Written by Mercy Williams
The first time I said “Fuck!” and meant it was in 2021. I was in my mid-twenties and I was raging.
My head was pressed against the cold wall of my room and I kept saying the word under my breath. Endlessly. I was the only one in the house yet in that moment I felt myself imploding slowly. It had been a tough series of weeks battling to keep my mother alive, and even though she had just come out of a successful surgery, I found myself inching closer to insanity.
“Fuck! Fuck!! Fuck!!!”
Since we returned home to prepare and go for surgery, I was somehow in a unique situation where I had been recently onboarded for a new job following a 1-year period of unemployment, but I also had to be fully present to take care of my mum and siblings while waiting for my dad and aunt to travel home to us and assist with the procedure. By the end of the entire period, I was physically, emotionally and psychologically exhausted from trying to juggle everything. But somehow, it felt like I had to keep it together and keep it going. But this wasn’t the source of my rage. My tiredness My real anger was buried in the fact that I had no choice but to be a nurturer, something that was seemingly forced into my hands. And for a topic as sensitive and as nuanced as this, it’s best to approach it with context and with caution.
You see, there’s a 10 and 13 year age gap between myself and my last 2 siblings, respectively. And because my father’s job often required him to be out of town for months at a stretch, I was naturally going to have to assist my mother in her many, many, mannnyyy duties. This was subconsciously my first precursor to the world of the thankless and endlessly labour-intensive role of being a woman.
One might argue and say, “Oh gosh! The feminists have come again! What is wrong with helping your mother to do chores and take care of your siblings?”
For many young African girls like myself, this is often translated to unpaid, unchosen emotional and physical labour—especially in cultures or households shaped by patriarchal expectations where the girls are typically expected to shoulder these responsibilities with little support. You see, friends, this was the source of my rage.
I find that one of the biggest ironies of my situation is the seeming helplessness of everyone who was burdened by the chains of strict gender roles and expectations. Because even though I am the first child and a female at that in my family, I have never — and may never — show the level of nurturing abilities that my immediate younger brother has displayed ever since we were kids. Where my mother would struggle to drag me to the kitchen, my brother would be eager to learn new recipes and help out with her baking or any other chores, while I preferred to lounge in the living room with cartoons and science books. Where my brother excelled as a people person, I was always the hermit who found every excuse to be away from crowds and save my social battery for solitary exercises like writing poems in my journal. Where my brother wanted to play with toddlers because he was always bubbling with energy and warmth, I preferred to interact with them only for short periods and mostly when it was convenient. However, despite the stark differences in our personalities, I was always obliged to step up, to lead, and to nurture. To smile and take action and receive everything and everyone with open arms. To morph into someone that drains me of all my energy. This has always been the source of my rage.
You might also wonder, “Didn’t this shape you into becoming more mature than many of your peers at a young age?” While the short answer might be a solid “Yes, maybe”, my follow-up question is then “…but at what cost?”
Perhaps this is why G.D. Anderson said, “Feminism isn’t about making women strong. Women are already strong. It’s about changing the way the world perceives that strength.”
There were many things I excelled at. And while some of these were occasionally celebrated, with my academic achievements being at the forefront of my strengths, I was often met with reprimand from relatives who decided that I wasn’t “domesticated enough” and thus a failure when placed against the backdrop of what a sound and grounded firstborn daughter should look like.
*****
“Fuck this! Fuck everything! Fuck everyone! Fuck all these stupid rules! Fuck, I’m so tired. I’m tiiiired!!!”
I went from whispering to pacing round the room, yelling into the void and shredding pieces of paper in my hands and scattering them on the floor. I was trembling violently. I was crumbling and my mind was filled with images of my own blood. I wanted to bash my head against the wall until I bled out and stopped breathing, but I was too much of a coward to jump at actual physical pain, so I let the emotional one I was dealing with consume me.
****
The perils of being an African feminist are many and complex, with the rite of passage for most women taking place within the walls of their homes. Where feminism advocates for the basic human rights of women to be upheld, such as the right to education, freedom of speech, freedom to own land, properties and the assumption of positions of leadership, my father was a proponent of these values and principles. So what battles did I really have to fight? At what point did I have to “discover” myself if I had access to the basic things that women in years past have had to struggle with blood and sweat to access for many generations?
You see, friends, African feminism helps us name, critique, and heal the experience of being women in African societies, which starts from childhood. Some may even find that they may have fit neatly into the category of girls considered as parentified daughters.
Parentification has been described as the expectation that one or more children will fulfil the parental role in the family system (Boszormenyi-Nagy & Spark, 1973). The child may act as a parent to other children in the family or may be expected to care for the parent (i.e., role-reversal), or both.
For many like myself who enjoyed most of the aforementioned basic privileges, our battles were buried in the small, subtle things. Like the scolding that came from not knowing how to properly cook a meal, even though I showed little to no interest in cooking.
These wars were tucked into quiet and not-so-quiet expectations. Like how we needed to always do right because our younger ones were watching and learning from us. One would expect that since each child is unique and has their own measure of agency, they can decide who they would like to model their lives after. One would expect that they would lean into themselves to find inner strength and inspiration to survive in this world, finding support first and foremost in their parents, rather than looking to the other older child, who is also experiencing life for the first time.
Research shows that parentification is linked to increased depressive symptoms in adolescents, underscoring its potential harm to mental health despite occasional buffering effects in certain contexts (Hooper et al., 2012).
