₦airaland Forum

A Spanner Lost

The first time I heard it, I didn't understand.

"Boss, a spanner lost."

I thought someone dropped a tool. Happens all the time on a construction site. Metal slips from sweaty hands. Falls into water. Gone.

I kept working.

By the third day, I'd heard it five times. Six. Then I stopped counting.

"Two spanners today."

"Three spanners yesterday."

Always the same flat tone. Like reporting the weather.

*We were building the old Niger Bridge. December 1965.*

The river below us was dark. Moving fast. You didn't want to look down too long.

I was new. Needed the money. My wife was pregnant. I told myself it was temporary.

One afternoon, the man next to me lost his footing.

I saw it happen.

He didn't scream. Just went over. A splash. Then nothing.
I turned to the supervisor.

"Sir! A man just fell!"

He didn't even look up.
"A spanner lost," he said. "Get back to work."

I stared at him.

"That's not a spanner. That's a human being."

He looked at me then. Not angry. Just tired.

"I said it's a spanner. Carry on."

I couldn't move.

"Sir, please. Take a roll call. Count us. The man beside me is gone. I swear it."

He wiped his forehead. Took a breath.

"Even if it's the man beside you, there's nothing we can do. He's gone. You want to stop the whole site? We have a deadline."

I stood there. My hands shaking.

"It's a spanner," he said again. "Now get back to work or go home."

That's when I understood.

All those spanners. Every single one.

Not tools. People.
Men who slipped. Fell. Drowned.

Fathers. Brothers. Sons.

Called spanners so the work wouldn't stop. So no one would have to write a report. So the bridge would finish on time.

I worked the rest of that day in silence. My chest tight. Sweat cold on my back.

*That could have been me.*

When they paid us at sunset, I took my money and never went back.


A friend's father told me that story about ten years ago.

I think about it often now.

Especially at work.

*Two years ago, I got transferred to a new school.*

Two weeks later, I heard the news.

A colleague. Someone I used to greet in the staffroom. Slumped during school hours. Right there on the compound.

They rushed him to the hospital nearby.

BID. Brought In Dead.

TESCOM sent a condolence message to the family.

That was it.

School resumed the next Monday. Someone else took over his classes.

Life moved on.

A year before that, a teacher at Community Secondary School name withheld.

Teaching his students when the classroom roof caved in.

He pushed the children out of the way. Took the worst of it himself.

Fractured ribs. Head injury. Hospitalised for months.

Government didn't pay a kobo.

He covered the bills himself. Borrowed from family. Sold things.

When he finally came back to work, limping, no one said much.

Just glad he survived.
But the roof? Still not fixed.

*We are all spanners.*

Every single one of us.
You think your title protects you? Your years of service? Your name on the door?

It doesn't.

The system doesn't care if you're HOD or classroom teacher. Permanent or contract. Whether you've been there two years or twenty.

When you fall, someone else will take your desk.

Your students will get a new teacher.

Your classes will be reassigned.

And life will carry on.

Maybe they'll send a message. Maybe not.

*I see it in the staffroom sometimes.*

Senior colleagues who walk around like they own the place.
Mr. Know-It-All. The Alpha and Omega of the department.

You're supposed to bow. Agree. Keep quiet when they speak.

They forget what the job title actually says.

Civil *servant*.

*Servant.*

Not lord. Not king. *Servant.*

You think TESCOM will remember you when you're gone? You think the Commissioner knows your name?

Nobody is irreplaceable.

Not me. Not you. Not the principal.

We're all just spanners on a bridge that has to be finished.

*There are three things in life that actually matter.*

* Your relationship with God. Or your maker. Or whatever you call the force that keeps you breathing.
* Your health.
* Your family.

Lose any of those and I promise you've lost what counts.

Money? Sure. You need it. Bills don't pay themselves.

But money isn't fourth on the list. Maybe seventh.

And pension? Government gratuity?

Don't hold your breath.

*Let me tell you something real.*

My parents retired over ten years ago.

They're still waiting for their gratuity.

Ten years.

Not ten months. Ten years.

Still waiting for the government to say thank you.

That Endwell scheme they're selling you? The one that promises big returns after retirement?

It won't save you.

I've seen retirees collect their lump sum. Blow it in six months. Then back to struggling.

If you're waiting on government to take care of you after thirty years, you're already in trouble.

But there are real options. Things you can start now. Small. Quiet. Consistent.


*Mutual funds managed by SEC-registered firms.* Stanbic, ARM, Meristem, FBN Capital. They pool your money with others. Invest in bonds, stocks, real estate. You earn based on performance. And you don't need millions to start.



*Agriculture bonds and funds.* Some platforms let you invest in real farming projects. Rice. Poultry. Cashew. Returns can be good if you choose right.

The magic isn't in one big investment. It's in time.



That's more than most gratuities.

But you have to start. Not next year. Not when salary improves.

Now.

Because the government will not remember you were a spanner until you fall.

By then, it's too late.

So what now?

I'm not here to preach. Or fix you. Or tell you what to do with your life.

But I'll say this.

If you're still acting like your job is your identity, wake up.

If you're still bowing to someone who'll forget your name the day you retire, stop.

If you're still betting everything on a pension that might not come, rethink.

You are not the bridge.

You're the worker.

And the bridge will stand long after you're gone.

*That man who fell into the river in 1965.*

Nobody knows his name.

The bridge is still there.

*If this story made you pause. If it reminded you of someone. If it changed something in you.*

Share it.

Not for me. For the teacher in your staffroom who's killing himself for a system that won't remember him.

For the colleague who thinks seniority makes them untouchable.

For the young teacher who just got posted and thinks the salary is enough.

Share it because someone needs to hear this before they become another spanner lost.

Tag a colleague. Forward it. Screenshot it. Print it and stick it on the noticeboard if you have to.

This isn't motivational talk.

It's survival.

And if one person reads this and starts that ₦5,000 monthly investment today, it's worth it.

If one senior colleague reads this and remembers they're also a servant, it's worth it.

If one teacher realises their health matters more than impressing the principal, it's worth it.


©️ Segun Egbewale 2025
Please credit the original writer when sharing. It's the right thing to do. And it's the law.
*POSTED AS SEEN*