October 7 2024
David was taken to the morgue.
The police continued their investigations.
A post-mortem examination was carried out.
For Peter and Sola, the days that followed were difficult.
They had never expected to become responsible for the final arrangements of a man they had only known through his struggle.
David’s body remained at the morgue for several weeks.
Peter and Sola stayed in contact with the authorities.
They also contacted David’s extended family in Nigeria.
They explained everything that had happened.
They told them about David’s death.
They told them about the investigation.
They told them about the cost of sending his body back to Nigeria.
The family understood.
It was expensive.
They agreed that David could be buried in the UK.
Peter and Sola became the people responsible for making the arrangements for his burial.
The £10,000 that had been raised to help David secure his sponsorship was still there.
But David no longer needed sponsorship.
He needed a burial.
Part of the money was used to arrange his funeral.
There was nothing else they could do with it than to return the rest of the money to the church welfare team.
A few weeks later, the body was released.
Peter and Sola began preparing for the funeral.
The church also became involved.
There was a service of songs.
The pastor was there.
Tunde was there.
Bayode was there.
Peter and Sola were there.
The church members came too.
David had never been a member of the church.
But that did not matter.
In death, people came together to give him a final farewell.
The service was also livestreamed so that members of the family who could not be there could follow it from Nigeria.
There were songs.
There were prayers.
There were tears.
People spoke about life.
They spoke about family.
They spoke about the struggles many people face when they leave their countries in search of a better life.
Peter sat quietly.
He listened.
But his mind was somewhere else.
He kept thinking about David.
A young man who had come to the UK to build a better life.
A man who had gone to university.
A man who had paid thousands of pounds for his education.
A man who had worked in care homes.
A man who had sent money home.
A man who had applied for thousands of jobs.
A man who had hoped to bring his family to the UK.
Yet everything had gone wrong.
At home, his family had been attacked.
In the UK, he had struggled with immigration.
He had struggled with work.
He had struggled with money.
And in the end, he had lost everything.
Peter wondered how someone could leave home with hope and end up becoming a victim of circumstances both at home and abroad.
The question stayed with him.
What happens to people who come to the UK to build a better life but find themselves trapped between two worlds?
A few weeks earlier, David had been planning his future.
Now he was being buried in a country he had come to hoping to build that future.
The service came to an end.
David was finally laid to rest.
Peter stood quietly.
Sola held his hand.
Tunde stood nearby.
Bayode and the pastor were there too.
The grave was slowly covered.
Peter watched in silence.
Another life had ended.
Another dream had been buried.
They walked away slowly.
But David’s story remained in Peter’s mind.
He could not forget it.
He could not forget the message.
He could not forget the £10,000.
He could not forget the family in Nigeria.
He could not forget how quickly everything had changed.
And he could not shake the feeling that there was something deeply wrong with a system where someone could come to a country looking for a better life and find himself with nowhere to turn.
Then October moved on.
Towards the end of November, Peter began to notice something strange.
It started with a sharp pain around his waist and groin.
At first, he ignored it.
He thought it would go away.
But it did not.
The pain became sharper.
Then more painful.
Soon, sitting on a chair became difficult.
Peter tried to sit down.
He could not.
He stood up again.
He tried another chair.
The pain became worse.
Eventually, he had no choice but to lie down.
Sola looked at him.
“What is wrong?”
Peter held his waist.
“I don’t know.”
The pain came again.
Sharper this time.
Peter closed his eyes.
Something was wrong.
And this time, it was happening to him.
Sola became worried.
The pain was getting worse.
She watched Peter struggle to sit down.
She watched him stand up again.
Then lie down.
Something was wrong.
“We need to take you to the hospital,” she said.
Peter nodded.
Sola called the GP.
They explained what was happening.
The GP asked Peter to come in.
More tests followed.
Blood tests.
Scans.
An MRI.
The process took time.
Peter was asked questions about his health.
He was also asked about his work.
“How long do you spend standing?”
Peter thought about it.
“A long time.”
“What kind of work have you done?”
Peter explained that when he first arrived in the UK, he had worked in a factory.
He had spent long hours on his feet.
He had also carried heavy loads.
Sometimes, he worked for hours without sitting down.
