I don’t remember the exact day I realized I was different because I was born a girl ,but I do remember the feeling. As they say people don’t remember what you say the remember how you make them feel .The pressure. The silence. The weight.

In many African homes, being born female often means learning to carry burdens that no one sees but everyone expects. You are taught to serve before you are taught to dream. You learn to endure before you learn to express. And before you even find your own voice, someone is already speaking for you — deciding what’s best for you, who you are, and who you’re meant to be. Hmmm the reality no one talks about right, I always cry whenever I feel like I want to this but I can’t do it because what will my family and siblings depend on even though sometimes I tell myself they will be fine . ITS HARD!

“You’re a girl, behave like one.”

That phrase — it follows us like a shadow. But what does it really mean? To be quiet when you want to scream? To cook while your brothers rest? To hide your emotions and smile even when you’re breaking inside? To show up for everyone but yourself or make you life look like you live for your siblings

From a young age, many African girls are trained to become women — not children. While boys are allowed to be free, loud, messy, curious — girls are told to be careful, decent, and obedient. We become second mothers before we understand what childhood even means and before you say oh it’s the 21st century people don’t treat their children like that , let me tell you I was victim of it and while it was hard to get out of it i managed to by starting to make my own money so i could have opitions because most african who are in this situations mostly carve in be cause they do not know how to make money with all the chores , schedules , deadlines in school etc. I want to tell you today there’s still a way that’s why I started this blog in the first place so I can share to others like me that are still figuring our 20’s out .

And it’s not just about chores.

It’s the aunties who shame you for how you sit. The uncles who suddenly stop looking at you the same once you hit puberty. It’s the fear you carry walking past a group of men. The need to explain yourself. To shrink. To not be “too much” — too bold, too outspoken, too ambitious. Because then you are labeled disrespectful.

And God forbid you try to dream beyond the walls of tradition.

Your ambition becomes a threat. Your independence becomes a rebellion. You are told, “No man will marry you if you’re like this.” As if marriage is the highest honor we should aspire to. As if we were born to be chosen, not to choose.

The pain of a girl child in an African home is often not physical — it’s emotional, mental, spiritual. It’s the constant policing of our bodies, our words, our choices. It’s the trauma that gets passed down like heirlooms from generation to generation. The wounds that never fully heal because they were never acknowledged. For me this wounds became parts of my burden even though I didn’t want to hurt anyone because I know there’s is a lot of inner work to be done . I’m still the one who suffers from it because explain to how I’m a cool person though and introvert but when guys approach I’m easy to talk to I have knowledge about every thing which makes them more interested in me but after that when they want to meet again I became anxious and begin to ignore them and even though I know I need therapy I can’t afford that yet but I sat to ask myself why is that ? That when I realize that make in jhs I came back from school with some of my friends who were boys who wanted to know where I lived but after they escorted me home I was caned severely and this happened anytime I had encounter with men /boys my age and my parents knew I was either scolded for it . In my early teens while figuring my parents out I figured my dad was I cheat and had various women aside my mom which means more children aside from the six of us but then when asked he says that’s what brings him peace . Hmmm a lot right see children who come from broken may have it worse but you see the family that is broken but both parents are still living those children have it the worst . Well all is well.

But we are rising. Slowly, painfully — but surely.

We are learning to speak. To reclaim our girlhood. To choose ourselves. To create homes within ourselves where our voices matter. Where we are not just daughters, sisters, and wives — but whole human beings.

To every African girl who has been silenced, overlooked, or broken . I see you. You are not alone. Your story matters. Your pain is valid. And most importantly, your healing is possible.

Let’s keep writing. Let’s keep speaking. Let’s keep breaking the cycle.

We Are More Than What They Made Us Believe

Growing up, I often felt like I had to earn love. That my worth depended on how useful I was in the home — how clean the kitchen was, how quiet I stayed when visitors came around, how well I could make jollof rice or care for my siblings. No one ever asked me how I was feeling. No one noticed when I started dimming my light to make others comfortable.

They called it training. I later learned it was conditioning.

Some of us were told not to sit on our father’s laps because “you’re a big girl now.” We didn’t understand, but we obeyed. Some of us were asked to greet strangers with wide smiles, even when our instincts screamed otherwise. We were told to respect our elders, even when those elders disrespected our bodies or boundaries.

And when we cried, they said we were being dramatic. When we spoke up, they said we lacked home training. But in truth, we were just tired. Tired of holding in pain that no one wanted to name.

The girl child in an African home often becomes the emotional sponge for the entire family.

We watch our mothers break in silence and still serve dinner with a smile. We watch our fathers show strength but hide fear. We learn to read moods, tiptoe around tension, and keep secrets. We grow up fast — too fast — carrying responsibilities our hearts weren’t ready for.

And still, we’re expected to succeed. To carry the family name with pride, to marry well, to give birth, to raise perfect children. The expectations are endless, and often contradictory.

But here’s the thing: we’re not just surviving anymore. We’re reclaiming.

We are giving our inner girl the childhood she never had. We are crying and not apologizing for it. We are speaking and not lowering our voices. We are learning to say “No” without guilt. We are healing loudly, publicly and proudly.

Because healing is also resistance.

To every girl reading this — whether you’re still in that house or far away from it this is your reminder:

• You are not too much.
• You are not too loud.
• You are not unworthy of love, care, or rest.

You are not broken — you were just raised in a system that didn’t know how to hold you gently.

Now, we’re creating new systems. New homes. New cultures that honor our softness and our strength. We are choosing ourselves fully and without apology.

Because the African girl child deserves more than pain.
She deserves freedom. Joy. Safety. And a love that doesn’t ask her to shrink.