Let Her Thrive

My father always believed boys belonged in school and girls belonged at home. My mother believed otherwise.

He’s a traditional African man—the kind who favored my twin brother while insisting my place was in the kitchen. My brother never asked for that kind of privilege, but it was handed to him anyway. My mother didn’t accept it. Quietly, with steady eyes and quiet fire, she resisted.

While my father worked far from home, sending money back to support the family, my mother made a choice. She used part of that money to secretly pay my university fees. She never told him. She cut corners, skipped meals, ignored her own needs—just so I could stay enrolled. She walked long distances to save on bus fare. She borrowed quietly and repaid in secret. Sometimes, I’d see her counting coins late at night by the dim glow of a kerosene lamp, her face tired but determined.

My siblings didn’t understand. Sometimes, they turned against me. “We’re going hungry because of you,” they said. I didn’t blame them. All they could see was a plate missing from the table. They couldn’t see the future my mother was trying to build. I barely saw it myself.

More than once, I thought about quitting. The shame was heavy. The guilt nearly crushed me. I told myself maybe I should just get married, settle down, and let the dream die. There were days I sat in the back of the lecture hall wondering if I even deserved to be there. The weight of what it cost to keep me in school sat on my shoulders like a stone.

But every time I wavered, my mother held firm.

“You will finish,” she said. “I will find a way.”

So I stayed. I studied. I fought through exhaustion and self-doubt and carried the weight of her sacrifice like armor. I completed my diploma in Social Work.

But when it came time to collect my certificate, we were out of options. My mother had already given everything she could. She had poured herself into my journey drop by drop. So I did what I had to—I took a job. Eight long months of working from morning till evening, saving every coin, just to clear the remaining fees and finally hold that paper in my hands.

Now I have it. My certificate. My proof. But more than that, I have something even more powerful: hope. God opened doors I never dared to knock on. Doors I didn't even believe existed for someone like me. My mother—my fierce, gentle warrior—stood behind me through it all. I love her with everything I have. I am because she refused to let me stop.

I love my father too. But it’s hard to reconcile love with silence—with years of absence, disbelief, and that quiet refusal to see me. I don’t hate him. I just wish he had looked past tradition long enough to see his daughter’s potential.

So this is for every father out there: see your daughters. Not as a burden. Not as someone to marry off. Not as less.

See her mind. See her fire. Let her sit in classrooms. Let her speak. Let her fail and rise again. Let her dream beyond what culture says she’s allowed. Let her stumble, let her grow.

Because one day, the very daughter you doubted could be the one who lifts you. Who saves you. Who carries your name with honor. Maybe she is your breakthrough. Your doctor. Your architect. Your leader. Your healer. Your everything.

But only if you let her be. Only if you let her dream.