By L. James
They told us to speak up, but punished us when we did. They taught us to serve, but never to lead. In classrooms, markets, and living rooms across Nigeria, girls grow up learning that their worth lies in how quietly they exist.
I was one of those girls—smiling when I wanted to cry, silent when I had something to say. It wasn't that we didn't have dreams; it was that nobody ever asked us what they were. In many homes, a girl's future is scripted before she finds her voice: marry well, serve quietly, survive invisibly.
It starts early. A boy's anger is "normal"; a girl's boldness is "disrespect." A boy fails a subject—he's given another chance. A girl fails—she's told to try her luck in the kitchen. Even in schools, where futures are supposed to be shaped, too many girls are erased with red ink and low expectations.
But what happens to the girls we don't see?
Some rebel. Some retreat. Some vanish into marriages they didn't choose. Some carry children before they're done being children themselves. And some—like me—grow up with fire hidden under layers of obedience, until one day it burns through.
I remember the first time I stood up in public to speak—shaky, unsure, and determined. My voice cracked, but I kept going. That moment was mine. Not because I had something revolutionary to say, but because I said it at all. Because I refused to be invisible.
Every time a Nigerian girl dares to take up space, to tell her story, to say "I matter," the spell of silence breaks a little more. We become visible. And when one of us rises, others find the courage to follow.
So if you're reading this and still shrinking yourself to fit into someone else's idea of "acceptable," I hope you know: your voice matters. Your story matters. And we are finally, finally starting to see you.