I am an African woman. I am 30 years old. I am single. And I am tired! Tired of being considered an anomaly or a curse, an error in the great book of African society. Tired of the sidelong glances, the whispers behind my back, the intrusive questions that rain down like so many stabs to my self-esteem. Today, I take up my pen to say: enough is enough!

Since when did turning thirty become synonymous with failure for a woman? Who decreed that our value should be measured by our marital status or our ability to procreate? I categorically refuse this absurd equation that would have Woman + 30 years + Single = Failure.

Every day, I am bombarded with supposedly well-meaning remarks that only widen the gap between what society expects of me and who I really am. “You know, at your age, you shouldn’t be picky.” As if having standards, expectations, dreams for my life, was a luxury I could no longer afford once I crossed the fateful threshold of 30. As if my biological clock dictated not only my fertility but also the validity of my desires and aspirations.

And what about these incessant questions about motherhood? “When are you having a child?” thrown out like casual conversation around a family meal. This seemingly innocent phrase is loaded with so many assumptions that it becomes suffocating. It completely ignores the possibility that I might not want children, or that I might be silently struggling with infertility. It reduces my existence to my reproductive capacity, as if my uterus were the only organ of interest in my entire being.

Perhaps the worst is the barely veiled pity in the eyes of those who ask me: “But why aren’t you married yet?” As if marriage were a race where I had missed the start. As if my life were on hold, waiting for that hypothetical Prince Charming who would finally give meaning to my existence. This question completely denies my autonomy, my accomplishments, everything that makes me a whole individual.

And for those of us who have had a child out of wedlock, the stigma is twofold. “Why did your child’s father leave you?” This question, loaded with judgment, presupposes that it’s necessarily the man who left, that it’s inevitably a tragedy, and that a single woman can’t raise a child properly. It’s a slap in the face to all those single mothers who fight every day to offer the best to their child, juggling work, education, and personal life with a strength that many don’t even suspect.

Perhaps the most painful part of all this is the pressure exerted by our own parents. Those who should be our refuge, our unconditional support, sometimes become our most relentless tormentors. Their worries, their disappointed expectations, their fear of “what people will say” turn into a crushing weight on our shoulders. They don’t realize that every remark, every insistent question, every disapproving sigh, digs a gulf between us. A gulf that could become unbridgeable if nothing changes.

This constant pressure is not without consequences. It seeps into our minds, drop by drop, day after day, until it erodes our self-confidence. It pushes us to doubt our choices, our worth, our very right to happiness. How many of us have sunk into depression, feeling inadequate, deficient, simply because we didn’t fit into the narrow mold society wanted to force us into? How many have accepted toxic relationships, abusive partners, just to escape the label of “old maid”? How many have isolated themselves, fleeing family gatherings and meetings with friends, tired of having to justify their existence?

It’s time for this to stop. It’s time for us, African women, to rise up and say with one voice: we are not flowers that wilt at 30. We are complex human beings, constantly evolving, whose value is not measured by a ring on our finger or a positive pregnancy test.

We are accomplished professionals, audacious entrepreneurs, talented artists, brilliant scientists. We are daughters, sisters, friends, mentors. We are women who have chosen to live our lives on our own terms, who have had the courage to say no to relationships that didn’t suit us, who have preferred personal fulfillment to social conformity.

To the society that judges us, I say: open your eyes. See us for who we really are, not for what you think we should be. Celebrate our successes, support us in our failures, respect our choices. Our value does not diminish with age, it increases with every experience lived, every obstacle overcome, every dream pursued.

To my sisters who suffer in silence under the weight of these unrealistic expectations, I say: you are not alone. Your life belongs to you, and you don’t owe anyone an explanation. Don’t be afraid to chart your own path, even if it doesn’t look like anyone else’s. Your happiness, your fulfillment, your inner peace are infinitely more important than ticking boxes on the list of societal expectations.

I am a 30-year-old woman. I am single. And I am neither cursed, nor expired, nor incomplete. I am whole, I am alive, I am becoming. My story is not finished, it’s just beginning. And I intend to write it my way, with my own words, at my own pace. Because my life is not summed up by a marital status or a maternal role. It is a unique, precious adventure, and I refuse to let it be defined by anyone other than myself.

It’s time for African society to understand that the diversity of life paths is a richness, not a threat. That every woman who dares to live on her own terms paves the way for those who will follow. That we deserve respect, even admiration, for our courage to defy norms and be true to ourselves.

So yes, I am 30 years old. I am single. And I am proud of who I am, of what I have accomplished, and of all that still awaits me. I am not a wilted flower, I am a tree that is taking root, growing, flourishing. And believe me, I’m not done reaching for the sky!

Aunty Akos

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