Big Boys Don’t Cry

A Story

Mar 25, 2025

Trigger Warning - This fictional story contains mentions of and references to the sexual abuse and assault of a minor.
DO NOT read this piece if you’re sensitive to these themes/topics.

BIG BOYS DON'T CRY

"Stop crying. Don’t you know you’re a big boy? Big boys don’t cry."

I watch as the little boy suddenly stops, sniffling and rubbing at his teary eyes.

He pauses for a moment, and he looks like he's about to continue crying, but instead he nods his head and stretches out his hand.

His mother exhales, visibly satisfied as she kneels down to wipe his face.

Then she strokes his hair, plants a kiss on his forehead as a sort of reward, and then she takes his hand and leads him down the road.

A weight forms at the bottom of my chest, and I quickly look away.

It's dull and uncomfortable, and it is triggered by the unmistakable feeling of déjà vu I just felt from watching that scene play out before me.

I’ve heard those familiar words before, all too many times in my life.

At school, when I tripped over and bruised my knee. At home, when our landlord deflated my ball and I felt the sting of grief for the very first time. In the hospital, when the needle was about to prick my skin. At my cousin’s birthday party, when Tayo, an older boy, shoved me off the swing and all the other boys laughed and made fun of me.

"Be a big boy naw, David."

"Wipe your tears; are you a cry-cry girl?"

"You'll be a man one day; men are not weak."

These rebukes weren't always harsh; sometimes they were gentle.

They were meant to be a reassurance.

Meant to prepare me for something bigger than myself. The underlying message was meant to help me.

You’re a man. Be strong.

As the years passed, the same message was constantly reinforced in my ears, many different ways and at many different times.

I don't think I ever understood it, but I learnt, all the same.

I learnt to be a "big boy".

To be strong and hold it in. To bite my lip when the tears stung the back of my eyes. To never show any form of weakness to anybody.

So by the time it started to happen, when hands that shouldn’t have touched me started to touch me in places they should never have been, I already knew.

I already knew how to be quiet, how to hide my discomfort and bury it deep enough that no one would ever have to know.

After all, big boys do not cry.

I still remember the way Aunty Kike smelt of shea butter and lavender.

I remember that she had the softest and gentlest hands and that she was always happy to see me.

She'd cup my cheeks and tickle me till I laughed hysterically, then she'd stare at me in amazement and remark on how I was "getting too big."

Some days she'd press sweets secretly into my palm and whisper to me not to tell anybody.

I was five the first time she took me indoors and locked the door behind us.

She pressed her finger to her lips that afternoon, and she smiled.

I don't know what exactly happened next, but I know that her hands spent a long time in the middle of my legs.

After that, she made a little game out of it.

She'd pick me up from school and take me home, where it'd just be us for some hours. I'd watch Ben 10 on TV while she'd cook dinner in the kitchen.

Something didn't feel right everytime we were alone together, but I was too young to fully grasp what it was.

Mummy didn't let me watch TV on weekdays, but Aunty Kike did.

That was all that mattered.

When she was done in the kitchen, she'd come and hold my hand and lead me to her room.

The door would lock shut, my trousers would come down, and everything else after would happen in a haze.

We played this game for years.

At five, I thought it was fun to have a secret.

At six, I knew something was terribly wrong.

At seven, I started to feel shame.

There were times I wanted to talk. To cry. To say something.

But I didn’t know what to say.

Or even how to say it.

I remember the family Christmas party that happened when I was ten.

The whole family had gathered together at my grandma's house, including Aunty Kike, who flew back into the country after she had left some years earlier.

When she saw me, she gave me this mischievous, knowing look, and she stretched out her arms for a hug.

I froze, right there in the middle of the compound, unable to move or speak.

Images that I had long buried in my brain threatened to resurface; my body started to tremble, and I wanted more than anything for the ground to swallow me whole.

Later that night on our way back home when my mother asked why I didn't want to hug my aunt, I thought, for a second, about telling her.

I opened my mouth and I could feel all the years of neglect, distrust, and humiliation threatening to pour out my lips, but then my father interrupted me.

He laughed and said, "He’s ten. It's part of this 'big boy pride'. He's not a child that will just be hugging everybody."

My mother laughed in agreement, unbothered that I didn't get to answer her question.

Just like that, the conversation was over and they just moved on to another topic.

I desperately wanted to say something, but my mouth was dry and the words refused to form.

