I’m reeling from the news of two young men’s passing in less than a week. The first was a friend, and the second was a young man I learned about through Gordon Asare Bediako’s post on Facebook . The latter’s story particularly resonated with me, as it suggested he was struggling with difficult moments before his untimely death.
These losses have left me feeling depressed and somber. As I reflect on these tragedies, it brings to mind the cultural norms that discourage men from expressing their emotions. In our part of the world, we’re often taught that “men don’t cry.” We’re encouraged to suppress our emotions, to force smiles, and to pick up bad habits to cope with our pain.
My father constantly hammered into me the idea that “big boys don’t cry.” Whenever I let tears flow at home, he’d rub it in, making me feel like I was wearing my heart on my sleeve and didn’t fit the traditional mold of masculinity.
Ironically, when my father lost his mom, who had been on her last legs, he broke down and cried like a child. This moment struck a chord with me but I never questioned him.
I have grown to learn that this facade comes at a terrible cost. Death often reveals our pain, and it’s only when it’s too late that we realise the true extent of our suffering. I must confess that I’ve been down this road before.
I’ve struggled with my own demons, and I’m still taking a leap of faith. I’m not sure I’m completely out of the woods yet.
However, I was fortunate to have a supportive sister, Lydia Maclean (née Frempong), who listened to me, offered valuable perspectives, and helped me to find a way forward. She expressed her concerns about my well-being, coming from a place of genuine care and love. Yet, after our conversation.
I found myself instinctively putting up walls and coiling in, hesitant to make way for a follow up.
It’s a familiar pattern, one that I’ve perfected over time. But I know that it’s not healthy, that it’s essential to confront and share my feelings to truly heal and move forward.
I know this mask of masculinity all too well. My loved ones and friends think I’m always wearing a smile, but the truth is, I’m often drowning in my own tears behind closed doors. The pressure to be strong, and to never show weakness is suffocating.
In offering my heartfelt condolences to Attaa Quaye and Nana Kwaku Adomako Nuakoh, I acknowledge the crippling pressures that men often face.
The weight of responsibilities – work, marriage, health, finances, and more – can be a crushing burden. But, all too often, we’re expected to put on a brave face and hide our true emotions.
I hope society creates a safe space for men to open up, to seek help, and to be vulnerable without fear of judgment .
Ten years have passed since you left us, Papa. As I look back, I wish I could have shared my thoughts with you. I hope that wherever you are, you’ll agree with me: men cry, Papa. It’s okay to show emotions, to be vulnerable, and to seek help.
-Written by Samuel A Woyome.
