by Caleb Olatilu
Men’s Mental Health, and Why It’s Time to Talk
Globally, about 740,000 people die by suicide every year. That is one life lost every 43 seconds. Men account for roughly two-thirds of that number, approximately 500,000 men annually. The suicide rate for men is more than double that of women worldwide. And yet the conversation around men's mental health remains exactly where it has always been: buried.
The question is not why men are dying. It is why we were never taught to live freely.
From the son of a welder to the son of an accountant, the expectations are the same. We were born with responsibility already on our shoulders, the kind that demands you constantly show up without ever needing to speak. The kind society places on you like, "man wey carry the whole family on top him head, but nobody ask am if him neck dey pain am." We have always been expected to provide, to lead, to demonstrate strength and courage at all times. But nobody told the world we are not Superman. We are not machines. And we were never built to carry this much without breaking.
We have feelings too. Men cry. Men suffer in silence. Men feel pain. And above all, men die.
It starts young. Earlier than most people realise.
A boy sprains his ankle playing football and winces in pain. Before he can fully process what he feels, an adult nearby says, "You're going to be a man one day, stop wailing." And just like that, something shifts in that child. He learns, not from a textbook but from experience, that his pain is inconvenient. That silence is strength. That speaking up is something he cannot afford.
That boy grows up. He carries that lesson into adulthood, into relationships, into the workplace, into a world that keeps confirming what he was first told at eight years old. And we wonder why men don't talk.
In this part of the world, we have built an entire culture around what a man should and should not do. Sit in any group of Nigerian men long enough, and you will hear it:
"As a man, you shouldn't carry an umbrella when it is raining."
"Men don't moisturise."
"Stop acting like a woman."
"Real men don't go to therapy."
"If you don't have money, don't even think about marriage."
And then there is the truly absurd. In some communities in Nigeria, a man must be publicly flogged before he is deemed worthy of marrying. Beaten. As a rite of passage. As proof of his manhood. We have somehow agreed, collectively, that a man must earn his peace through suffering. And we no longer flinch at it.
There is also the quiet injustice happening inside Nigerian homes. The father who pours more affection, more resources, and more attention into his daughter while his son is left to "figure it out." Not out of malice, but out of a deeply held belief that boys are built for hardship. That softness is a gift reserved for daughters. A son who is coddled will become weak.
So we raise boys who become men who do not know how to ask for help. And then we are shocked when they disappear quietly.
And in Nigeria, they are not just disappearing quietly. They are dying in numbers we have only recently begun to count.
Nigeria is not watching this crisis from a distance. It is living it, and it is losing people to it every single day. The country records approximately 15,000 suicide deaths every year, and experts believe the real figure is far higher, buried under stigma, underreporting, and a legal system that still criminalises attempted suicide under Section 327 of the Criminal Code Act. A man who survives the worst moment of his life can be arrested for it. With a psychiatrist-to-population ratio of 1:800,000 and over 64 million Nigerians estimated to be living with some form of depression, the gap between the scale of the problem and the support available is not just wide. It is dangerous.
What makes this even harder to ignore is who is falling through that gap. In June 2024, Nick Imudia, the former CEO of Konga, one of Nigeria's most recognised e-commerce companies, allegedly died by suicide. A man of success, visibility, and achievement. If the silence can swallow a man like that, it can swallow anyone. Economic hardship, job loss, the pressure to provide, and a culture that tells men to carry it all without complaint are creating a generation of men quietly breaking. About 90% of those who attempt suicide have underlying mental health issues, and 80% of those cases are tied to depression, a condition that thrives in silence. In Nigeria, that silence is not just cultural. It is systemic.
To You
Hey. Yes, you.
You don't have to be okay all the time. Nobody actually is. The world just got really good at pretending.
You are allowed to cry. You are allowed to be tired. You are allowed to say "I'm not fine" without feeling like you've let someone down.
Going to see a doctor, talking to someone, taking medication, that is not weakness. That is just you choosing yourself. And you deserve to be chosen, especially by you.
Stop trying to carry everything alone. Put down what's breaking you. The alcohol, the silence, the fake smiles, none of it is working, and deep down you already know that.
You don't have to impress anyone. You don't have to be the strongest one in the room. You just have to still be here tomorrow.
We have lost too many already. Too many fathers, brothers, sons, and friends who smiled in the group chat and said nothing. The silence took them. It does not have to take you.
We need you here.
Happy Men's Mental Health Month. I see you, and you are not alone.
Editor Note: This is part of the UCJ series on creative pieces for Men Mental Health Month
