THE AUDACITY

PISSED… JUST PISSED. Rage-bait is real. Frustration is real. But African parents????? Ah! That is an entirely different kind of hell, Because theirs is a battle you can never win. A one-sided fight with no end in sight, A war where you're always wrong, Even when you're the one who's been wronged. Forget about age! Even if you're fifty, They will still find a way to remind you That you are nothing but a child. And when you've lived with them long enough, You begin to believe you've mastered the art of survival. You think you've seen it all, That you've grown accustomed to the madness Of being an African child, Particularly a Nigerian one. But what they don't tell you is this: The older you get, The newer the tactics. HAHAHAHAHAHA! Laughs in fra! 😭 Because apparently, Growing older doesn't mean things get easier. It only means the rules change, The punishments evolve, And the audacity gets promoted. And God help you if you're the first child! Because scapegoat would be a much kinder title. Even guinea pig sounds like an honour Compared to the position you've been assigned. You become the testing ground For every parenting ideology That ever crosses the minds of those you call parents. Every theory, Every method, Every ancient law of African parenting, Every frustration they cannot explain, Every anger they cannot contain... Congratulations! You're the lucky recipient of them all. And God forbid you should complain, Because apparently, you should be grateful That you're even being raised. I know God said to spare the rod And spoil the child, But at this rate, African children might actually prefer the rod To the endless verbal abuse, The constant accusations, And the emotional trauma They receive on an hourly basis. Because how many times Must a child hear that they're disrespectful Before they begin to question their own character? How many times must they be called rebellious For simply trying to explain themselves? How many times must they swallow their feelings Before they forget what it feels like To express them? And the most ridiculous part? YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO BE ANGRY. Why? Because, in the legendary words Of an African mother: "SO YOU THINK YOU'RE AN ADULT NOW, ABI?" THE AUDACITY!!!!! THE ABSOLUTE AUDACITY!!!!! So they can switch moods on your body Like you're some emotional light switch, Transfer their aggression onto you As though you were built to carry it, Ruin your peace like changing clothes, And somehow expect you to remain perfectly fine? But the moment your face changes? "Don't squeeze your face in my presence!" The moment you try to explain yourself? "Don't talk back to me!" The moment you ask to go somewhere? "You're not going anywhere!" And when you've finally had enough, When the frustration begins to show, When your silence no longer looks like submission? "SO YOU'VE BECOME REBELLIOUS NOW?" AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! THE AUDACITY!!!!! THE FREAKING AUDACITY!!!!! Because what exactly do you want from me? Should I smile when I'm upset? Should I laugh when I'm hurting? Should I pretend your words don't affect me Just because you're the one saying them? Must respect mean silence? Must obedience mean I have no voice? Must being your child mean I have no right to my own emotions? And why is it that you can have a bad day And the whole house must feel it, But I cannot have a bad moment Without being labelled disrespectful? Why must your anger be understood While mine must be punished? Why must I understand your struggles When mine are dismissed as childish nonsense? Why must I always be the bigger person When I'm still trying to understand The person I'm becoming? THE AUDACITY! But perhaps the worst part Is not even the shouting. It's the expectation that tomorrow, We shall all wake up, Eat our breakfast, Go about our business, And pretend that nothing happened. As though words don't linger. As though pain has an expiry date. As though the heart can be wounded today And ordered to heal by tomorrow morning. And the moment you try to bring it up? You're being disrespectful. You're holding grudges. You're refusing to move on. Omo. So I'm supposed to forgive the wound Before anyone even acknowledges That they were the ones holding the knife? Ah, na wa o! But it's too late now. Because I've typed out all my anger. Every accusation. Every frustration. Every word I wish I could scream Without being told to shut up. And the funniest part? My face is straight. My emotions are neutral. My expression is calm. No shouting. No argument. No dramatic confrontation. Just words on a screen. And perhaps that's what makes it worse. Because somewhere along the line, I learnt to turn my anger into sentences, My frustration into paragraphs, And my inability to speak Into something people can read. I have written every ounce of my rage Without changing my expression. And now, I'm just here. Quiet. Not because I have nothing to say, But because sometimes, After you've spent so long fighting to be heard, You get tired of explaining Why you deserve to be listened to. 💔 Words by Shay