Feeling Entitled Episode 1

Episode 1: The Golden Son

The evening call to prayer floated gently over the rooftops of Unguwan Doka as the sun dipped behind rows of rusted zinc sheets. Children chased worn footballs across dusty streets. Women sat outside on wooden benches, fanning themselves against the lingering heat. It was a quiet neighborhood, the kind where everyone knew each other’s business before sunset.

At the far end of the street stood Mallam Shehu’s compound.

For thirty five years, Mallam Shehu had worked at the local government office. He was known as a disciplined man, punctual and firm. Younger officers greeted him with respect. Traders called him “Mallam” with admiration. He carried himself like a man who had earned every grey hair on his head.

That afternoon, he returned home holding a thick brown envelope close to his chest.

His gratuity.

The reward for decades of service.

The fruit of missed holidays, unpaid allowances, and years of waking before dawn.

Word spread quickly that Mallam Shehu had received his retirement benefits. By evening, his compound was full.

His older children had arrived.

They stood in the courtyard in small clusters, their voices low, their smiles careful. These were the children from his first marriage. The marriage that had ended in bitterness many years ago.

There was Sadiya, the eldest daughter, her wrapper faded from too many washes. Aisha stood beside her, holding a small baby against her back. Musa, the eldest son, leaned against the wall, his face lined with stress far beyond his age.

They had come to congratulate their father.

But they had also come with hope.

Hope that the man who once carried them on his shoulders would remember them.

Mallam Shehu sat in his favorite wooden chair under the mango tree. The envelope rested heavily in his lap. He did not look at them as they greeted him.

Instead, his eyes were fixed on the inner door.

Where is Balarabe, he asked.

His voice softened at the name.

A moment later, the door creaked open.

Fifteen year old Balarabe stepped out.

He wore bright lace fabric stitched in the latest style. His sandals were polished. A gold colored wristwatch glinted under the fading sunlight. His hair was neatly trimmed, and his posture carried the confidence of someone who had never been denied anything.

While his older siblings shifted in worn slippers, Balarabe looked like he belonged in a different world.

I am here, Baba, he said lazily.

He did not greet his siblings.

He did not even glance at them.

Mallam Shehu’s face lit up like a proud king welcoming his heir.

My Golden Son, he called.

He opened the envelope and removed a thick bundle of cash.

The sight made Musa swallow hard.

Baba handed the money directly to Balarabe.

Go and buy that bicycle you wanted. The one with the gears. And that imported wristwatch you showed me. A son of mine must not look ordinary.

Balarabe collected the money without hesitation.

No thank you.

No humility.

Only a faint smirk as his eyes flickered toward his siblings.

Sadiya’s throat tightened.

Baba, she began carefully, her voice trembling, we are happy for you. But Musa’s shop collapsed during the rain. Aisha’s children are out of school. Even a small support would help us stand again.

Mallam Shehu’s smile disappeared.

His face hardened like dried cement.

You are all grown, he said sharply. You have husbands. You have wives. Find your own way. Balarabe is still young. He must be prepared for greatness. He will carry my name higher than any of you.

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Prepared for greatness.

As if the others were accidents.

As if their struggles were their own fault.

Musa clenched his jaw but remained silent. Years of neglect had taught him that arguing with their father only brought more humiliation.

Balarabe slipped the money into his pocket and stretched.

I will be back late, he announced casually.

Without greeting anyone, he walked out of the compound.

The older children watched him go.

They saw confidence.

But they also saw something else.

Arrogance.

As the gate closed behind Balarabe, silence settled heavily in the courtyard.

Sadiya wiped her eyes quickly before anyone noticed.

Mallam Shehu leaned back in his chair, satisfied.

He did not see the resentment building like storm clouds.

He did not hear the whisper in Musa’s mind.

One day, this golden child will test you.

Inside the house, Balarabe’s mother, Zainab, stood near the doorway, observing everything quietly.

Unlike the older children’s mother, Zainab had mastered patience. She knew her husband’s weakness.

Balarabe was not just a son.

He was a symbol.

Mallam Shehu had been mocked years ago for divorcing his first wife. Some relatives whispered that he had failed as a father. When Balarabe was born, a healthy boy after years of tension, Mallam Shehu saw him as redemption.

Everything he had not given the others, he poured into this one.

But Zainab worried.

Because she had begun to see changes in her son.

At school, teachers had complained about his behavior. He ignored instructions. He bullied weaker students. He boasted that his father could buy the entire school if he wanted.

When she tried to correct him, he laughed.

Baba says I am special.

That evening, Balarabe did not go to buy a bicycle.

He met his friends at a mechanic shed down the street.

He showed them the money proudly.

My father just retired. This is small change, he bragged.

His friends whistled in admiration.

Let us enjoy tonight, one suggested.

Balarabe agreed immediately.

They spent recklessly. Suya. Drinks. Betting on small street games. By midnight, half the money was gone.

Back at home, Mallam Shehu sat with his envelope again.

He counted what remained.

It was still substantial, but smaller than it should have been.

He convinced himself that investing in Balarabe was worth every naira.

He ignored the memory of Sadiya’s trembling voice.

He ignored the fact that Musa had left without eating.

He ignored the distant look in Aisha’s eyes as she carried her baby out of the gate.

Later that night, Musa gathered his sisters outside the compound.

We cannot continue like this, he said quietly.

He loves only one of us.

Sadiya shook her head.

He is still our father.

Musa’s voice dropped lower.

Yes. But favoritism destroys families.

Inside the house, Zainab approached her husband.

You are pushing the others away, she said gently.

They must stand on their own feet, Mallam Shehu replied stubbornly.

And Balarabe, she asked softly, will he ever learn to stand if you never let him fall.

Mallam Shehu frowned.

My son will not fall.

But even as he spoke, somewhere in the dark streets of Unguwan Doka, Balarabe stumbled slightly, laughing too loudly as he wasted money he had not earned.

The moon watched silently.

The night carried secrets.

And in the hearts of the neglected children, something began to change.

Respect was slowly turning into distance.

Distance was slowly turning into resentment.

And resentment, when watered long enough, grows into something far more dangerous.

Mallam Shehu believed he was building a legacy.

He did not realize he was building a fracture.

Because the higher a child is lifted without discipline, the further he drifts from reality.

And when reality finally comes, it does not knock gently.

It breaks the door.

End of Episode 1.

To be continued. Episode 2