The morning sun poured through the lace curtains of the Adewale household, painting golden patterns on the tiled floor. The scent of fried plantain drifted through the air, mingling with the laughter of two sisters whose voices always seemed to brighten the home.
Tola, the elder at twenty, was the family's songbird. Her voice could melt even her father's stern expression—at least, when he wasn't reminding her that music doesn't pay bills in Nigeria. Her younger sister, Simi, seventeen, moved through life with rhythm in her step and dreams of the stage in her eyes. Together, they had turned the small living room into their stage countless times—Tola singing, Simi dancing, their laughter echoing through the walls.
But today, their laughter was laced with something new—hope and fear.
The brown envelopes on the dining table were heavy with expectation. Admission letters. The moment they had worked for, prayed for, and dreaded.
Their father, Mr. Adewale, sat at the head of the table, glasses perched on his nose, reading through the letters as if each word held the key to their future. His wife, Mrs. Adewale, stood by his side—calm, gentle, her purple hijab framing a face that had learned patience through years of balancing love and discipline.
"University of Ibadan," Mr. Adewale read aloud. "Medicine and Surgery for Tola. Law for Simi."
He smiled proudly, but when he looked up, he found not excitement, but hesitation.
Tola shifted in her seat. "Baba, I'm happy… but I've been thinking—maybe I could also join the music club? Just for a little while—"
Mr. Adewale's smile vanished. "Music club? You got into Medicine, Tola. Do you know how many people dream of that chance?"
Simi tried to interject softly. "Daddy, what she means is—"
"Quiet, Simi," he interrupted, his tone sharp but not cruel. "I want you both to have stable lives. Not this… entertainment nonsense."
The word nonsense hung heavy in the air.
Mrs. Adewale watched her daughters' eyes dim and sighed inwardly. She understood the spark in them—it was the same spark she once had, before life's responsibilities taught her to dream smaller.