Chapter 1
Growing up, I was told my color spoke before I did.
My gender decided my future before I even understood what a future was.
In a world where being dark in a room full of white feels like standing trial,
you begin to question yourself.
You wonder if God paused when creating you.
You wonder if your existence was a mistake.
But being an African girl is not what the world thinks it is.
We are born into responsibility.
Even before we see the light of day, expectations are waiting.
As the only girl in a middle-class African home, I carried invisible weight.
I was told:
Wake up at 5:30 a.m.
Think about what to cook.
Help your siblings.
Be the second mother.
Sit properly.
Smile softly.
Speak respectfully.
Because “that’s what a girl does.”
And if you understand African homes, you understand that being a girl is not just a role — it is a full-time duty.
As you grow older, the expectations grow louder.
Then comes education.
You don’t choose your dream.
Your dream is chosen for you.
“Doctor.”
“Lawyer.”
“Engineer.”
Not because you love it — but because it sounds good in church announcements.
“My daughter is going to be a doctor.”
And just like that, your life becomes a public contract.
Now your grades are monitored.
Your mistakes are highlighted.
Your worth feels tied to performance.
Especially if you are sent abroad.
Now failure is not an option.
You are carrying family pride, sacrifices, and reputation on your back.
But rarely do they ask:
How is your mental health?
Are you okay?
Are you tired?
Do you need someone to listen?
Instead, they imagine future mansions and family bragging rights.
And then comes comparison.
“Look at Ms. Martin’s daughter.”
“She has straight A’s.”
“She got into the hardest school.”
Or:
“Look at Ms. Wilson’s daughter.”
“She married a rich man.”
“Don’t bring a fish seller into this house.”
Comparison becomes a language.
Your talents? Ignored.
Your feelings? Minimized.
Your individuality? Questioned.
Yes, African parents can be loving.
They sacrifice. They protect. They provide.
But sometimes… they forget to understand.
Being a girl in an African home is strength.
It is pressure.
It is pride.
It is pain.
It is resilience.
And sometimes, it is learning how to find your own voice — in a house that already wrote your script.
