They say poverty is a thief. But nobody ever mentions how it robs you in broad daylight, hands on your throat, whispering, "You can’t afford to live."

I used to think I was strong. Not smart, just strong. Strong enough to endure the hunger, the grind, the constant noise of want. But there comes a moment when even strength fails you.

My name is Tobe. Short for Tobechukwu, meaning ‘Praise God.’ I used to think names were prophecies. Maybe mine was sarcasm.

But I get it now, Praise God, in the good and bad times, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, till death.. Well, you can complete that part.

I am, or was, 34 years old. I don’t know when to stop counting.

Every day, I opened my kiosk before the city woke up. A 3x4 wooden box nailed beside Mama Chinonso’s akara stand.

I process withdrawals for men who don’t say good morning, who slap crumpled naira notes on my desk like bills in a courtroom.

By night, I ride. Not out of passion. My okada groans under my weight and resentment. I don’t have a helmet. The police stopped me once. I begged. They let me go. I told them I had ulcer.

I don’t have ulcer.

It started with fatigue. Then body pain. Then headaches. Dizziness. I thought it was malaria. Bought the green packet, the one they advertise on radio. Three doses. No relief. I drank agbo. Still, the tiredness wouldn't go.

By the time I went to the clinic, the nurse said, "Oga, your blood pressure is 170/110. This thing wey you dey carry na time bomb oh!"

Time bomb. Funny. I was already exploding quietly.

They wrote me tests: Creatinine, Electrolyte, Urea, Kidney Function, CBC. I laughed. Then I cried. But not the way people cry. Soft, quiet. The kind of cry that leaks from your eyes like sweat, while you still pretend to be a man.

I did the tests. Used all my savings. ₦67,500. I hadn’t eaten that day.

The doctor looked at the results and blinked hard. "Mr Tobe, you have chronic kidney disease. Stage Four. You need to start dialysis immediately."

Dialysis. ₦50,000 a session. Two times a week.

My account balance: ₦2,870.

I left the hospital. I didn’t argue. I just left.

I went home and wrote down every debt I owed:

₦20,000: My younger brother’s school fees (balance)

₦1,500: Mama Chinonso’s akara (credit)

₦8,000: My okada repair

₦1,500: Transport to the hospital

₦100: Pure water


Then I wrote down the cost of staying alive:

₦200,000/month (dialysis)

₦30,000 (medication)

₦15,000 (diet restrictions I can’t even pronounce)

₦0: Hope


It’s strange, isn’t it? How survival costs more than a coffin.

I started a GoFundMe. Caption: "Help me fight kidney failure." Three likes. One comment: "God will heal you."

I laughed again.

I started drafting a message to my younger brother:

"Victor, you’re the only one I truly care about. Don’t let this country kill you the way it killed me. Don’t inherit this strength. It’s a curse. Cry when you need to. Rest when you must. And when you feel the weight, don’t carry it in silence. Throw it. Burn it. Just don’t let it live inside you."

I sent it.


Today is my last day. No, not like that. Nothing dramatic. No rope. No bridge. No note scrawled in blood.

Just peace.

I bought suya. Real suya. ₦1,500. I haven’t eaten meat in three months.

Bought a bottle of chilled Coke to go with it. You know, mortuary standard.

I listened to Asa’s “Bibanke.” Twice.

I remembered how Victor used to bring me garri in a bottle back in school. Always smiling, even when there was no sugar. A tear rolled down my cheek.

I took a picture of my POS machine. Posted it. Caption: She served me well.

Then I turned off my phone.

Not because I was angry. Not because I wanted attention.

But because I was tired. Because it costs more to stay alive than to die.

If anyone asks, tell them Tobe tried.

Tell them poverty didn’t just steal his life.
It sent him the invoice.