So I just bit my lip in silence.

That drive back home was the longest of my life.

I was ashamed, I felt alone, and I was so angry and resentful at everything and everybody.

I wanted to scream and shout and explode.

But I said nothing.

Alone on my bed that night, I considered taking my own life for the first time.

At some point, I started to believe that every woman who looked at me immediately knew.

I was so sure that there was something written on my skin, something they could read in my eyes, and it was why so many of them felt they could do what they did to me, at any time they wanted.

For some months after Aunty Kike travelled and stopped living with us, I had peace.

I thought that the nightmarish phase of my life was over, but I was wrong.

Many others came after her.

Some of them were gentle; some of them were cruel.

Some told me that I was special and made me feel like they were doing me a favour.

Some made it hurt and told me with threats to keep my mouth shut.

Some kissed my forehead afterward, like an apology.

Our neighbour was one of the latter ones.

She was my mother’s friend, always stopping by to gossip or to borrow something to drop off food.

It was like she suddenly took notice of me as soon as Aunty Kike moved out because she started coming around more often and staying with us for longer hours.

She would smile at me as she talked, reaching out to touch my cheeks and calling me a "fine boy".

Her hands would linger for too long on my face as she caressed it with my fingers, and my mother, sitting there with us, would smile and laugh with her.

Either she was always oblivious to the look of pure terror on my face, or she made little meaning of it.

One evening, while my mother stepped out to run an errand, this neighbour asked me to help her carry a bag inside her house.

I initially refused, panic seizing my heart, but she had insisted, telling me that she would report to my mother if I disobeyed her.

And because I feared a painful rebuke from my mother, I did as she asked me to.

I remember how the air changed as soon as we were alone in the house.

The moment the door closed behind us, I knew that it was about to happen again.

I felt a tear roll down my cheek, but I wiped it away quickly.

This woman's fingers were casual as she took off my shirt, repeating compliments about how I was a handsome young man.

I was eight years old, and she was older than my mother.

Of all my abusers, she was the first to make me feel like I was complicit.

She didn’t pin me down or threaten me.

She just smiled, trailing her fingers along my arm, letting them roam for a long time and then slipping lower.

I froze.

We were both surprised to see that I was fully erect.

But while I was scared and confused, she, on the other hand, looked wholly pleased.

You like it, don’t you? she murmured, delight in her eyes. Of course you do; you want this too.

She laughed, patted my head, and told me not to tell my mother.

I didn’t.

This time it wasn't just because I didn’t know how to, but because I was ashamed of myself.

That episode drained me and left me confused for weeks.

Her words kept ringing in my ears: "You want this too."

But did I really? I don't think I did.

It made me feel disgusting, and it hurt, and I didn’t like it at all.

So why did my body react that way when she touched me? Why did my body like what she was doing?

After that day I started to think that it was all my fault.

I was the reason these women kept doing these things to me.

I was stupid and responsible for all the pain I was feeling.

Stupid David…

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

My parents once had to travel for a weekend when I was twelve, so they hired a girl from church to "babysit" me while they were away.

She was a university student, and she seemed to be a decent person to me. She barely paid me any mind, always pressing her phone, and I liked it that way.

But that first night I walked in on her buried under some bedsheets, making strange sounds.

I didn't know what she was doing, so I just stood by the door, watching in confusion.

When she saw me, she smiled and asked me if I wanted to join her.

I don't know why I said yes.

She made me sit beside her on the bed, and she showed me the videos she was watching.

That night, we watched them together for hours.

I didn't understand why men and women were doing such things to each other, and even worse, I hated that I enjoyed watching it.

After we finished, she asked if I wanted us to try the things we watched.

I don't know why I said yes.

She took my virginity that night and with it, the last fragments of my childhood innocence.

After that day, all I felt was emptiness.

The events of that night led to me developing an insatiable pornographic addiction that lasted for many many months.

I couldn’t control myself, and I couldn't do or think of anything else.

I would watch for seconds, touch myself for minutes, and hate my existence for hours.

Then almost a year after this, something happened.

I was alone in my bathroom that night when I stumbled upon a video with a boy in it who looked just like me.

He looked like he was my age, or even younger, and he was naked in the middle of many women who were much, much older than he was.

They were laughing and joking and taking off their clothes, and he just lay there, looking terrified as hell.

Immediately, I saw myself in him.

