My cousin's son landed in Heathrow, then vanished. Three weeks of silence broke me.

Back in 2023, my cousin in Ibadan called me, voice shaking. Her son Tunde had just landed in the UK to study. She said, "Bose, please look after him." I promised her.

I picked him from Heathrow, took him to his hostel in Woolwich. Gave him my number, told him to call me every week. He nodded, smiling.

Two weeks later, his number stopped going through. I called his mother, she said he hadn't called her either. I went to his hostel. His room was empty. The porter said he checked out.

I panicked. Called his friends, his school. Nothing. For three weeks, I couldn't sleep. My cousin called me every day, crying. I felt like I had failed her.

Then one evening, my phone rang. It was Tunde. He said he had moved in with a friend in Manchester, that he was fine. He didn't even apologize.

I was relieved, but also angry. I told him, "Tunde, you can't just disappear like that. Your mother almost had a heart attack." He just said, "Sorry, aunty."

That experience taught me a lesson. When you help people, you can't control what they do. You can only do your part and leave the rest. But it still hurts.