I Am A Son Of Strength

I am a son of two people who didn’t finish school, but taught me everything about perseverance, ambition, and dignity. I am a son of strength.

When they moved to the city in the late '90s, they carried with them little more than hope — and a primary school certificate. That certificate belonged to the father. The mother hadn’t even finished primary school. She was intelligent — that much was obvious to anyone who spent time with her — but intelligence wasn’t enough. Not for a girl growing up where she did, at the time she did.

In the city, they tried again. Tried to go back to school. Tried to make something out of the dreams they had shelved for too long.

But life is rarely that generous. Between raising children, chasing daily bread, and surviving the city, education slipped through their fingers once more. They even attempted night school. That, too, failed.

Eventually, they gave up the hope of returning to the classroom. That decision landed hardest on the mother. She had always been fiercely ambitious about school. But she learned to live with the ache.

She opened a small shop — a modest business that became her signature. Everyone knew her for it. She was proud of that shop, proud of what it represented. And in her own way, she tried to run it like a proper business. After each market day, she would sit and try to record the day’s sales. But the words — the ones she needed to fully express what she meant — often failed her.

That’s when she’d call the children. One of them would come, usually reluctantly, to write down the things she dictated. Most times, there was resistance. There were games to play, friends waiting outside to play. Who wanted to be stuck writing numbers and notes?

But she insisted. She didn’t just want to run a business — she wanted to understand it, document it, grow it. Even if she didn’t have the education, she had the hunger.

Years later, one of those children who used to write for her — the one who groaned and dragged their feet every time they were called — ended up writing a book. A whole memoir.

That child is me.

I, the son of two people who arrived in the city with little education and big dreams, wrote a memoir. A small thing, perhaps. But not so small when you understand the journey. Not so small when you know that part of the reason I wrote it — though I’d always said I never would — was because of her. Because of them.

I am a son of two people who didn’t finish school, but taught me everything about perseverance, ambition, and dignity.

I am a son of strength. I am a year older.