There was a time when gratitude was genuine—when every act of support from a breadwinner was met with heartfelt thanks and deep appreciation. A mother would kneel in prayer. A younger sibling would beam with pride. A cousin would whisper, "God bless you." Those moments mattered. They gave the breadwinner strength to go on, to sacrifice more, to dig deeper. But as time passed, the tone changed. Slowly, subtly, gratitude gave way to expectation. Expectation hardened into entitlement.
It begins with a small shift in language. "Thank you" becomes "you should." "I appreciate it" becomes "I need it." Then, over time, the support that once brought joy becomes seen as a right. And the breadwinner's value is reduced to a simple formula: as long as you give, you are good. Once you stop, you are forgotten—or worse, resented.
In African homes, entitlement is often cloaked in familiarity. The family says, "We are one," but that oneness is usually measured by how much the breadwinner is giving. The moment they can't—due to job loss, illness, burnout—the unity crumbles. Relatives grow cold. Friends grow distant. Whispers start. "What's he even doing in the city?" "She has changed." "He doesn't remember us anymore."
They do not ask what happened. They do not wonder if the breadwinner is okay. All that matters is the loss of benefit.
This entitlement is not just emotional—it becomes financial. Some families draw up lists of needs as though budgeting from a national treasury. "School fees for all the children," "Monthly allowance for Mama," "Hospital bill for Uncle," "House rent for Cousin," "Contribution to church building." The breadwinner becomes the ATM of the community, with no password of privacy, no pause button, no sense of limit. When they ask questions, they are told, "You're the one who made it." As if success has no burden of its own.
And if the breadwinner dares to prioritize their own goals—building a home, investing in a business, saving for the future—they are accused of selfishness. "After all we did for you?" they are told. But what was done for them? Often, it was not resources or help but emotional guilt and verbal obligation, passed down like inheritance.
This culture of entitlement becomes even more painful when breadwinners make personal sacrifices—going without meals, delaying marriage, missing medical checkups—just to meet everyone else's needs. Yet those sacrifices are rarely acknowledged. No one asks how they are coping. No one offers to give back. People only remember the last thing you didn't do, not the hundred things you already did.
And so the breadwinner begins to pull away—not out of pride, but out of pain. They stop answering calls. Stop visiting home. Stop sharing their plans. Not because they don't care, but because they are tired of being seen as a resource, not a relative. Tired of love that feels conditional. Tired of giving without receiving.
But the world does not permit their withdrawal. Once a breadwinner withdraws, they are demonized. The same people who benefited from their generosity now paint them as wicked, arrogant, disconnected. Rumors spread. Relationships sour. And no one pauses to ask the harder question: Why did they pull away?
Entitlement poisons relationships. It transforms love into obligation. It erases history and rewrites it through the lens of personal benefit. And it creates a cycle in which breadwinners are discouraged from building their own lives, for fear of appearing uncaring.
In some homes, this has led to generational silence. Breadwinners no longer share their struggles with their families. They suffer alone, plan in secret, and mourn their pain quietly. They know that vulnerability will be interpreted as weakness—or used against them.
This entitlement doesn't just hurt emotionally. It delays progress. A breadwinner may be capable of building an empire, creating jobs, investing in ideas—but all their resources are tied to constant consumption by dependents. Nothing is saved. Nothing is grown. Everything is spent just to keep the peace. And so, the poverty cycle remains unbroken—not for lack of opportunity, but because one person is forced to carry too many.
But the truth is, a breadwinner is not a god. They are not a government. They are not immune to the struggles of life. They bleed like everyone else. They break like everyone else. And until society learns to stop treating them like bottomless wells, their strength will eventually dry out—often in the most tragic of ways.
Entitlement must give way to empathy. Families must learn to share the load, not pile it higher. Communities must teach appreciation, not assumption. And breadwinners must be allowed to choose themselves without fear of being labeled heartless.
Only then can sacrifice become meaningful again. Only then can giving be rooted in love, not fear. Only then can gratitude be real—and the burden, a little lighter.