Outside were parked beautiful cars belonging to students, and the entrance of the new hostel was busy with students moving in and out. Some from shopping malls holding with them fancy shopping bags loaded with provisions, others were moving in, aided by the porters who carried their fridges, microwave ovens or giant fluffy teddy bears for their soft luxurious beds.

Mother sent tubers of yam, millet, cassava, corn dough, groundnuts, and some smoked fish, all the way from the village, to me and my junior brother, everything neatly tied up in a giant jute sack peppered with the dust of a long journey.

For a long time, we stood at the car park, wondering how to get the giant jute sack past the entrance into my room. There was no money to eat at the food joints on campus, and this was our chance at survival if we wanted to go far that semester. I had to get the sack safely into my room. But how do I get past the jeering and mocking looks of the rich kids shuffling at the entrance?

The sack was too heavy to be carried alone. And due to the strain of the long distance, tubers of yam and cassava were already jutting out of the weakened seams. An embarrassing dilemma.

While I thought of what to do, my brother asked that I help him carry the heavy sack on his head. I was hesitant, but he insisted.

I watched him carry the dusty, torn sack filled with grains falling from its perforations through the crowd, unperturbed by their looks – mocking, curious, bewildered…

I followed slowly, keeping a distance, hurrying when I remembered he will need my help to open the door to my room and to unload the weight off his head.

Finally, we made it. At last.

My brother’s act and courage stands out in my memories, a constant reminder of what a true brother, or sister, is. And a reminder of how far we ought to go, knowing where we’ve come from.