Tunde never complained. He dared not. At twelve, he was the youngest of four, and his siblings made sure he never forgot it. They called it responsibility; he knew it was punishment.

Every morning, while his brothers and sister lounged in bed, he swept the compound, fetched water, and scrubbed the dishes from last night’s dinner. After school, while they laughed with friends, he rushed home to cook, wash clothes, and iron their uniforms. If anything went wrong—a stain on a shirt, a meal too salty—the punishment was swift. A shove, a slap, or worse, hours of cruel words that left deeper scars than any bruise.

Their parents, always busy with work, believed Tunde was just naturally obedient. Whenever his mother asked why he always looked exhausted, he forced a smile. “I’m fine, Mama.” His siblings watched from the corner, their silent warning clear: Tell, and you’ll regret it.

He endured, but the weight was crushing him. Then one day, at school, he snapped. His friend, Ayo, had asked why he never joined in after-school games. The question was simple, but the answer wasn’t. The words spilled out before he could stop them.

Ayo’s face darkened with anger. “This isn’t fair, Tunde. You have to tell your parents.”

Tunde recoiled at the thought. “I can’t. They’ll punish me worse.”

“No, they won’t,” Ayo insisted. “Not if you tell them everything.”

That night, Tunde stood before his parents, his hands trembling. The words felt heavy, but Ayo’s voice echoed in his mind. You have to tell them. He took a deep breath and let it all out.

The silence that followed was terrifying. His mother’s eyes welled with tears; his father’s face darkened with rage—not at him, but at his siblings. The confrontation was swift. Excuses didn’t matter. His parents’ disappointment was louder than any punishment.

From that day, things changed. His siblings, stripped of their false superiority, were made to do their share. Tunde was free—not just from chores, but from fear. And for the first time, he walked to school with Ayo, smiling, knowing that his voice had saved him.