I felt all of his fear and all of his pain and all of his shame like they were my own.

In a way, I guess they were.

I saw him in me, and I just couldn't bring myself to continue watching.

Hot tears fell out of my eyes as I turned off my phone, fell to my knees, and broke down flat on my bathroom floor.

For the first time since Aunty Kike had started abusing me seven years earlier, I cried.

I cried and cried and cried.

With my face bare on the floor, tears pouring from my eyes, and heart consumed by grief and shame, I considered suicide again.

For many years, I felt invisible.

It felt like nobody cared.

It felt like nobody saw me.

It felt like nobody cared enough to see me.

To see my pain or to see the grief of my existence that weighed down on me daily.

I grew up to be a very angry child.

I was always moody, getting into fights and starting all kinds of trouble everywhere I went.

Those were the only times I felt seen.

I was beaten in school, beaten at home, and beaten by kids my age, but I didn’t change.

Nobody ever understood why I acted up, why I hated being touched by anybody, and why I caused an obscene amount of trouble for all my female teachers.

My headmistress said I was being influenced negatively from home.

My parents said I was being negatively influenced from school.

My classmates and the kids in my neighbourhood said they hated me.

Nobody saw that I was just a kid that was crying for help.

A boy that was crying to be saved.

The first time someone tried to save me, I thought, Thank God, this is it.

This was many years after Aunty Kike and many years before the university girl.

I think I was ten.

I don't remember exactly what happened, but I was playing outside in our compound when the repairman who was called to fix a broken portion of the fence called me over.

When I ran over to meet him, he pressed his hand firmly against my back, and he started to lead me toward the back of the house.

All my senses tingled with danger, and I tried to run away from him, but his grip was steady and rough.

I was about to scream for help when Madam Ifeoma’s voice sliced through the air like a blade.

"Oga, where you dey carry the boy go biko?"

The man stammered and fumbled over his explanation, but she did not even wait for an answer.

She reached for me, her fingers curling tight around my wrist, and yanked me behind her.

Her voice rose, sharp and furious, and almost immediately, all the people in the compound gathered. My parents were called.

Everybody looked at me with concern in their eyes, and I remember thinking to myself, "This time, someone will listen. This will be the end."

But it wasn't.

The man was let go. People dispersed. And nobody thought much of the incident again after that day.

That night, my father sat me down. He sighed, rubbed his forehead, and asked, "What were you doing there in the first place, David? Don't you know you have to be careful?"

That was the moment I understood that nobody was coming to save me.

From that day, I never tried to explain myself or talk to anybody about what was happening to me again.

I never spoke aloud about the disgusting things that those evil women did and were still doing to me.

Since then, I've learnt that sometimes, even when people see you drowning, they won’t pull you out of the water.

Some will watch. Some will look away. Some will tell you it’s your fault for not knowing how to swim.

And that's just life.

Nothing was ever done to the repairman; he even returned a few times after to do some fixes around the compound.

He never paid any attention to me.

I was just grateful that Madam Ifeoma rescued me when she did.

I don’t want to imagine what would’ve happened that day if she hadn’t been there.

As I got older, the weight became heavier for me to carry, but it also became easier for me to hide it.

By the time I got into the university, I was no longer acting out or stirring up trouble out of a desperate need for attention.

I had become calmer and more reserved, and I focused all my attention on taking care of myself, mentally and physically.

By that point I had read hundreds of articles on child molestation and watched hundreds of videos on the effects of sexual abuse on young boys.

I saw the terrible things some of these men grew up to do and be, and I was determined to not be like them.

Yes, there was rage in me. Yes, there was fear in me. Yes, I felt shame every time I looked in the mirror.

But I would not let it define me.

No, I would be better.

My plan was not to seek therapy or confide in family or do any of the other things those articles and videos mentioned.

I was going to do it all on my own because I knew deep down that nobody was coming to save me.

Plus, by then I was way too proud and way too ashamed to let anybody know what had been done to me.

My ego was all that I had left.

I wasn't naïve.

It was clear how society treated men who spoke up about being sexually harassed or violently abused.

They were either subjected to stigma, pity, or mockery.

Nobody ever took them seriously; some didn't even believe that women could rape or harass or abuse men.

And this wasn't some far-fetched narrative.

No, it was real, and I even felt it closely.

Sometimes, when I would sit around with some guys from the gym or some from school, they'd all laugh and make jokes about men in the news who were beaten by their partners or raped as kids or teenagers.

