Emeka had always believed strength was about endurance. The ability to stand still while the world fell apart around you. To take hits without flinching. To suppress the scream rising inside you. But now, he was beginning to question it all.
Strength, as it had been taught to him, came with silence, loneliness, and a stoic mask. It was a prison built by cultural expectations and reinforced by years of unspoken rules. "Man up." "Be strong." "Real men don't complain." These phrases rang in his ears like chains dragging behind every step.
He began journaling more often. It became his refuge, a place where he could finally tell the truth. He wrote about his fears, his doubts, his heartbreaks. He wrote about the times he wanted to cry but swallowed it down. About the loneliness of being everyone's rock, with no one to lean on himself.
One night, he wrote a letter to his younger self:
Dear little Emeka,
It's okay to cry. It's okay to feel confused. You don't have to have all the answers. You're not weak for needing love, for desiring peace. You're not soft because you're human.
He wept again. This time, the tears came freely. Not out of sadness, but release. It was the grief of years lost to silence. He realized that real strength wasn't about suppression—it was about authenticity.
He also began speaking more openly with Yomi. They explored the layers of generational trauma, the ways in which African masculinity had been defined by colonial hangovers, military fathers, and religious guilt. They talked about how vulnerability had been framed as weakness when, in fact, it required immense bravery.
At work, Emeka started to say, "I'm not okay today," on days he wasn't. Some colleagues looked puzzled. A few laughed. But others—the quiet ones, the tired-looking men with bloodshot eyes—nodded. And for the first time, they began to speak too.
It was small, but it was something.
He began researching men's support groups and even toyed with the idea of starting one. He imagined a circle of chairs in a quiet room—where men didn't have to impress anyone. Where they could say things like "I'm scared," or "I feel lost," and be met with nods instead of ridicule.
One afternoon, while playing football with his son in the compound, the boy tripped and scraped his knee. Emeka rushed over. The boy blinked back tears, clearly expecting to be told, "Be a man."
But Emeka knelt beside him and said, "It's okay to cry. That must hurt. Come, let's clean it together."
His son wept on his shoulder. And Emeka held him—not just as a father, but as a man finally breaking the myth of strength. One tear at a time.