It was 3 a.m., and I couldnât sleep. My phone lay in my hand, a glowing rectangle of despair.
Moments earlier, Iâd watched a manâs dignity stripped away in broad daylightâreduced to shreds like some cheap knock-off fabric on sale at Gikomba Market. The video was too graphic to stomach, yet impossible to unsee. It shook me. Not just the act itself, but the eerie normalcy of it. The sheer indifference of it all.
I thought about Bruce. Poor Bruce. Did he wake up that morning knowing his life would be splashed across our timelines like a bad meme? I doubt it. Maybe he woke up hopeful, the way we all do on rare, optimistic mornings.
Maybe he brewed some tea, listened to his favorite morning show, and decided it was a cologne kind of day. Bruce might have even prepped an elaborate breakfastâthe kind where you hum as you whisk eggs for your Spanish omelette, pretending life is a cooking show and not a slow descent into chaos.
Or maybe it was one of those cursed mornings where everything goes wrong. You wake up late. You stub your toe. The last clean shirt you own has a stain. You take one look at the dishes in the sink and pretend you didnât see them. Maybe Bruce, like the rest of us, didnât have the energy to face life, much less the dystopian nightmare it would morph into.
Then the unimaginable happened. Bruce, a man like you and me, was humiliated in the most barbaric fashion. And what did we do? We tweeted. We sat in our homes and offices, sipping coffee and scrolling, clutching pearls from the safety of our swivel chairs. Oh, we were outraged, sureâbut not enough to actually do anything.
The next day at work, the air was thick with tension. Inevitably, the conversation turned to the video. I kicked it off with a frustrated declaration. âSorry, but if Bruce were a woman, weâd all be out in the streets by now. Itâd be placards, hashtags, and CNN interviews by 6 a.m.â
Gertrude, our resident feminist and undisputed queen of comebacks, raised an eyebrow. âTrue,âshe said, âbut why havenât men gone out to support him? Why are you all so silent?â And just like that, she dropped the mic. Her question landed with the force of a sack of cement.
My brain froze. I had no answer. None. The silence in the room spoke louder than any of us could, and soon, the conversation veered off into lighter topicsâJustin Bieberâs latest album and Chimamanda Adichieâs literary genius. But that question stayed with me. It followed me home, clinging to my thoughts like the smell of burnt toast.
Just why donât men stand up for fellow men?
Letâs not sugarcoat it: men are terrible at showing up for each other. Globally, most evils inflicted on men are by other men. A man is more likely to be your hazard than your haven. If men had theme songs, theyâd go something like, âEvery man for himself and God for us all.â
Weâre conditioned this way. From childhood, weâre taught to âman up,â to carry our pain like a badge of honor, to compete, not connect. Vulnerability? Thatâs for the weak. So when Bruce got shredded, metaphorically and literally, our first instinct wasnât to rally behind him but to pretend it wasnât our business. After all, isnât that what being a man is all about?
Weâre selfish. Not selfish in the way that means hoarding the last slice of pizza, but selfish in a way that makes us avoid emotional investment. Standing up for Bruce would mean acknowledging that what happened to him could happen to any of us.
And honestly, who wants that kind of existential crisis over their morning coffee? Men donât have each otherâs backs because weâre too busy protecting our own fronts. We avoid eye contact with vulnerability the way Nairobians avoid rain on a Monday morning. Weâve been trained to see each other as competition, not community.
As I sat there that night, staring at my ceiling and replaying Gertrudeâs words, I realized the truth: men donât stand up for each other because weâve never been taught how. Our silence isnât just apathyâitâs fear. Fear of vulnerability. Fear of failure. Fear of being the next Bruce.
And so we tweet. We scroll. We move on. Because standing up requires effort, and frankly, effort is expensive. Weâd rather keep our dignity intact, even if it means ignoring someone elseâs is being torn apart.
Bruce deserved better. But this is the world weâve built. A world where men are expected to stand alone.
And honestly? Iâm fed up.
The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of Pulse as its publisher.
Editor's Note: Recognising the societal pressures men face, Pulse Kenya has partnered with Money Clinic for the second edition of the Average Joe's forum happening on November 23, 2024. The organisers are committed to creating a supportive, media-free environment where attendees can openly share and learn from one another.
Attendees can register here, it will only cost you Sh500.