Dare’s phone buzzed just as he was about to take a bite of his shawarma. He sighed, already suspecting who it was - Seyi.

He ignored the call. It rang again. Then a WhatsApp message popped up.

Seyi: Bro, abeg pick up. It’s important.

Dare wiped his hands and picked up. “What is it?”

“Ah-ah, bro! You no go even greet me?”

“What do you want, Seyi?”

“My rent don expire, and landlord dey disturb. I no wan make my mama hear, so I say make I reason you.”

“How much?”

“Three-fifty.”

“Thousand?”

“Yes.” 

Silence. “Seyi, you dey craze?”

“No be like that, bro”

“Why should I pay your rent? Did we rent the house together?”

“Bro, na you dey abroad na.” 

Dare almost choked. “Lekki is not London. And last I checked, Ibadan is still in Nigeria.”

Seyi hesitated. “Ehn… but you dey work for one big company.”

“And you?”

“I dey hustle.”

Dare exhaled. That overused blanket excuse for men like Seyi who spent their days jumping from bet shop to bet shop, convinced that one day, Baba Ijebu would set them free.

“Let me guess,” Dare said. “You need the money urgently and will ‘return it’ soon.”

“Bro, I swear!”

Dare chuckled. “Like the urgent 2k from last year?”

Seyi went silent.

Dare sighed. “Seyi, please don’t call me again. I’m not your Daddy.”

As he ended the call, he wondered how he had become a walking ATM.

He recalled visiting Uncle Tade after NYSC, hopeful that his father’s old friend would help.

He had barely explained his job search when Tade leaned back. “Dare, let me tell you something about life. Success comes from hard work. Nobody gave me this position. I earned it.”

Translation? I will not help you.

Now that Dare had “made it” (or at least, looked like he had), people assumed he was a charity organization. And saying no? It made him the villain.

One time, he refused to fund his cousin’s failing hair business. The family WhatsApp group erupted.

"Ah, Dare, have you forgotten your roots?"
"It is not good to be stingy o. Remember, we rise by lifting others."

Oshey Davido, he clapped.

Dare had been tempted to leave the group, but he knew it wouldn’t change anything. In Nigeria, people weren’t just entitled; they were aggressively entitled. And if you didn’t give, you were wicked.

So he developed a strategy: send small money to keep the peace, keep his real earnings lowkey.

But peace never lasted.

One evening, his mother called.

“Dare, how are you? I need your help. Your cousin, Tope, wants to travel to Canada. He needs five million for the process.”

 Dare froze. “Five what?”

“Million.”

“Mummy, I don’t even have five million to give myself, talk less of Tope.”

She clicked her tongue. “Don’t lie, Dare. You work in tech.”

“So? Does that mean I pluck money from trees?”

“Ah, Dare, don’t be selfish. Tope is family. You know his father is late, and his mother has suffered.”

Dare sighed. “So because his mother suffered, I should suffer too?”

His voice hardened. “Mummy, when I was struggling, who helped me?”

She was silent. Then she sighed. “So you won’t help?”

“No, I won’t.”

The line went dead. 

Minutes later, his sister called. “Dare, you made Mummy cry?”

Dare exhaled. “She cried?”

“Yes. She said you’ve become heartless.”

Dare rubbed his forehead. “So because I refused to fund Tope’s Canada dreams, I’m suddenly wicked?”

Remi sighed. “It’s not that… she just wants to know you still care.”

Dare sighed. “I’ll send her something. But I’m not paying for Tope’s Canada dreams.”

And that was how it always ended. A compromise. A little money here, a little guilt there.

The cycle never really stopped.

Dare checked his phone. Another “Bro, abeg” message from an old classmate.

He chuckled, shaking his head. Delete.

He would help where he could. Not where he was expected to.