13/06/2025
HE BECAME A MAN EVEN BEFORE HE COULD WALK
He was only seven years old when he first felt the weight of the world. He became a man too early even before he could take his first step – even before he could walk.
Ayo lived in a small town where the sun rose early and the nights echoed with silence. His mother, a tired but loving woman, worked two jobs. His father—sadly, he had passed away long before Ayo could remember his voice.
So, Ayo became the man of the house—not by choice, but by necessity.
Every morning before school, he’d fetch water, sweep the compound, and help his little sister get ready. He would stand in front of her tiny mirror, gently plaiting her hair the way Mama taught him. Then he’d walk her to school, even if it meant being late to his own.
He learned to cook by trial and error—burnt rice, salty stew, undercooked yams. He endured the teasing of neighbors who mocked him for “doing woman’s work,” but he didn’t care. His sister needed to eat. His mother needed rest. And he—he needed to be strong.
At school, his teachers praised him for his maturity, but no one ever asked if he was tired. At home, relatives visited and commended his mother for raising a "strong boy," but none of them offered to help. They praised his ability to “handle things like a man,” yet forgot he was just a boy.
He cried quietly at night sometimes, not because he was weak, but because no one told him it was okay to.
By fifteen, Ayo had learned to hide his emotions like secrets. He had no room to be vulnerable. While the girls around him were encouraged to speak, cry, and heal, Ayo was expected to "man up"—even when the pain was louder than his pride. To him, no one cared.
He worked after school to support his mother. He skipped meals so his sister wouldn’t have to. He smiled through disappointments and carried responsibilities that would crush some grown men. He was never hugged often, never told he could break down, never asked how he felt.
Years later, when he finally made it to university, Ayo stood in front of a class, sharing his story for the first time. He didn’t shed a tear—not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t know how anymore.
But he continued…
“Ah, that's my story. It's...it's not always easy to talk about, but I've come to realize that it's a part of who I am. Growing up, I felt like I had to be strong, like I had to be the rock for my family. And in many ways, I was. But what people didn't see was the little boy inside, the one who was scared, who was tired, who was hurting.”
(he looks down, his voice taking on a more introspective tone) “I remember the nights I cried myself to sleep, feeling like I was all alone in the world. I remember the times I had to put on a brave face, even when I felt like I was drowning in responsibility. And I remember the pain of being expected to "man up," to be strong, even when I didn't know how.”
(he pauses, taking a deep breath and said) “But I've learned that it's okay to not be okay. It's okay to feel vulnerable, to ask for help, to show emotions. It's okay to be human. And that's what I want to tell other young men out there, especially those who are going through similar struggles. You don't have to be strong all the time. You don't have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
(he looks up, his eyes locking onto his listeners) “I wish someone had told me that when I was younger. I wish someone had noticed the little boy in me, the one who was struggling to keep up. But I'm telling you now, because I want you to know that you're not alone. You're not alone in your struggles, and you're not alone in your emotions.”
(he smiles slightly, a sense of resilience and hope in his voice) “I've made it through the tough times, and I've come out stronger on the other side. But I've also learned to be kind to myself, to allow myself to feel, to be vulnerable. And that's what I want to encourage others to do. Let's break down the stoic facade, let's break down the expectation that men have to be strong all the time. Let's create a world where it's okay to be human, where it's okay to feel.”
(pauses, his voice taking on a sense of determination) "I'm not the same little boy I used to be. I'm a man now, but I'm still learning, still growing. And I hope that my story can inspire others to do the same, to be brave enough to be vulnerable, to be strong enough to be weak.”
As the class sat in silence listening to Ayo, he ended with a message that hung heavy in the air:
“We often say, ‘protect the girl child’—and yes, we must. But please, let’s also remember the boy child. Don’t just teach him to be strong; teach him it’s okay to feel. Don’t just expect him to lead; teach him it’s okay to ask for help. Because I became a man long before I was ready. And sometimes, I wish someone had noticed the little boy in me too.”
And with that, the room clapped—not just out of applause, but out of awakening.
This is a fictional story of Ayo.
