Inherited chains
Sam knew the day had drained him before he even stepped out of the car.
All schools had closed that Friday, which meant picking up the children from boarding houses scattered across the city. Traffic was merciless, from horns, fumes, tempers, and the slow crawl of exhaustion pressing against his temples.
By the time he got home, the only thing he wanted was silence.
A long bath helped. Dinner helped more. Soon he was seated with his wife Helen and their four children, listening as they moved from school stories to sports debates to celebrity gossip. Laughter travelled easily across the table. It was the ideal family time any family could wish for.
Later that night, after the children retired, Sam and Helen moved to the rooftop balcony; his sanctuary. The air was cool and generous. From there, he could chat with Helen, skim the evening paper, and glance through the glass into the living room where the news flickered quietly.
Sam hissed suddenly. “Mehn, blacks really suffered in the hands of the colonisers. To think some of our ancestors enabled the slave trade is beyond depressing.”
Helen nodded with conviction. “Quite right. Useless chiefs… so-called leaders selling their own people for mirrors and gifts. Devilish things.”
They shook their heads in shared disgust. History always had villains, and tonight they condemned them thoroughly. Those who sold their own.
Eventually, they went to bed.
Sam switched off the lamp and drifted quickly into sleep.
Then he saw himself.
He was standing in his bedroom, watching his own sleeping body beside Helen. The perspective unsettled him.
A voice emerged behind him.
“So… interesting conversation tonight.”
Sam turned. A man sat calmly in a chair that did not belong in the room.
“Slave trade and betrayal. Selling out on one’s own people,” the stranger continued. “Despicable, right?”
Sam nodded slowly, not sure where the mystery man was headed.
A pause that followed was heavy and intentional.
“In years to come,” the stranger said gently, “your descendants will discuss people like you the same way.”
Sam frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You, Sam Nwokolo. Celebrated executive. Respected provider. But look behind you, how many of your own have you lifted?”
Sam said nothing.
“When the Monrovia expansion needed leadership,” the man continued, “you refused to recommend anyone from Lagos, Kaduna, Abuja or Accra. You feared someone rising and shining. You feared being replaced. You loved the idea of being the first of your kind and that status staying the same. So, you supported hiring a foreigner.”
Sam felt heat rise in his chest.
“You blocked pay adjustments your superiors suggested for your reporting lines. You cut welfare budgets. Remember what you told Biehoff? ‘Do not spoil these people… they will become entitled and demand more.’”
Sam looked away.
“You and the head of HR you installed, ensured staff never reached the owners to request better conditions. You preserved profit and control.”
The stranger leaned forward.
“Tell me Sam, when history speaks of those who enabled exploitation… will your name sound different?”
Silence crushed the room.
Sam’s throat tightened. He tried to respond, but the words would not form.
Then he woke up gasping.
Helen stirred beside him. “Honey… are you okay?”
Sam looked around.
The chair was gone.
The room was still.
But his chest felt heavy as if a bag of rice had sat on it.
He lay back slowly, staring into the darkness, suddenly unsure whether the dream had ended or merely finished speaking. He was at least relieved it wasn’t judgement day.