A true life account inspired by Chinua Achebe's written works.

In the pulsating heart of our village, where the sun beat down like a blacksmith's hammer, I was born the firstborn son, an event heralded with the crack of celebratory gunfire and the thudding of the bata drums. This, they said, was a good fortune, a blessing that would bring strength and prosperity to the household. But this blessing, like the bitter-kola nut offered to honoured guests, came wrapped in a bitter truth – the burden of expectation.

"Okenwa," my father would boom, his voice heavy with the weight of his own firstborn mantle, "you are my ọkpụkpụ azụ m, - my backbone.", The title felt less of embrace and more like a yoke. It spoke of the immense responsibility that now rested upon my small shoulders – to excel in school, to become a man of wealth and standing, to uphold the family name.  Other children, my younger siblings, were allowed the luxury of carefree laughter. Mine was a path paved with relentless pursuit, a constant state of imē ihe ọjọ̀ ọzọ, worry for the yet-to-come.

The weight of expectation pressed down, demanding not just success, but a specific kind of success. It choked the joy out of childhood, leaving a need for escape. For me, that escape came in the form of books. The musty pages held stories of faraway lands and whispered promises of a world beyond the confines of expectation. Education became my battleground, a way to prove myself on my own terms. Unbeknown, the seeds of competition had already been sown. The desire to control every step, to prove myself worthy, bloomed into a prickly vine that wrapped itself around my heart. Worry, a constant companion, whispered anxieties about the future.

Primary school felt like a bridge I wasn't sure I could cross. Every test, a potential pit into the unknown. Yet, by the grace of God, I emerged, clutching my Primary School Leaving Certificate like a sacred talisman. I smile briefly at this victory while my little mind is set adrift to glean into the hazy future.

Then came the jungle of boarding school, six years that stretched before me like a dusty savannah. The Junior School Certificate exams, a mid-season thunderstorm that rumbled and passed. But the real pressure, a simmering pot threatening to boil over, brewed in the senior years. The dreaded trio – SSCE, WAEC, and JAMB – loomed large, three warriors waiting to test my mettle.

These exams, the gatekeepers to a brighter future, were battles fought and (mostly) won. JAMB, a particularly cunning adversary, left its mark on my memory, a chilling reminder in the hall of horrors that was my mind. This crucible of pressure, this relentless pursuit of control, fractured something within me. The dream of wielding a surgeon's scalpel, of delving into the mysteries of the brain, began to waver under the relentless pressure.

A different path, unforeseen but strangely compelling, started to beckon. But where did this new path lead? What halls of knowledge would I find myself in? 

This, my friends, is a story for another day. Until then, perhaps you can unravel the threads of fate or ponder the weight of expectation. Where do you think destiny will guide me? What halls of learning will I call home? Did the weight of tradition crush my dreams of medicine, or did a new calling emerge from the ashes of shattered expectations?

Share your thoughts, for the wisdom of the collective is a calabash overflowing with possibilities.