Don’t Tell My Family I Lost My Job

A heartfelt poem about silence, pride, and the weight of family expectations.

Don’t tell my family I lost my job.
Let them still think I take Keke to work by nine,
That I greet the same
conductor, nod at the same shopkeeper,
and return home with purpose dusted on my shoes.

Let Mama keep her faith.
She’s my quiet morning prayer,
always saying, “E go better,”
As if her voice alone can bend the world my way.
Her hope is holy,
And I won’t stain it with this silence I’m dragging around.

Don’t tell my eldest brother.
He means well, but his words bite like cold harmattan.
He provides, yes,
but he carries the world so tight
he forgets softness exists.
Bad news locks him up.
Disappointment makes him cruel.
If he hears I’ve fallen again,
He’ll speak thunder,
And I’ll be the one struck.

Don’t tell my sister, the one I follow.
She’ll scold me,
face twisted in disbelief,
Like my failure is a personal insult to her strength.
She’ll say, “You’re better than this nonsense!”
And I’ll nod, swallowing my shame like bitter leaf.

Don’t tell the thirdborn.
He’s cool and easy.
We talk in half-sentences that say everything.
He’ll understand,
But still, he’ll carry it in his eyes,
And I can’t bear to see pity in him.

And the second sister, my soft one.
She’ll try to fix me with words,
wrap me in light,
say things like, “You’re still the best of us, my dear.”
But her kindness will undo me faster than anger.

So no, don’t tell any of them.
Together, they’re a recipe for disaster,
a choir of love that sings off-key.
They mean well,
but they bruise without knowing.
They heal only after the bleeding’s done.

Let them all think I’m doing fine,
that I’m still chasing dreams that now walk faster than me.
Let them see me through the lens of hope,
not the fog of failure.

One day, when life remembers my name,
I’ll tell them myself
How close I came to breaking,
and how their faith, even from afar,
kept me standing.

But for now,
please,
Don’t tell my family I lost my job.