The day my mother called me at 2am to say my father's pension was missing

My father retired in 2019 after 32 years in the civil service. His pension was supposed to start immediately. It didn't.

Every month my mother would go to the pension office in Abuja. Every month they would tell her "come back next month." For 18 months, nothing.

I was working at a fintech in Yaba then, earning ₦280k a month. Not enough to carry the whole family but enough to send something home. My mother never asked me for money directly. She would just say "your father is asking after you" and I would know.

Then one night, 2am, she called. She was crying but trying not to let me hear it. She said the pension office told her my father's file had been "misplaced." Thirty-two years of service. Misplaced.

I remember sitting on my bed in the dark, doing the math in my head. How many months can I cover? How many times can I send money before my rent is due? The numbers didn't add up. They never do.

We eventually got it sorted through a family friend who knew someone. That's how Nigeria works. Not systems. Connections.

My father never complained. Not once. He just kept wearing the same two shirts and saying "God dey."

I think about that a lot now. How we normalize suffering. How we call it faith. How the people who built this country end up begging for what they already earned.

I send money home every month now. More than before. My mother still doesn't know my real salary. Let her sleep.