Deograsius Latimson
When was the last time you asked a man if he was okay —
and waited for the truth?
Not the smile.
Not the “I’m fine.”
Not the answer he gives because he doesn’t want to become a burden.
The truth.
The one buried beneath unpaid bills,
sleepless nights,
and responsibilities that don’t care how broken he feels.
Because the truth rarely arrives speaking.
It hides in tired eyes.
It settles in heavy shoulders.
It follows a man home
and sleeps beside him at night.
The truth is —
he wakes before the sun
and comes home after his children are asleep.
His hands tell stories his mouth never will.
He answers, “I’m fine,”
with a smile so convincing
even he starts believing it.
And if you look closely —you’ll see it.
Not in the words he speaks,
but in the weight he carries —
shoulders bent by expectations,
eyes that have forgotten rest,
a silence so heavy
it says more than any cry.
And somewhere
between the smile he wears
and the silence he carries,
I found myself asking —
Who teaches men to carry mountains without breaking their backs?
Who decided that tears belong to women, but pressure belongs to men?
Who convinced us that a man’s value is measured by what he provides —
instead of what he survives?
Maybe that is why
so many men become ghosts
long before they leave this earth —
not buried beneath soil,
but beneath expectations,
beneath the weight of being needed by everyone
except themselves.
They build homes while their own hearts collapse.
They become shelter while standing in the storm.
They light fires for others to stay warm,
while quietly freezing inside.
And when the cracks finally show —
when the mountain gives way,
when the river of swallowed tears
can no longer be contained —
the world asks, “What happened?”
As though pain has ever needed permission to exist.
This June,
do not wait for flowers to speak kindness.
Do not wait for a funeral to celebrate a life.
Sit with the fathers whose laughter hides exhaustion.
Listen to the brothers whose silence sounds like surrender.
Hold space for the sons learning to carry burdens
they watched their fathers carry first.
For a man is not measured
by the coins in his pocket,
the roof above his family,
or the weight upon his shoulders.
He is measured, too,
by the storms he survives,
the wounds he conceals,
and the courage it takes
to whisper, “I am hurting.”
And if that whisper ever reaches your ears,
do not offer judgment.
Do not offer shame.
Offer a hand.
Offer a shoulder.
Offer presence.
For sometimes,
the rope that pulls a man back from the edge
is simply knowing
that when the night grows heavy,
when the road grows cold,
and the burden grows louder than his own voice,
there is someone
who refuses
to let him walk alone.
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Written by
Deograsius Latimson Obalim is a Ugandan poet, a member of Uganda Poetry Society and a Student of Software Engineering at the Uganda Institute of Information and Communication Technology (UICT). His work explores the intersection of technology, humanity, ethics, and the future of artificial intelligence. Through poetry, he reflects on how innovation shapes societies, economies, and human identity, particularly from a Global South perspective. His writing seeks to question progress while preserving the human soul within the digital age.
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We men, we need justice please.
We also need men’s emancipation.
I feel you bro, we are going through this and we shall overcome, but that is what its like to be a man.
This is the truth dia. Men are going through a lot, emotionally, mentally, spiritually and everything just feels disconnected within us.