Welcome back to Thursday Chronicles — your weekly escape from Nigerian stress, written by someone who’s definitely been shouted at while washing plates before. If you grew up hearing “Come and pick this remote!” from three rooms away, or you’ve ever received a slap mid-sentence for asking ‘why,’ then congratulations, you’re certified. Let’s unpack our trauma together with humor and sense.
Growing up in a Nigerian home is like going through military training, except there’s no uniform, no salary, and you still get sent on errands during rainfall. And one thing that stands out in every typical Nigerian household is this unique form of communication: shouting. Not talking. Not whispering. Shouting, with full chest and vibrating voice.
Your mother doesn’t ask you to do something gently. No. She screams your name like you just won a visa lottery:
“AYOMIDE!!!”
You drop everything and sprint like you’re being chased by area boys, only to reach the living room and hear:
“Pick that spoon for me.”
A spoon that’s literally two inches away from her foot. That’s the moment you realize, peace is not part of your inheritance.
Nigerian parents believe shouting equals results. If they don’t raise their voice, you won’t hear. If they don’t threaten your life over chores, you’ll sleep. If they don’t mix your name with thunder and ancestral warnings, you won’t know they care. “I’m shouting because I love you” is the unofficial slogan. If that’s the case, then love almost sent us into cardiac arrest.
They shout when they’re angry. They shout when they’re happy. They shout when you’re sick, and still shout when you’re better. One minute you’re coughing, next minute you hear:
“So you want to die and disgrace me, abi?!”
You’re not even allowed to faint in peace.
Even greetings are not safe. You come back from school and greet casually:
“Good afternoon, ma.”
And she responds with:
“What is good about the afternoon?! Is that how you greet your mother? You better go back and come in again!”
Next thing, you’re acting like an actor in Tinsel, opening the door dramatically and greeting like you’re reciting a presidential speech.
Let’s not forget their gift for dramatic sound effects. You drop a plate? Boom —
“Ye! My enemies have succeeded!”
You break a cup?
“So you want to kill me in this house, abi?”
You ask an innocent question?
“You are talking back at me???”
No matter what you do, the response is louder than your action.
And if you try to explain yourself, your volume is seen as competition. Suddenly you’re labeled rude. You can’t win. There’s no debate. In a Nigerian home, children don’t have arguments. They only have regret.
But in their own way, Nigerian parents believe this is how you raise strong children. They don’t do soft parenting. They do steel parenting. If you survive it, you can survive anything. And maybe that’s why most of us are tough. You can’t shame the shameless. You can’t scare the generation that used to wash cars before school.
Yet, as adults now, we’re beginning to understand the difference between fear and respect. We’re learning that parenting doesn’t have to be loud to be effective. You can discipline with calm words. You can correct without screaming. You can love loudly without shouting literally.
The irony? Now that we’re grown, they’ve softened. The same woman who once threatened to throw you out for scoring 68 in English is now calling you “my baby” and asking if you’ve eaten. The same man who once said “boys don’t cry” is now sending you emojis on WhatsApp. Nigerian parents, we see you.
Truth is, they did the best they knew. Many of them didn’t grow up with gentleness either. They passed down what they received. But we, this new generation, can do better. We can raise kids with peace. We can love with less shouting. We can correct without confusion.
So, to all the adults still healing from loud upbringing, just know: you’re not dramatic. You were just raised in surround sound.
Thanks again for lending your ears (and your childhood trauma) to Thursday Chronicles.
If this one reminded you of the time your mum used one eye to control a whole room, you’re in good company. We’ll be back next week, same time, same truth, same hilarity.
Until then, stay strong, love softly, and if your mum still shouts your name in all caps, just answer before it turns into a family meeting.
