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I was just a student struggling to make ends meet. He knew this, I was that open to him. 

I thought I had met a man of dignity, a man who didn't just employ me as his children's private tutor, but also a dignified personality in the state who could pave the way for me. Plus, he was loud about wanting me to stay back after graduation.

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“My children love you and they always sing your praise.” He'd say. I still remember my helpless smiles while he commended my efforts. “I want you to hold their hands until they finish secondary school, or at least, Nana.”

Nana was in Basic Seven, Abdul was in Basic Three, and Lateef was in Basic One. I singlehandedly taught Lateef how to read and write. Even Nana couldn't read fluently before I started teaching them. 

My roommate never stopped complaining about the number of hours I spent tutoring Mr Ali's children. 

“What happens to three days a week, two hours each?” Sharon would throw at me each time I broke down in sickness. 

On the bed there, with my body on fire, I'd weakly reply. “I'm doing this for the sake of my relationship with the family.”

That statement alone used to get her pissed, and she'd storm out of the house, leaving me to myself. Smiling sadly, I'd conclude that she'd not understand what it meant to build relationships. 

Eventually, she didn't understand, because even I, no longer understood the ‘so-called’ relationship when over a year later, Mr Ali began to play smart. 

The children had just resumed for the first term, after a long vacation in Abuja. I resumed work, eagerness evident in my broad smile as they rushed into my embrace. 

“Where are your parents?” I asked, beaming. 

“Mommy has gone out, and Daddy says he's coming,” Nana replied.

I sat down on a sofa and asked them to get the dining room ready for the tutorial. Shortly after, Mr Ali came out of his room. His face was different and that got me worried. But I smiled briefly, hoping it'd soften his tight face. We exchanged greetings and he sat down. 

“These children are becoming too playful and I don't like it.”

I peered into his face, my eyes curious. Was he seeking my counsel on what to do? Was I the solution to their excessive play? I maintained calmness and watched him keenly.

“I want you to increase the days of tutorials to five days a week and four hours each day.”

“Jesus!” I exclaimed before I even realised it. No, I wouldn't let my precious children go through that. “Sir, do you realise that this is not healthy for them?” He seemed surprised at my audacious question, but I cared less. 

“Every day they return from school at 3:30 p.m. Most times, I come to find them eating, and we jump into the tutorial after they finish. After rounding up at 6:30 p.m., I still give them assignments. What time do they have to rest? What time do they have to read their books? Sir, this is unfair. I'm a student teacher, and I can guarantee you that even playing is good for them.”

Mr Ali flared up. “I also taught for fifteen years! You don't tell me how to raise my children.”

I apologised immediately. His mind was made up. I searched mine and told him that if that was the case, my pay had to be increased. 

His response? He would add a few thousand naira to my pay. I felt that was pure wickedness, so I stood my ground. He finally agreed that we return to the way things were, and he'd tell his wife to stop them from playing. 

I stayed mute. *Do I run another person's home?*

But things began to turn sour when a month passed and my pay was delayed. The next month was almost over before I was paid half. The third and fourth months passed, and nothing. His excuse? The government owed them. His children's school fees were increased. Bills here and there. That was when I broke down one day and explained to him that I was also a student struggling to pay her bills herself. He should at least consider that. 

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In the sixth month, Mr Ali had changed completely. Tired of his empty promises and apologies, I stopped going to his house. We'd bump into each other on the way and he'd pretend to be making a call. Other times, he'd pretend not to notice me. If he were driving, he'd speed off, leaving me to battle with the dust. 

Those days were traumatising. I almost lost myself. Yet, once in a while, he'd text me, asking me to send my account details (what I did almost every day). 

One day, I dialled his number. This time, I was not ready to hear any more excuses. I sniffed and wiped my tears.

“I don't want my money anymore. You can use it to pay your piled-up bills.” I said and ended the call.

He didn't call back. I expected it. At least, I finally made a decision. Mr Ali would no longer steal my joy. I would be fine. I would survive. 
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**Image Source: ChatGPT** 
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