I'm Heartbroken

CHAPTER ONE – THE WEIGHT OF BLOOD

Daniel Aremu had always believed that family was meant to be a safe place.

He grew up thinking it was the one circle where you could be yourself without fear, the one group of people who would choose you even when the whole world turned its back.

As a boy, he thought the walls of their house held love the way a pot holds water — full, warm, and ready to serve. But over the years, he realised that even a pot with a small crack will slowly leak until one day you look inside and find it empty.

The Memory That Never Left

He was eight years old the day it happened.

It was a Thursday afternoon, the kind when the harmattan air was dry and every sound seemed sharper. He had stayed behind in school because of Art Club. For days, Daniel had been working on a drawing — a large, colourful sketch of a village scene.

It was the best thing he had ever drawn. He had used his lunch money to buy special pencils from a roadside shop, and he had begged his classmate, Bisi, for a bit of her crayon to make the sunset perfect.

Walking home that day, he imagined how his father would react.

“Ah, Daniel, you are an artist o!” he would say, smiling, clapping his back.

Maybe his father would even tell his mother to frame it and hang it in the sitting room.

But when Daniel reached home, the reality was different.

His father was seated in the parlour, glasses on, reading The Daily Times. The smell of groundnut oil and fried plantain floated from the kitchen. Daniel’s heart was beating fast — the good kind of fast — as he approached.

“Daddy, see what I drew in school,” he said, holding out the paper like a treasure.

His father looked up, briefly. His eyes flicked over the page. “Put it there,” he said, pointing at the table beside the sofa. Then his eyes dropped back to the newspaper.

That was all.

No smile. No “well done.” No interest.

The paper sat there all night. The next morning, Daniel couldn’t find it. Later, he discovered that his younger brother had used it to wrap roasted corn he bought from a woman down the street. The corners of the paper were greasy, the colours smudged.

It wasn’t the corn that hurt. It was the feeling that his joy didn’t matter to anyone.

Little Wounds That Grew

That moment became one of many.

There was the time he came second in class for the first time, after years of being in the middle. He rushed home with his report card, hoping for celebration. His father only said, “Next time, be first.”

There was the time he stayed up all night to learn the Lord’s Prayer in Yoruba for a church programme. The next day, he forgot two lines on stage. His mother shook her head from the front row and didn’t speak to him until evening.

Small wounds.

Small cuts.

But they never healed, because there was always another.

Love That Felt Far Away

The Aremu house was always busy — relatives dropping by, neighbours asking for help, siblings arguing about whose turn it was to fetch water. But to Daniel, it felt strangely empty.

It wasn’t the absence of people. It was the absence of warmth.

Sometimes he would lie in bed at night and listen to the sound of the ceiling fan turning lazily above him. He could hear his parents talking in their room, their voices muffled. He wondered if they ever talked about him.

Other times, he would wish for just one evening when everyone sat together without quarrels, without silence heavy enough to choke

The Kitchen Scene

One Saturday morning, he decided to try again.

His mother was in the kitchen, slicing onions. The strong, tear-bringing smell filled the air. Daniel took a deep breath.

“Mummy, I think I want to be an artist when I grow up,” he said, leaning on the doorway.

She didn’t look up. “Artist? What will that put in your pocket? You better face your mathematics. That one will feed you.”

It was a simple answer, but it felt like a door closing in his face. He mumbled “Okay” and left, the smell of onions following him like a reminder of the sting in her words.

The Silence That Spoke Louder

Years passed, but those moments never really faded.

The house still had laughter — but it was the kind that didn’t reach the eyes. Conversations were safe and shallow, touching on the weather, church programmes, or who was getting married next. Anything deeper was avoided.

Daniel learned to keep his thoughts to himself. It was easier that way.

But sometimes, late at night, he would remember the boy with the drawing — the boy who believed his father would smile — and wonder if that boy still existed somewhere inside him.

And in those moments, the truth sat heavy in his chest:

The weight of blood is not always the warmth of love.