. This family is one of the most beautiful families in my area; they have everything they want. The father works at a nice company that pays him a lot of money for the job he does. The mom owns a fashion store, and the children all attend prestigious schools. They have never known anything called want or lack because when they request anything, it is provided for them. Here is a twist: this family is the family I grew up in.

That's not the point. I also know a family of seven: a father, a mother, and five children. The children from this family are friends with mine because we were all kids growing up in the same neighborhood. As a child, I always believed every family is like mine, where children have to stay at home all day, have fun, and cause trouble while their parents bring home everything they ever wanted.

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Then one day I saw Victor, my closest friend from this family, coming back home with paint all over his body. I knew his dad was a painter, but why is he carrying a brush and paint, a rubber walking behind his dad, looking all tired and stressed?

"Victor! Victor!!" I was shouting his name from a distance as I made my way to him. He was in front of me, but a little bit far.

"Victor!! Victor!!" I screamed more, and this time he turned around to see who was calling him.

He stopped immediately when he recognized I was the one calling him, and there was a bright smile on his face. He rushed to his dad and handled all the things with him. His dad didn't want to collect it, but as soon as he saw me, he collected it and allowed Victor some time with his friend.

"Fash, Omo how have you been? I am so tired; I had to do a lot of work today." Victor said with a normal expression on his face, like I was meant to understand what he was saying.

I was quiet for a second. Then I asked the question that had been burning in my mind since I saw him,

"But why are you working? You're just a kid. That’s what parents are supposed to do."

Victor smiled, the kind of smile that carries both pride and pain.

"I know, Fash. But if I don’t help my dad, the workload will be too much for him. And if he hires someone else, that means they have to split the money. Things are tough at home, and every kobo matters. We are just trying to make an ends means."

His words echoed in my head — trying to make ends means. I didn’t even correct him; the grammar wasn’t important. The reality behind the sentence was what mattered. That moment shattered a part of the world I had grown up in. I had lived in a house where NEPA failure was the only major inconvenience, where lunch and dinner were never debated, and where birthdays meant gifts, not just prayers.

Victor continued, "Sometimes, I wish I could just play and hang out like we used to. But if helping my dad means we can all eat and my younger ones can go to school, then I’ll carry the paint."

I nodded slowly, my chest tight. I wanted to say something smart, something comforting. But I had nothing. We were both boys from the same street, same age, same country, but clearly, not the same life. He was carrying more than a paint bucket; he was carrying the weight of survival.

Later that evening, I sat in my room staring at the ceiling with the question "Was his father using him? or was he truly doing it to help his family? Why was he helping his family, he was so young, that was his father duty.

Victor and his family weren’t just working, they were surviving, adjusting, and making sacrifices every single day, all in a bid to make an “ends means.”

It took me years to understand the little conversation we had that very day, and that was after my dad lost his job. And as much as I wanted to go back to thinking all kids are meant to just be kids, that day taught me otherwise. Different lives. Different realities. Different battles. We are all faced with different reality.

The End.

Thanks for reading; My name is Fashtioluwa.

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