What most people don’t immediately realise is how deeply internalised the burden of parentification becomes — especially for daughters. These adolescents often feel an overwhelming need to be constantly composed, capable, and emotionally available for everyone else. From a young age, they’re placed in roles that demand emotional maturity far beyond their years, leaving little room for self-exploration, mistakes, or vulnerability. Over time, this can create a perfectionistic mindset and chronic self-pressure, as they feel responsible for the emotional stability of their family. They may grow up appearing high-functioning or independent but often carry a hidden weight of anxiety, guilt, and unresolved trauma into adulthood.
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“FUUUUUCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKK!!!!”
I sobbed for hours and spiralled and reminded myself of all the times I had to be strong even when I didn’t want to be. While scrolling through my phone to search for the contact of a therapist friend to help me, I sulked at the idea that it was typical of me to be throwing pity parties for myself because everyone had life tough, but I was always going to make a mountain out of my little sufferings, wasn’t I?
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Today I find that many of the biggest lessons I’ve learnt and the seeds of feminism planted in me have often come from the major members of the “opposition”. Yes, men. But not in the way you might expect. I mean, I have faced the harrowing realities of misogyny in my everyday interactions with both men and women, young and old. But my ambition to live a free and full life has been once again, largely — ironically — inspired by men. The first of which is my father. And the second, one of my dearest male friends.
My father was the first storyteller and foremost visionary I ever knew. He inspired me to become one of the greats by creating a library of paperback storybooks about great women, including the likes of Cleopatra, Harriet Tubman, and Eleanor Roosevelt.
And then there was my friend, a man with a heart of gold, who forced me to sit with questions I had never really been asked by virtue of social conditioning. Questions like, “Why do you, Mercy, want to get married?” and, “Do you want children for yourself or because you think you have to?”
Before this, I had never considered doing any deep introspection on these matters because they were seen as non-negotiable. We go to school, graduate, get jobs, marry, give birth, and manage our homes. That was the script that was sold to all of us. It’s not that this was a terrible script in itself. The issue was that this was the only script that was sold to us in most of the major societal institutions, with several policies and regulations making it hard to deviate. Regardless, it was still not the only script. I was sincerely taken aback by my own lack of self-interrogation on this specific subject, for someone who was often self-proclaimed as a curious cat.
It had never occurred to me that I could ask myself and my answers would be different from what the majority would pick or that I was privileged to be in an age and time where I could take this different path – the road less travelled.
It had never occurred to me that this freedom to choose and be comfortable with choosing was true freedom.
*****
In the months and years after my outburst, I moved through life in slow, deliberate steps. I didn’t find healing in a moment. But I started asking myself questions. Quiet ones. Honest ones. And little by little, I began to see that maybe there was another way to live. A way that didn’t drain me. A way that felt like me.
I realised that, for me, freedom meant following the paths my curiosity laid out. It wasn’t just mindless rebellion. It was an exploration of everything I’d always wanted but held myself back from.
It meant sitting through my first nose piercing after months of using hair loops as fake nose studs and getting my first tattoo after years of doodling on my skin with pens. It meant allowing myself to enjoy the company of people on my own terms. I no longer had to perform excitement or patience. I could decide where I wanted to be, what I wanted to wear, with whom I wanted to be, and when I was ready to leave. I could go clubbing with my friends and say, “No, I don’t want to smoke,” not because I was threatened, afraid or controlled, but because I permitted myself to try and confirm that it’s not something I enjoy. And it has all been my choice to make.
Freedom has meant unlearning the ageist views I’ve held against myself; the belief that I’m too young or too old to do certain things. It has meant letting go of the pressure to conform to society’s definition of a successful woman, and instead, allowing myself to define success on my own terms. Whether it’s writing a book, finishing an online course, getting up each day to get to work, or taking a long-needed break when it matters the most. As long as it’s success to me, then that’s what matters.
Freedom has also meant living my truth without fear of being cancelled. It’s understanding that I’m not everyone’s cup of tea, and not everyone is mine. It has meant carefully curating the people in my life and in my space. And since feminism is a core value for me, then I can stand by it unapologetically.
It has meant burning the bridges that don’t serve me, as well as choosing how and with whom I spend my energy — without shame and without regrets.
Freedom has taught me the difference between selflessness and self-sacrifice. And each day, it’s teaching me to love myself just a little more than the day before.
In many societies today, there seems to be a long list of items you need to achieve before your 30th birthday and so women who are in their late 20s and early 30s who are yet to finish achieving all these things often find themselves depressed, anxious or grieving a life they think they’ve lost or are losing grasp of. Often, the woman’s worth is inherently tied to things she may or may not even see as milestones for herself. This I now think of as nothing but a tragic reality that I want to constantly remove myself from.
I celebrate my freedom because I am learning to prioritise my own needs and block out all the noise. And if all I’ve fought for brings me to a life where I make personal choices, live on my own terms, and love who I’m becoming, then fuck yes! I’m super proud of that.
About the Author
Mercy Williams is a multi-passionate creative whose non-linear career blends storytelling, product design, and advocacy, with a gift for writing everything from scripts and poetry to essays and fiction. As the founder of Denlaa Creative, she nurtures a vibrant community of African storytellers, using her layered voice to immerse, disrupt, and leave a lasting impression. She is on the writing track for the 2025 Adventures Creators Programme.
