The Hidden Cost of Building a Life: The Untold Journey of Many African Women
In recent times, the phrase “soft life” has become popular—often used casually, sometimes mockingly, and frequently without an understanding of the painful journeys many women endure before they ever glimpse stability, comfort, or peace. Behind the smiles, filtered photos, and surface success stories lies a reality that is rarely spoken about honestly.
For many African women, the journey begins far too early.
Before some girls even reach the age of thirteen, their innocence is stolen—sometimes by uncles, relatives, neighbors, or individuals entrusted with their care. This early violation marks a brutal end to childhood. From that moment, life is no longer about growth and discovery, but about survival.
If she is fortunate, she remains in school. If she is not, she finds herself hawking on the streets exposed to danger, exploitation, temptation, and harsh survival instincts. Even within school walls, safety is not guaranteed. Protection is partial at best, and vulnerability often follows her everywhere.
Parenting extremes further complicate this fragile stage. In homes where discipline is excessively strict, rebellion often finds secret routes. In homes where boundaries are too loose, street wisdom arrives too early. Many young girls encounter abortions before the age of twenty-two, carry emotional scars no one sees, and develop resilience no one applauds. They grow fast—not by choice, but by force.
The transition to higher institutions, typically between the ages of seventeen and twenty-four, introduces another battlefield entirely. Academic pursuit becomes intertwined with harassment and abuse of power. Some lecturers demand sexual favors. Senior students exploit their positions. Cultists and predators lurk in the shadows. At this stage, the choices are cruelly framed: resist and risk extended years of frustration, or yield and risk one’s health, future, and peace of mind.
Many do not survive this phase—emotionally, mentally, or even physically. To those who do, their resilience deserves recognition, not silence.
Graduation does not mark the end of hardship. The National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) introduces new dangers: insecurity, kidnappings, banditry, unknown terrains, and the loneliness of relocation without support or connections. While surviving orientation camp may seem manageable, sustaining life beyond it is far more challenging.
After service, the labor market welcomes many women with salaries of ₦15,000, ₦30,000, or ₦50,000 often accompanied by unspoken “conditions.” Some walk away holding onto their dignity. Some leave with regret. A few are fortunate enough to have connections that ease their path. Many are not.
Yet, amid all this, society is quick to judge.
“Why did you sell your body?”
“Ashawo.”
These words are thrown casually, without context, empathy, or understanding. Such judgments come from people who have never walked the path, never faced the choices, and never carried the weight.
It is important to say this clearly:
Do not claim mastery over pain you have never tasted.
The life of a woman in Africa is undeniably hard. What many women need is not condemnation, but prayers, encouragement, structural support, and compassion. They deserve understanding—not labels.
To every woman navigating this journey: you are seen. You are respected. You are loved.
Life may not yet be soft, but hope remains alive. God will show up. Stability will come. Growth will happen without compromise. And even as survival demands strength, dignity must remain protected—no matter the pressure, no matter who is watching, and no matter who is digging.
Written by:
Sir Perfect Ugomuoh