They would shake their heads, joking about how it "could never be me", even as they flexed their muscles, laughing and basking in their ignorance.

Some of the bigger idiots would even cruelly add how they would have "enjoyed it" if it were them.

I never laughed along; I just watched in silence, often wondering if I would also be laughing with them if I didn't know the things I knew and if I hadn't faced the things that I had faced.

But then, you see, darkness has a way of recognising darkness.

Underneath the confident smirks, and the designer clothes, and the perfectly fit bodies of the different men I've met in my life, I can sometimes also see it.

That darkness.

It was obvious that many of us had swallowed things too big for our throats as children.

That we had buried wounds in us, wounds that were too deep to name.

I watched some of these men hurt the women who loved them, verbally and physically.

Watched them lash out in pride to people, desperate to "reclaim" the power and the voice that had been stolen from them in their innocent years.

The darkness was clear in the way they turned their pain into the only other emotion they could truly feel and understand: anger.

If you look around, you'll probably see one or two of such men around you.

Victims who have in turn become monsters.

Hurt people who now hurt more people.

Being like one of these guys terrified me, causing anybody pain terrified me.

So I avoided intimacy like a plague.

As I got older, I never had any female friends or acquaintances.

Even my relationship with my mother, and father too, grew more and more strained until it became entirely non-existent.

I never spoke to any girls or made any effort to be seen by them.

The few of them who tried to get close to me, platonically and otherwise, received a reaction so harsh that they never came around ever again.

To me, it was a necessary evil.

And it was like this for a very long time in my life.

The rare times that I did feel drawn to a woman, my demons would always resurface with their ugly heads, snarling and gnawing at me.

If she was older than I was, they would whisper to me that I was just craving the pleasures of my childhood abuse again.

If she was younger than I was, they would tell me I just wanted to repeat the cycle. To infuse the darkness in me into another pure, innocent soul.

Either way, I was tainted.

So I stayed away from the opposite gender.

I avoided them. I loathed them. I was scared of them.

The demons of my past ruled over me, and I let them.

I have never been good at sadness.

Even today, as a fully grown man, I still don’t know what to do with it.

I can laugh. I can get angry. I can make a joke out of something that is not funny.

But sadness?

I don’t know how to hold it.

I don’t know how to sit with it.

I don’t know how to cry.

I have only ever known how to disappear when that old, familiar feeling comes. To go quiet. To retreat into myself and to wait for it to pass.

I also know how to get angry.

For a long time, it was all I knew.

In recent months, however, I have started to get better.

I handle my emotions as best as I can, and although my demons still own most of my thoughts and dreams and fears, I've mastered the art of shutting them out.

Oh, and I also have a few female friends now.

They all say that I’m often distant. Cold. Unreachable.

I let them think what they want.

It’s easier to do that than to explain how sometimes, when they touch me, I still feel ghosts on my skin.

It’s easier than admitting that I have never known how to let someone hold me without feeling trapped.

It's easier than telling them that a deep, deep part of me resented them for a crime they played no part in committing.

Staying silent is much easier.

In all honesty, I haven't been completely honest with you.

I left so many things out of my story.

I didn’t tell you about another one of our neighbours who used to "help" me "clean up" in the shower when my parents weren’t home and how she would soap my body in ways that didn’t feel right.

I didn’t tell you about the one girl I "dated" at the university, the one everyone thought I was lucky to have.

The one who laughed at me when I froze beneath her touch.

The one who, even after I shook my head in disapproval, still pinned my hands down, told me to relax, and whispered, "Stop pretending, all men want this," as she did things to me that my body loved but the rest of my entire being hated.

I definitely won’t tell you about what happened when I was fourteen.

That’s still too hard for me, and part of me still doesn't believe that it was real.

But by now, I think you fully understand me.

You understand my story, and you understand why big boys don’t cry, no matter what happens to them in life.

When I snap out of my daze, I see that the little boy is still in my line of sight.

He’s stopped sniffling now, and his mother is still holding his hand, leading him forward as they walk down the street.

There's this deep ache, a deep longing in my heart, and I want so badly to reach out to him.

I want to tell him that he shouldn't listen to his mother or anybody else.

I want to tell him that it's okay.

That even as as a boy or a man, it's okay to let the tears flow.

It's okay to scream and to be angry and to be sad.

It’s okay to feel.