There is a peculiar type of debt that plagues breadwinners across the continent—one not recorded in any bank ledger or loan agreement. It is the emotional debt owed to everyone they support. It grows quietly, fueled by expectations and the unsaid belief that once someone has helped you, they must continue to do so, indefinitely. This is the kind of debt that chains breadwinners not just to financial obligation, but to psychological exhaustion.
It begins with small things. A school uniform here. Medical bills there. A cousin needs transport fare. A younger brother must be enrolled in a university. An uncle's rent is due. These are the silent appeals that tug at the breadwinner's conscience, reminders that they are the "chosen one"—the one who made it, even if only slightly.
There is no room to say no. Refusing help is seen as cruelty, even arrogance. The breadwinner must never be tired. Their resources must never dry up. Their energy must never dim. After all, didn't they say they wanted to help the family? Didn't they vow to be the one to lift everyone up?
The danger is that this emotional debt is never balanced. It is always one-way. The breadwinner gives and gives, and even when they are drained to the bone, they must continue to give. Their gestures, no matter how grand, are quickly forgotten. Gratitude is fleeting. The more they provide, the more is expected. The bar keeps rising.
No one remembers that the breadwinner is also human. That they too have dreams. That they too need support. That they, like everyone else, are susceptible to failure and fatigue. When they can no longer meet demands, the silence of understanding is replaced by a louder silence—rejection. The warmth once shown to them fades into the cold indifference of people who no longer see them as useful.
Many breadwinners live with a deep, aching loneliness. Surrounded by people, yet isolated. Loved for what they give, not who they are. They become tools of utility, not beings of worth. And even as they cry inwardly, they must smile outwardly, lest they be seen as weak or ungrateful for the "blessing" of their position.
This cycle is worse for those who never had much to begin with. Some breadwinners are still finding their own footing when the demands come. They stretch themselves thin, sacrificing their own basic needs just to meet the expectations of others. They go into debt—borrowing, begging, overworking—all to maintain an image of strength. All to avoid the shame of saying, "I can't."
But the real shame lies not in the breadwinner's inability to continue, but in the community's failure to recognize that even the strongest need rest. That even those who provide deserve to receive. And that love should not be conditional on what one can give materially.
The unseen debt crushes slowly. It steals joy, peace, and health. It makes the breadwinner age before their time. Yet they keep going. Because deep down, they fear becoming a disappointment. They fear losing the approval that has now become their only form of love.
And so they pay, day after day, with their bodies, minds, and hearts—repaying a debt no one else is counting, but everyone expects to be paid.