My father sat at the dining table, eating his bowl of fruit in silence.  

I stood before him, gripping the list tightly, my stomach a knot of nerves. 

“Daddy, here’s the list of things I need for school. And… the new school fees.”  

His spoon froze. He placed it down slowly. “New school fees as how?”  

I swallowed. “They increased it.”  

He took the paper, scanning it like he expected a trap. Then—  

“Ahn ah! This is not what we paid last semester!” 

Silence. 

He grabbed his phone, refreshing the school portal. Once. Twice. Five times. The numbers stayed the same. 

“Jesus! 145,000? What are they teaching you people? How to turn water to wine?” 

Across the room, my younger brother, Jedidiah, looked up from the TV. “What happened, Daddy?”

“Nothing!” my father snapped, then frowned at the screen. “What is this one watching?”

“Disney Junior,” Jedidiah said proudly.

My father scoffed. “Nine years old and still watching baby cartoons! This house is full of wahala!”

“They’re not baby cartoons!”

He waved him off, then turned his full wrath on me. “145,000, Emem? Do you think I pluck money from trees?”  

Before I could respond, my mother entered, adjusting her wrapper. “David, why are you shouting this early morning?” 

“Why am I shouting? Ask your daughter how much her school is charging now!”  

My mother glanced at the paper, unimpressed. “It’s just 145,000.”  

My father clutched his chest. “Just? Woman, do you know what that money can do in this country?”  

“Yes,” she said flatly. “It can send our daughter to school.”  

He let out a dry laugh. “Emem, are you sure you’re even learning? These schools keep increasing fees, yet no new knowledge!”  

I sighed. “Daddy, I don’t have a choice.”

“You did,” he shot back. “You could have learned sewing last year. Instagram tailors are making millions sewing nonsense.”  

I gasped. “Daddy!”

My mother clicked her tongue. “David, stop talking rubbish. Do you want your daughter uneducated?”

“I want her to be sensible!” He rubbed his face. “How are we supposed to afford this?”

“We’ll manage,” my mother said.

He scoffed. “Manage? We’re already managing! If we manage any more, we’ll disappear!”

He turned to the ceiling, lamenting. “Do you know what 145,000 can do for this family? How many mudus of rice—”

“David, enough,” my mother cut in. She turned to me. “When do you resume?”  

“Next week.”

She nodded. “We’ll send your pocket money before then.”

Relief flooded me. “Thank you, Mommy.”

My father groaned. “It’s not even the money. It’s the audacity. Soon, they’ll tell students to pay for the air they breathe on campus.”

“How can they pay for air?” Jedidiah asked, confused.

My father gave him a long, hard look, then threw his hands up and stormed off. “Too much wahala in this house!”

Later, in my room, my mother appeared at the door, tired but resolved.  

“We’ve paid your school fees.”

She turned and walked away, leaving my door open. But I didn’t mind. Not this time. Because no matter what, my parents always came through—even if they cursed the heavens while doing it.