The doctors listened.
They examined him.
Then they explained what they believed was happening.
The years of physically demanding work could have contributed to the pain he was experiencing.
The pain had now become persistent.
Peter was advised not to stand for long periods if he could avoid it.
He was told to take regular breaks.
He was encouraged to sit down when possible.
He was also advised to exercise regularly.
Medication was prescribed to help manage the pain.
Peter listened.
But there was one problem.
He had to work.
The tests and medical appointments took weeks.
By the middle of December, Peter had spent almost a month dealing with the pain and everything that came with it.
He could not work the way he used to.
And when Peter could not work, the bills did not stop.
The rent still had to be paid.
The electricity still had to be paid.
The food still had to be bought.
The children still needed things.
Sola carried the family as much as she could.
But it was not enough.
Peter knew it.
He could see it.
He felt helpless.
He had always believed that if he worked harder, he could solve his problems.
Now his own body was telling him that there was a limit.
Peter began thinking about life in the UK.
How many people were living with pain every day?
How many people were going to work while their bodies were hurting?
How many people were standing for hours, carrying heavy loads, driving for hours or working multiple jobs just to put food on the table?
How many were doing it because the bills never stopped coming?
That night, Peter called Mr Abbey.
“Mr Abbey, I need to talk to you.”
“What is wrong?”
Peter explained everything.
He told him about the pain.
He told him about the tests.
He told him about the MRI.
He told him that the doctors had advised him not to stand for long hours.
Mr Abbey listened.
Peter then told him about the month he had spent away from work.
He told him how difficult things had become.
“Sola is doing everything she can,” Peter said. “But it is not enough.”
There was silence on the phone.
Peter continued.
“I keep thinking about how many people are going through this every day.”
“Going through what?”
“Pain. Work. Bills. Stress. Everything.”
Mr Abbey understood.
He took a breath.
“Peter, you are not the only one.”
Peter said nothing.
Peter listened.
“And that is not all,” Mr Abbey continued.
“Another 776,000 workers were suffering from work-related stress, depression or anxiety.”
Peter was quiet.
“That is a lot of people.”
“It is,” Mr Abbey replied.
Mr Abbey continued.
“The HSE also estimated that 16.4 million working days were lost because of work-related stress, depression or anxiety in that year.”
Peter took a deep breath.
“So many people are going through this?”
“Yes.”
Mr Abbey paused.
“And there is something else you should understand. The HSE recognises that work-related pressures can contribute to suicidal thoughts and behaviour. But there is no official figure that tells us how many people died specifically because of work stress.”
Peter was silent.
Mr Abbey continued.
“In 2023, 6,069 suicides were registered in England and Wales.”
Peter looked down.
“But we cannot say all those deaths were caused by work stress,” Mr Abbey said. “The figures do not tell us that.”
Peter nodded slowly.
“That is still a lot of people.”
“It is.”
Mr Abbey’s voice became softer.
“That is why I am telling you to take your health seriously.”
Peter sighed.
“But what am I supposed to do? I need to work.”
“I work security.”
“And I also ride Uber.”
Mr Abbey was quiet.
“You are doing both?”
“Yes.”
“And you are still struggling?”
Peter laughed bitterly.
“I am working and still trying to catch up with the bills.”
Mr Abbey took a breath.
“Peter, you cannot kill yourself trying to make a living.”
Peter said nothing.
“You have to look after your health,” Mr Abbey continued. “You cannot keep working beyond what your body can take.”
“But I need the money.”
“I understand.”
“I have children.”
“I know.”
“I have bills.”
“I know.”
Peter became quiet.
Mr Abbey continued.
“You need to work less and rest more, especially as you get older. Your health has to come first.”
Peter looked around the room.
The children were inside.
Sola was in the kitchen.
The bills were on the table.
His work was waiting for him.
His body was telling him to stop.
But his responsibilities were telling him to continue.
Peter did not know which one to listen to.
He looked at his legs.
He thought about the pain.
Then he thought about the bills.
How long could he continue like this?
How long could a person keep working just to survive?
Peter had come to the UK believing that life would become better.
But now he was beginning to understand something.
Sometimes, survival itself could become a trap.
THE TRAP CONTINUES…
