𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐃𝐮𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲

I learned the hard way!

As I mentioned in earlier writings, I sold locust beans to support my mother until the penultimate year of high school. One day in 4th grade, I learned a lesson that would stay with me.

𝐁𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐈’𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐩 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐰𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐈 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈 𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐨𝐮𝐭. 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐲, 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲’𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐮𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐨𝐭 “𝐟𝐢𝐬𝐢” (𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐥𝐲, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐲).

I had to go freelance to get rid of everything, and I completely lost track of time. When I got home, I could hear the resumption drum at nearly every school, and our school was at least 25 minutes away on foot. I decided not to go to school at all that day.

Two reasons, actually. One, Dad, being the disciplinarian and not easily convinced, was already off at the farm. Two, I hated the song we sang to the late arrivals; it was just awful, so demeaning. Possibly the third, more remote reason was that Mum took the lead. I was the third.

My mother would absolutely have none of it about me not going to school. Before I could even get a word in edgeways, she’d got a cane, she’d got me all ready, and she’d flogged me to school and handed me over to my class teacher. I then received further flogging and the dreaded song “asá ṣùkúrù, a le kó lọ, kò lè lọ” (the truant who absconds from school but won’t be driven away).

More painful was that the beating left a mark on my left cheek. Rather than be sorry for me, my mother was quite proud to tell me that I might need to show my offspring later on that truancy wasn’t all that rewarding after all. The mark did eventually fade (well before the offspring arrived).

𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞. 𝐌𝐲 𝐝𝐮𝐭𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐰𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫; 𝐦𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐨 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐦𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫. 𝐌𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭.

Those lessons are absolutely true, and I’ve lived by them for decades. They are the lessons of a boy still inside the event. From the outside, looking in, the day reveals to me two things he could never have seen and one question he never thought to ask.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐥 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐞.

My regulars had already bought at the house, deliberately, so that the purchase came wrapped in generosity. The night before, they were really paying for the privilege of coming again. The distance I covered the next morning acquired nothing. It spent something I had taken a long time to build, on a day when it could not pay me back.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐥 𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐰𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐇𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐧 𝐚 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐦 𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐦 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤. 𝐇𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐦𝐞𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝. 𝐈𝐧 𝐚 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤, “𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠” 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭. 𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐠𝐲. 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲, 𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐭, 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐤𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡.

𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐝

I named two obligations: the trade and the school. There were three of them when I stood there that morning. The obligation to my mother’s trade (the trade that fed the family). The obligation to school (there was a bell you could hear and an assembly you couldn’t see). And the obligation to the channel itself (the system I’d built up, with its own logic, value, and ceiling).

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭, 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐰𝐧. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐞. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐫𝐦. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐰 𝐚 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐚𝐧𝐭. 𝐍𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚 𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐀 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞. 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐫, 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐲, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐩𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐬 𝐈 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞.
I drew a very clear line. I’ve since concluded that the line is very clear in memory and very muddy in the moment, which is why it leaves a scar rather than a conversation. What I actually learned was far narrower and far more difficult: when I couldn’t draw the line myself, someone else did it for me with a cane in a direction I hadn’t picked.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬: 𝐝𝐮𝐭𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐰𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐰𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞. 𝐃𝐮𝐭𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞. 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐨𝐧.

Seen that way, her flogging was duty and responsibility crashing into one another in a single person with a cane. She chose the horizon as her only language at that time. The third lesson required a far more careful reading than I ever gave it. She flogged her son to school and handed him over to his teacher. When the mark appeared on his cheek, she didn’t say a word of apology. She told him he might have to show it to his own kids. Those two acts were the same act. One woman, with a single instrument (a cane), refused to let a ten-year-old’s little bit of reasoning become the family’s permanent record. Most boys don’t appreciate a mother’s rigor. I’m not sure most men ever outgrow it.

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐮𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲?

That morning my duty was the beans in my basin and the customers on my route. I was responsible for the boy in the school uniform, for the person he would become. One had a clock, the other a horizon. It wasn’t a clash of two equal claims; it was a clash of one very urgent claim against one very quietly permanent claim, and I chose the urgent one.

That’s the form it takes for almost everyone, not just the children. Duties come with other people attached to them: a customer waiting, a parent asking, an employer expecting. The duty itself often has no one in the room and no way to demonstrate on any given morning that you’ve actually done it. It’s that asymmetry that is the reason duty always wins and why the bill comes years later in a currency that has absolutely nothing to do with the original problem.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞.

My mother drew the line for me, and she drew it properly. The way she did it left a mark on a ten-year-old’s face, and the method and the correctness came together. I’ve spent much of my life trying to work out whether the rigor that saved me was inseparable from the hands that did the saving. She would have said a child can’t be got to see a horizon by argument and that my argument now is the argument of a man who has already seen it. On the substance, she was absolutely right.

𝐒𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐈 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐮𝐭𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲. 𝐈𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬: 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐨𝐧, 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦? 𝐃𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫, 𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮?

Have you ever confused duty with responsibility?

𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐮𝐬.

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