There's a phrase that keeps coming up in the research on African masculinity. It's from a study in South Africa, and it goes like this:
"Being a man is like being put in a box."
It's a perfect description. Because that's exactly what it feels like. A box. A set of rules so rigid that you can't breathe without bumping into a wall.
Don't cry. Don't show fear. Don't ask for help.
Provide. Protect. Perform. Be strong. Be hard. Be a man.
That box is killing us.
Not metaphorically. Literally. African men have some of the highest suicide rates in the world. In Kenya, men are three to four times more likely to die by suicide than women. In Nigeria, suicide is the leading cause of death among men under 35. We are dying inside a box that was built by our fathers and our fathers' fathers, and we've been told our whole lives that the box is what makes us men.
But something is shifting. Like a crack in a wall that's been there for generations. Men across the continent are starting to ask a question that our fathers never dared to ask: What if the box was never the point?
The Weight of the Word "Provider"
In almost every African culture, a man's worth is measured by his ability to provide. This isn't just a cultural preference. It's a survival mechanism. When economies are unstable, when jobs are scarce, when the state fails to provide a safety net, the man becomes the net, the insurance policy and the retirement plan. Basically the one who makes sure nobody starves.
That's a noble burden. But it's also a crushing one.
Research from across the continent shows that when men cannot fulfil the provider role, they experience what researchers call "provider anxiety" — prolonged stress that affects their mental and physical health. A study in Cote d'Ivoire found that this anxiety is "near-universal" across all socio-economic groups. Men who strongly endorse restrictive masculine norms — the idea that manhood equals financial provision — feel this pressure most acutely.
The economy makes it harder and harder to provide. Wages stagnate. Jobs disappear. Inflation eats everything. The old systems that once supported men — extended family, community, village — are eroding in urban areas. And in their place, there is nothing but the lonely pressure to perform.
A Cameroonian study found that "normative expectations of stoicism and financial provision amplify stress, inhibit help-seeking, and contribute to elevated risks of depression and suicide."
The very thing that defines manhood — providing — is the thing driving men to their graves.
The Manosphere Is Not Your Friend
Now let's talk about the elephant in the group chat.
If you're a young African man on the internet, you've encountered the manosphere. Maybe you don't call it that. Maybe you just follow a guy who gives "real talk" about women, money, and what it means to be a man. Maybe you've bought a book, subscribed to a channel, or nodded along to a video about how feminism is destroying society and men need to "take back their power."
Andrew Kibe in Kenya. Amerix in Kenya. Others across the continent. These aren't fringe figures. They have millions of followers. Kibe has built a following across multiple platforms, selling books, merchandise, and even his own cryptocurrency. Amerix — Eric Amunga — has 2.3 million followers on X alone.
Why are they so popular?
Dr. Awino Okech, a professor of feminist and security studies, explained it to the BBC: they have "found the ability — both by using local narratives and understanding of the national and local context — to feed into ongoing insecurities in society."
The manosphere doesn't create male pain. It exploits it. It takes real problems — loneliness, financial pressure, feeling invisible, feeling like the world has moved on without you — and offers a simple, seductive answer: It's not your fault. It's women. It's feminism. It's the system. And the solution is to dominate, to withdraw, to harden yourself.
It's a trap dressed as empowerment.
The UNESCO Regional Office for Eastern Africa has been tracking this closely. Kenya, with 18.4 million social media users, has seen a rapid growth in "manosphere platforms that normalize misogyny, rigid gender roles, and toxic masculinity, contributing to technology-facilitated gender-based violence."
The manosphere doesn't just harm women. It harms the men who fall into it. Because it takes lonely, struggling men and teaches them to double down on the exact behaviours that make them lonely and struggling. It tells them the box is the answer when the box was always the problem.
What "Positive Masculinity" Actually Means
There's a phrase that's been circulating in policy circles and community programmes: positive masculinity. It sounds like a buzzword. It sounds like something a NGO invented to get grant funding. But the concept is actually rooted in something much older — something that African cultures have always known, even if we forgot it.
Positive masculinity doesn't mean men become soft. It doesn't mean men stop providing or stop protecting. It doesn't mean men become women. It means expanding the definition of what a man can be.
The African Union has made this a priority. At the 3rd AU Men's Conference on Positive Masculinity, leaders committed to "redefining manhood and transforming social norms" by engaging men and boys through schools, faith spaces, sports, and workplaces.
But the most powerful examples aren't coming from conferences. They're coming from villages and towns and cities across the continent, where men are quietly doing the work.
The Man Who Splits Firewood
In West Pokot County, Kenya, there's a man named Harrison Kibet. He's a boda boda rider. And he does something that would get him mocked by many men in his community: he does domestic work.
He splits firewood. He fetches water. He helps his pregnant wife cook. He washes dishes.
In his culture, domestic work is considered "women's work." Men are expected to deal with animals and "manly" tasks. His age mates think he's out of his mind. His colleagues at work don't understand how he can do chores when he's married.
But Harrison doesn't care. "I find nothing wrong in washing dishes and helping my wife cook," he says. "In fact, she is very happy that I assist her in domestic chores. I believe both men and women should share responsibilities at home."
