Black men are still not allowed to cry, to admit they’re struggling, or to say they don’t have all the answers.
As Mental Health Awareness Month draws attention to an important issue, it’s time we face a grim reality: in many communities of colour, the topic of mental health is often misunderstood or ignored.
According to the Employee Assistance Professional Association of SA, over 27% of South Africans suffer from depression, and tragically, many cannot even afford the mental health care they need.
But affordability is only part of the problem.
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Black men are less likely to seek mental health support because of stigma and cultural factors. Somehow it’s expected that when you’re born black, you’re born strong. Resilient.
Recently, a heartbreaking incident shook a rural village in Limpopo. A pupil, after relentless bullying, tragically took his life.
His suicide note alleged that his bullies were not peers, but a teacher. Adults who should have known better.
This tragedy reflects a broader cultural and systemic failure to address mental health.
Adding insult to injury, a popular TikToker recently claimed that “back in the day”, black people had no mental health issues and simply “got through it”.
This dangerously simplistic narrative feeds into an already problematic culture that dismisses mental health struggles as a modern or Western phenomenon.
Yet, we live in a country where untreated mental health issues often manifest in alcoholism, drug addiction and suicide.
But we cannot speak openly about this, can we? Especially when black men are still expected to suppress their emotions, to be the “anchor” of the family, no matter the internal struggles they face.
The culture of silence continues to promote the dangerous ideal of stoic, emotionless strength, at the cost of black men’s mental well-being.
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Take the informal “therapy” that occurs at chisa nyamas – where men gather, share booze, and banter, but rarely confront their true emotional issues.
By the end of the night, everyone is drunk, yet no real healing has taken place.
Instead, we foster a culture of functioning alcoholism and quiet despair, leading in some cases to domestic violence and deeper cycles of addiction.
Black men are still not allowed to cry, to admit they’re struggling, or to say they don’t have all the answers.
But is it not time to change this narrative? Shouldn’t we re-examine how we socialise our sons, brothers, and husbands, and confront the unrealistic expectations placed on them?
