Man Who Kept His Word

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When you grow up in a place like Makoko Located within Lagos State, you will learn that not all hostages are tied with a rope. Some are bound with promises.

It started with Papa Tunde. Everyone in the area knew him not because he was the richest or the most educated, but because he was the man who never broke his word. If he said the fish would arrive by 4 p.m., you could start boiling your soup pot by 3:45. If he promised to lend you his canoe, you could tie your wrapper and wait for him by the water’s edge.

But that same honesty that made him respected was the same thing that trapped him.

The trouble began one hot harmattan afternoon. The wind carried dust like powdered pepper, and my mother had sent me to buy firewood from Mama Tayo’s stall. I passed Papa Tunde’s house and saw him sitting outside, his elbows on his knees, staring at a folded piece of paper in his hands. I was so concerned I turned around and approached him.

“Good afternoon, sir,” I greeted.

He looked up, eyes tired but still kind. “Ah, Chika. How are you doing He said, Come and sit.”

I obeyed, curious.

“This letter,” he said, tapping it, “is from my younger brother in the village. He says the roof of Mama’s house has fallen in. Rain is coming, and she will have nowhere to sleep.”

“That is serious,” I said.

He nodded. “I promised Mama before I came to Lagos that I would always take care of her. No matter what.”

“So you’ll go?”

“That’s the thing,” he sighed. “Last week I promised Mr. Adigun I would help him repair his fishing nets all through this month. He depends on me. If I leave now, I will break my word. But if I don’t go, Mama will be in the rain.”

While he was saying all these I was so confused about what answer to give him I didn’t know what to say.

Days passed, and the whole community seemed to notice Papa Tunde’s dilemma. The women at the waterside would shake their heads and whisper, “That man is a good man, but his promises have tied him like goat rope.”

Every evening, he would walk to the edge of the lagoon, staring at the horizon where the water met the sky, as if expecting an answer to float toward him.

I saw him one night, long after most of Makoko had gone to sleep. The moonlight caught his face, and I realized it wasn’t just about Mama’s roof or the fishing nets. It was about his belief that a man’s worth was only as strong as his word. Breaking it even for something urgent felt to him like tearing his own heart out.

One morning, before the sun fully rose, I heard the splash of paddles outside my window. I peeked out to see Papa Tunde loading palm leaves, bamboo poles, and nails into his canoe.

I was curious and rushed to ask him “Where are you going?” I called.

He smiled faintly. “To Mama. I figured something out.”

And I asked, “What about Mr. Adigun?”

“I sent my nephew to help him. I kept my word just in a different way. Sometimes, Chika, we think being a hostage means we have no choice. But sometimes, the cage is just in our mind.”After that, he left for the village.

Weeks later, he returned. The whole area gathered to welcome him. He told us how Mama’s roof now stood strong, how the rain came two days after he finished, but she slept dry. And how Mr. Adigun’s nets were ready for the season, thanks to the nephew.

That day, taught me something I learned in our part of the world, promises are like chains but they don’t always have to hold you down. Sometimes, they can pull you toward the right thing, if you know how to move.

Even now, whenever I feel trapped by a decision, I remember Papa Tunde, paddling away at dawn, free not because he broke his word, but because he found a way to keep it without losing himself.

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