His wife, Dorcas, says their marriage is happier than before. Their love has grown. And their two young sons are watching, learning that this is what a man does.
Harrison isn't a policy document or a workshop. He's a man in a village, doing the quiet work of changing what masculinity means one household chore at a time. And that's how the box cracks open.
The Real Fathers' Club
In Ghana's Oti Region, there's a group called the Real Fathers' Club. It's a gathering of 24 men who meet twice a month to talk about something radical: being better husbands and fathers.
They discuss how to support their wives. How to help in the home. How to create an environment where children can thrive. They talk about cooking, taking children to school, helping with homework.
One member, Michael, a father of eight, describes the shift: "Men would let their wives carry firewood with babies on their backs while we carried only tools. Now, I carry the firewood so my wife can carry the baby."
His 17-year-old daughter, Enyonam, has noticed the difference. "I feel happy that my father is promising to support us," she says. "Parents should show love toward their children, just like my parents do."
This is what positive masculinity looks like in practice. It's not a lecture, and it's definitely not a hashtag. It's a group of men sitting in a room, admitting they don't have all the answers, and choosing to be different.
The Emotions We Were Never Taught to Name
Even when men want to change, they often don't know how. Because we were never taught the language.
A qualitative study of young men in South Africa found that masculinity was "a central social factor and lens through which participants interpreted mental health." Masculine norms promoting emotional suppression and self-reliance were key barriers to emotional expression and help-seeking.
Another study found that young men in South Africa used "common but ineffective emotion regulation strategies" — including "emotion suppression and numbing with alcohol and sex" — aligned with dominant masculine norms.
We don't know how to feel. We don't know how to talk about what we feel. So we drink. We work. We withdraw. We get angry. We do everything except the one thing that might actually help: ask for help.
And when we do try to open up, we're often met with ridicule. A Nigerian psychiatrist recently called for a cultural shift in the way society views male emotional expression, warning that suppressing emotions — particularly crying — is literally killing men.
But the data shows something else, too. A study of Black men in college found that they "invested in an emotion culture characterized by vulnerability, loyalty, and trust" — creating a system of mutual support, or brotherhood, that helped them navigate life.
The capacity for emotional connection is there. It's not that men are incapable. It's that we've been trained not to use it. And like any muscle that's been atrophied, it takes time and practice to rebuild.
A Framework for Breaking the Box
I'm not going to give you a list of affirmations, tell you to "just open up," or pretend this is easy. But here's just a place to start.
Redefine provision. Providing isn't just money. It's presence, emotional availability and being the person your family can rely on, not just financially, but emotionally. A man who pays the bills but can't have a real conversation with his children isn't a provider. He's a wallet. And a wallet is not a father.
Learn the language. You don't have to become a poet. You just have to learn a few words. "I'm struggling." "I don't know." "I need help." "I love you." These are not weak words. They're the strongest words a man can say. Practice them. Say them out loud when you're alone. It will feel weird. That's fine. Weird is where growth starts.
Find your brothers. Not drinking buddies. Not work friends. Brothers. Men who will ask you how you're really doing and expect an honest answer. Men who will tell you when you're wrong. Men who will sit with you in silence when you don't have words. Look for them. Be one for someone else.
Do the small work. You don't have to start a men's group or become an activist. You just have to do the small things. Help your wife with the dishes. Take your son to the barber. Call your father and ask how he's doing. Listen when your daughter talks about her day. The small things are the whole thing.
Challenge the box when you see it. When your friend says "men don't cry," ask him why. When your colleague mocks a man for being vulnerable, tell him that's not strength. When you catch yourself thinking that a man who asks for help is weak, correct yourself. The box survives because we keep reinforcing it. We can stop.
Get help if you need it. If you're depressed, if you're anxious, if you're drinking too much, if you're thinking about hurting yourself — talk to a professional. Not because you're broken. Because you're human. And humans need help sometimes. That's not weakness. That's wisdom.
A Letter to the Man in the Box
If you're still reading, you're probably the man. The one in the box. The one who's been told your whole life that this is what it means to be a man, and you're starting to wonder if that's true.
Here's what I want you to know.
The box you're in was built by generations of men who were trying to survive, who passed down what they knew because they didn't know any better. They weren't trying to hurt you. They were trying to protect you. They just didn't know that the protection was also a prison.
You don't have to stay in the box. You can step out. It will feel strange. It will feel dangerous. People will look at you funny. But you don't have to do it alone. There are other men out there, all across this continent, who are stepping out too. Harrison Kibet. The fathers in the Real Fathers' Club. The men in the Zoom calls and WhatsApp groups and community halls, quietly deciding that they want something different.
The box is not your identity. It's just a habit. And habits can be broken.
The strongest thing a man can do is not to carry everything alone. It's to know when he needs help — and to ask for it. That's not weakness. That's the beginning of something new.
You deserve to be more than a provider. You deserve to be known, loved and free.
The box is not the point. You are.
Written & Edited by Chidiebere Daniel
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