The Things Men Don’t Say

There’s a special kind of cough Nigerian men have. It’s t really a cough. It’s a clearance. A small grunt at the back of the throat, just enough to choke down whatever emotion was about to leak out. You’ll hear it when a man’s voice almost trembles, when he remembers his mother in the middle of an argument, or when his account balance looks like a crime scene. We were raised on silence, bottle caps, and backhanded advice like "be a man" as if being a man was some mystical ritual involving suppression and occasional blood pressure. Nobody gave us the full manual. Just a toolbox of sarcasm, hunger, and the expectation to carry entire families like emotional donkeys with data plans.

I’ve wanted to scream before. In traffic. In bathrooms. Inside group chats where everyone is joking but one guy is quietly breaking. But screaming is expensive. Crying is worse. It’s an unaffordable luxury, like therapy or good fathers. So instead, we nod. We say "e go better" which is the national anthem of emotional repression. Then we post memes, make banter, and laugh like men who’ve swallowed grenades.

Sometimes, I envy women. Not for the dresses or the lashes. But for the audacity of softness. The freedom to cry in public without first looking over their shoulders. The right to say "I’m tired" and be taken seriously. To break down without it turning into a scandal. If a man says "I’m not okay," people assume it’s either code for laziness or a prelude to a crime. Even our breakdowns must be curated. Clean. Dignified. Masculine. Like wearing cologne to your own emotional funeral.llllll

They say men are logical. But I’ve seen men gamble school fees, drink away destinies, and chase women like unpaid detectives searching for the scene of their own destruction. Logic is a myth. We are bleeding intellects wrapped in cultural duct tape. Every time a boy falls and is told, "stand up, you’re a man," that’s one more stitch in his mouth. One more emotion archived in the hard drive of his chest where nothing gets deleted, only compressed.

I remember once, at seventeen, I cried because a girl said I was too guarded. Me. Guarded. As if I built the wall myself. As if I wasn’t born inside the fortress. I didn’t even cry immediately. I waited until everyone slept. Then I let two tears slip out like thieves. I wiped them quickly, of course. Left no evidence. Even sadness had to be discreet. That’s the kind of manhood we were given. One where the only acceptable emotion is anger and everything else is considered treason.

And then there’s the group chat.

Ah yes, the digital asylum. Where you can be heartbroken and still type "weyrey dey disguise" with a laughing emoji. Where a guy can lose his job, miss rent, and still make a skit about rich sugar mummies. No one will ask "are you eating?" They will ask "when are you dropping your next content?" If you’re really lucky, they will send you a Reel with that audio. "Nobody cares. Work harder." Motivational slaughter. Industrialized madness. We hide in banter the way people in warzones hide in churches. It is sacred. It is desperate.

I think the loneliest thing a man can be is responsible. Not just responsible in action, but responsible in soul. The kind of man whose phone only rings when someone needs help. The one they call strong, but never safe. You know the type. The one who solves everyone’s problems but has no one to text when his chest gets heavy. A man with too many shoulders and no lap to cry on. I once asked my father how he felt after his own father died. He said, "I didn’t have time to think about it." Imagine that. Grief postponed indefinitely. Buried under bills and unspoken expectations like a body never mourned. Sometimes, I think that’s why Nigerian men die early. It’s not the blood pressure. It’s the pressure in the blood.

I’ve seen men worship in mosques, cry into prayer mats, and get up as if nothing happened. Not because the prayer worked. But because they know the world won’t. God becomes the only therapist we can afford. The only friend we don’t have to impress. But even there, we censor ourselves. We don’t ask for peace. We ask for provision. For strength. For more of the same burden, just in smaller doses. Our supplications are spreadsheets. "Ya Allah, give me the capacity to carry more pain without embarrassing myself."

And in love? Oh, love is a full-time performance. Men love like bomb squads. Carefully. Nervously. Always fearing detonation. We won’t say "I miss you," but we’ll ask "have you eaten?" We won’t say "you hurt me." We’ll ghost you with silent nobility, thinking absence is classier than confrontation. We’ve mastered the art of looking unbothered while falling apart. And the women clap for it. They call it mystery. They call it strength. But the truth is, most men are just abandoned buildings with good lighting.

We never learned the vocabulary for hurt. So we punch walls. We drive fast. We laugh too loudly at things that aren’t funny. We call each other boss and chairman and oga so no one notices we’re actually just scared boys with facial hair. We say "it is well" the way soldiers say "roger that" when walking into a minefield. Some of us have not had a genuine conversation in years. Only transactions. Only duties. Only favours and football scores.

But if you listen closely, you’ll hear it. That small pause before a man says "I’m good." That hesitation before he changes the topic. The long sigh at midnight before he opens Instagram for no reason. That is how men speak. In ellipses. In detours. In silences so loud, you can almost hear the childhood behind them.

I am not writing this to change the world. The world is stubborn. Patriarchy is comfortable. Men themselves will laugh at this and say "na why you go dey think like this?" Which is fair. Thinking hurts. Feeling hurts more. But I am tired of coughing when I want to cry. I am tired of swallowing when I need to speak. I am tired of being praised for being strong when what I need is softness.

So here I am. Saying the things men don’t say. Not because I am brave. But because I am human. And tired. And trying.

And that should be enough.

Salamuaikum

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