A MAN’S PATH: The African Man’s baggage

Beneath the African sun, where the earth hums with ancestral whispers and skies stretch wide enough to hold a thousand secrets, there is a silent storm brewing in the hearts of men. It is not the kind that rattles rooftops or floods rivers. No, this storm is quieter, fiercer, rawer. It is the tempest of vulnerability, a force so misunderstood it is often mistaken for weakness. But here, in a world where masks are polished like heirlooms and truths buried like gold, to be vulnerable is to wage war.  Men in Africa grow up learning to build fortresses. Brick by brick, they stack stoicism, humor, and silence. A father’s stern gaze becomes a lesson: Never let them see you tremble. A brother’s teasing laugh hides the ache of his unspoken fears. For generations, masculinity has been measured by how well a man swallows his pain, and how high his walls stand. To admit doubt, grief, or longing is to risk the judgment of a society that confuses tenderness with incompetence. Yet, here’s the paradox they never teach you: It takes more strength to dismantle those walls than to build them.  The true image of an African man had been enshrined in being selfless, a giver, a protector, a terminator, a multi-dimensional and intellectual/physically capable being, whose emotional baggage is his to bear and no one else, the concept of psychological breakdown is foreign to him in a world were survival is brutal and the faint of heart dares not step in the arena.Imagine a man sitting at the edge of his bed, phone in hand, thumb hovering over a friend’s name. He wants to say, “I’m drowning.” But the words clot in his throat. To speak them would unravel the myth he’s spent years weaving the myth that he is invincible. So he laughs instead, sends a meme, and asks about the football match. The moment passes. The fortress holds. But the storm inside him grows.  Vulnerability is not a surrender. It is a rebellion.  In a continent where the community is both armor and anchor, men are conditioned to be pillars, unbending, unbreaking. But what happens when the pillar cracks? When the job is lost, the marriage frays and the grief of losing a parent becomes a weight too heavy to bear alone. The lies begin here. “I’m fine,” he says. “It’s nothing,” he insists. The deception isn’t malicious; it’s survival. To admit struggle is to risk becoming a cautionary tale: “See what happens when you let them in?”  Yet, beneath this lies a hunger. A longing to be seen, truly seen, without the filter of performance. It takes Herculean courage for a man to say, “I don’t know,” or “I’m scared,” (if you say this in Naija, you’re officially less than a man) or “I need help.” To do so is to stand naked before a world that’s quick to weaponize fragility. In Africa, where communal ties are thick as baobab roots, vulnerability is often mistaken for a betrayal of strength. “What will people say?” lingers like a ghost in every conversation.  Well done to the African superheroes, the above description of a man here is nothing short. This is what I have seen, my friends, cousins, and brother slowly becoming, yet some words spoken "You're not helping yourself" or "Can't you see Mr. A" by those trailblazers are hot rods etched on your skin, a mark of significant now lingers, this becomes an extra baggage you carry.The voice within cries for help, but the lips are sealed in a covenant of silence 🤐, we see no evil and we speak no evil. To be continued..

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