Growing up, he was my hero — the man who worked long hours to ensure I went to school, the man who reminded me that education was the key to a better life.
He sold a piece of land to pay my college fees, borrowed from friends to cover my final year, and endured hardship so that I could graduate. I carried his sacrifices on my shoulders like a promise I had to keep.
When I finally graduated, the entire family celebrated. My father slaughtered a chicken, invited neighbors, and proudly introduced me as “my educated son.” Everyone believed my future was set. I believed it too.
When I finally graduated, the entire family celebrated. My father slaughtered a chicken, invited neighbors, and proudly introduced me as “my educated son.” Everyone believed my future was set. I believed it too.
I imagined getting a job quickly, helping my siblings with school fees, and building my father a better house to replace the old one that leaked when it rained.
But reality hit me hard.
Month after month, I sent out applications. I walked from office to office with my CV in hand. I queued for interviews that led nowhere.
But reality hit me hard.
Month after month, I sent out applications. I walked from office to office with my CV in hand. I queued for interviews that led nowhere.
Sometimes I would be shortlisted, only to be told the position had been filled. Other times, I would never receive a response at all. The little savings I had ran out. I moved back home, ashamed, trying to hide my frustration.
At first, my father was patient. He encouraged me to keep trying. But as months turned into years, his patience wore thin.
At first, my father was patient. He encouraged me to keep trying. But as months turned into years, his patience wore thin.
The pressure of providing for the family never left his shoulders. School fees for my younger siblings piled up. Debts remained unpaid. And I became the symbol of his unfulfilled investment.
One evening, after a heated argument about money, he said words that shattered me:
“You wasted my money. If you can’t get a job, refund the fees I paid for you.”
Those words cut deeper than any failure letter I had received. I felt like my entire worth had been reduced to money. I wanted to shout that I was trying, that I wasn’t lazy, that the job market was brutal. But the pain in his eyes told me he was speaking from frustration, not cruelty. Still, it hurt.
I began to doubt myself. Maybe I was useless. Maybe my education had been pointless. Depression crept in quietly.
One evening, after a heated argument about money, he said words that shattered me:
“You wasted my money. If you can’t get a job, refund the fees I paid for you.”
Those words cut deeper than any failure letter I had received. I felt like my entire worth had been reduced to money. I wanted to shout that I was trying, that I wasn’t lazy, that the job market was brutal. But the pain in his eyes told me he was speaking from frustration, not cruelty. Still, it hurt.
I began to doubt myself. Maybe I was useless. Maybe my education had been pointless. Depression crept in quietly.
Some days I couldn’t even bring myself to leave the house. Friends I graduated with posted pictures online in offices and suits. I congratulated them with a heavy heart, wondering when my own breakthrough would come.
During this dark season, someone encouraged me to seek guidance from Dr. Bokko. I was skeptical at first, but I was desperate for direction.
During this dark season, someone encouraged me to seek guidance from Dr. Bokko. I was skeptical at first, but I was desperate for direction.
Through honest conversations and practical guidance, I was reminded that failure is not the opposite of success — it is part of the journey. I learned to reframe rejection, to build skills beyond my degree, and to explore opportunities I had previously ignored.
I started freelancing small jobs, learning digital skills, and taking short courses to improve my employability.
I started freelancing small jobs, learning digital skills, and taking short courses to improve my employability.
I volunteered where I could, just to gain experience. Slowly, doors began to open. The money was small at first, but it restored my dignity. I contributed to household expenses, and the tension at home began to ease.
My father noticed the change. One night, he sat beside me quietly and said, “I was harsh. I was just tired.” For the first time in years, I felt understood. I realized that his demand for a refund wasn’t about money — it was about fear. Fear that his sacrifices had been in vain. Fear that his son would never stand on his own feet.
My father noticed the change. One night, he sat beside me quietly and said, “I was harsh. I was just tired.” For the first time in years, I felt understood. I realized that his demand for a refund wasn’t about money — it was about fear. Fear that his sacrifices had been in vain. Fear that his son would never stand on his own feet.
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Today, I am not where I dreamed I would be, but I am moving forward. I work, I save, and I keep learning. I haven’t refunded school fees — but I am slowly repaying my father in another way: by not giving up.
To anyone struggling after graduation, being judged by family, or feeling like a disappointment — you are not alone.
Your journey is valid, even if it’s slower than others’. Success doesn’t come in one straight line. Keep going. One day, the same people who doubt you will be proud that you didn’t quit.
