Written by Amarachi Nwokocha
From time immemorial, there has been a pervasive myth about African women that has penetrated deeply into the society – the myth of the “good girl”. A typical African girl child is raised to be a “good girl“, which means a woman who conforms to the traditional, cultural, and societal expectations of her even when it is to her own detriment. This idealised notion of a “good girl” is often considered to mean:
- Being submissive and obedient to authority figures, especially men.
- Modesty and humility by not freely expressing yourself or behaving in a way that could be perceived as bold or assertive.
- Sacrificing yourself and prioritising others’ needs over your own desires.
- Shying away from pre-marital sex, use of sex toys and other forms of sexual pleasure.
- Denying your sexuality as a woman and not fulfilling your sexual fantasies.
- Focusing on traditional roles and expectations, such as being a devoted wife, mother, and caregiver, as opposed to being an ambitious career woman.
- Avoidance of any behaviour that could be perceived as provocative, independent, or non-conformist.
From childhood lullabies that praise obedience and virtue to the covert glances that condemn any deviation from prescribed behaviour, African women have been moulded to fit an ideal that rarely speaks to the complexity of our desires, dreams, and individual truths. This has led a lot of women to live sad, miserable and unfulfilled lives.
In the quiet moments, when the noise of societal expectations and familial obligations fades away, many African women are left to confront the crushing weight of a role they have been conditioned to play – a role that demands so much perfection, conformity, and sacrifice but rarely acknowledges our own desires, dreams, and aspirations. For too long, we have been shackled to the suffocating ideal of the “good girl” – a myth that has been carefully crafted to silence our voices, erase our desires, and reduce us to a narrow, suffocated and hinged species.
Unlike the male gender, we are the ones being loaded with expectations of being self-sacrificing, submissive, modest, gentle, ever-pleasing and, above all, silent. They tell us our value lies in being all these and, of course, that we are the inferior gender. The myth also insinuates that our desires—whether sexual, intellectual, or creative—are secondary to a prescribed identity of virtue and propriety. We are therefore not expected to be sexually explorative, wild in bed, open about our sexual fantasies or even our sexuality for fear of being called a “bad” girl. But what happens when we dare to shatter the silence, to challenge the status quo, and to unleash the full fury of our untold stories?
I remember the day my father was laid to rest. The air was thick with grief, but before the tears on my mother’s face could even dry, the whispers began. Whispers about land, money, and assets—about who would take what. But these whispers didn’t include my mother. In our culture, when a man dies, his family often believes his wealth belongs to them, as if the wife he built with, the woman who stood beside him and sacrificed to build with him, is suddenly irrelevant.
I sat quietly, listening as my uncles gathered in the living room, speaking as though my father’s legacy was a business transaction. They listed properties, debated shares, and laughed over who deserved more. Not once did they mention my mother—her pain, her sacrifices, her right to what she had helped build. I looked at her, sitting in a corner, silent, powerless. She had been my father’s partner in everything, yet here she was, treated like a stranger in her own home.
In that moment, something in me snapped. I cleared my throat, and with a steady but firm voice, I said, “Why is no one talking about my mother?”
The room fell silent, everyone casting stares at me. My eldest uncle chuckled, shaking his head. “My dear, this is not a conversation for children.”
But I was no child. I had seen my mother wake up before dawn, work beside my father, and sacrifice her own dreams to build this family. I had seen her struggle, stretch every penny, and ensure we lacked nothing. And now, these men—who had contributed nothing to our home—wanted to decide her fate?
“I don’t see any children here, Uncle,” I shot back. “Only people who seem to have forgotten the truth. This house, this land, everything you’re discussing—it wasn’t built by one man. My father and my mother built it together. And she has a right to all of it.”
Stunned by my statement, one of my uncles cleared his throat. “In our tradition…”
I cut him off. “In our tradition, men are supposed to protect widows, not rob them. Yet here you are, treating her like an outsider in her own home. If my father were alive, would he stand for this?”
No one had an answer. I looked at my mother. Her eyes brimmed with tears—not just of sadness, but of something else. Relief. Maybe she wanted to voice this out but had fears of being seen as a “rebel” by the family.
That day, I didn’t just speak for her—I fought for her. And though it wasn’t easy, though the resistance was fierce, I made it clear: my mother would not be erased. Her sacrifices would not be overlooked. And if they wanted to take what belonged to her, they would have to go through me first.
For too long, women have been treated as invisible in their own homes. But I refuse to let my mother, or any woman, be silenced by tradition.
My uncles were also kicking against my decision to move to another state and start my career with a prestigious company. To them, a single woman living alone was a reckless idea—one that would make me seem less “homely” and, therefore, less desirable for marriage. In their eyes, ambition was not a trait a woman should prioritise. They believed my focus, after completing university, should be on settling down, getting married, and building a home just as my mother had done. Worse still, they had already begun making arrangements to set me up with a distant family friend for marriage, assuming I would obediently follow their plan. But I refused—firmly and without hesitation. I made it clear that I was choosing my dreams over an outdated script written for me without my consent.
After that day, something shifted. My uncles no longer looked at me the same way. Before, I was just another quiet girl in the family, expected to nod in agreement, serve tea when asked, and keep my thoughts to myself. But now, I was the ‘troublesome one’. The ‘too outspoken’ girl. The one who didn’t know her place as a woman.
Then the whispers started.
‘She has no respect for elders.’
‘She’s becoming too bold. Who will marry a girl like this?’
My cousins, who once chatted freely with me, began to avoid eye contact. My aunt pulled me aside and sighed. “You should have let the men handle it. A good girl shouldn’t argue with her uncles like that. It’s not our way.”
Not our way? Is it our way for a woman to be discarded like an old piece of furniture after her husband dies? Is it our way for girls to stifle their potentials and dreams to satisfy people’s expectations?
But I was learning something important—when a woman refuses to be silent, she becomes the villain in a story written by those who benefit from her silence. To our community, I was no longer a ‘good girl’. I had become a problem, a disruption, a stain on the ‘perfect’ image of what a good girl should be. And though they tried to paint me as the difficult one, I held my head high. Because I would rather be too bold than too silent. I would rather be a ‘disrespectful’ girl than a girl who watched injustice unfold and said nothing. I would rather be an ambitious and driven woman than lay my dreams at the altar of societal validation.
Every time I share a piece of my true self, I feel like I’m reclaiming a part of me that was stolen. I am NOT a good girl—I am a whole woman.
When African women start breaking the silence, the impact reverberates far beyond individual lives. The courage to speak our truths creates ripples of empowerment that challenge the status quo and pave the way for collective change. With every conversation, every shared memory, and every act of rebellion, we chip away the walls that have long confined us. It is through these small, yet potent acts of defiance that we begin to dismantle the myth, brick by brick.
As we celebrate our victories, no matter how small, we must also acknowledge the work that remains. Every time we speak our truth, every time we challenge a restrictive label, we contribute to a future where African women can exist in all our complexity, where our multifaceted identities are not only accepted but celebrated. A future where silence is no longer a survival strategy but a choice—a choice to listen and to learn. So, let us nurture spaces where vulnerability is met with empathy, where authenticity is cherished, and where the full spectrum of our womanhood can shine without restraint.
To the sisters who have dared to speak up, to those who have written, painted, or sung their truths, thank you. Your courage has paved the way for a new generation of women who will not be defined by outdated stereotypes. And to those who are still finding their voice, know that you are not alone. There is strength in our shared stories, and together, we can create a chorus of voices that drowns out the pressure to be anything less than our authentic selves.
