Our kindness is conditional. It’s built on how convincingly you can wear your pain. And it is also fragile.
By Sakeenah Kareem
Nigerians are kind, but only when you wear your problems.
One lovely Saturday evening, I stopped by the mosque to pray ʿAsr. On my way out, a sister whose face I couldn’t place greeted me. That wasn’t surprising; Muslims greet each other often. But then she hugged me and asked if I needed anything. Before I could respond, she was asking about my diet, my health, and my general well-being.
Based on our interaction, one would think we were long-time friends. I appreciated her concern, but couldn’t help wondering why this pretty lady, whom I’d never exchanged more than pleasantries with, suddenly became my caregiver.
The answer stood quietly in my right hand.
It’s been two months since I started using a mobility aid: a walking stick. And in those weeks I’ve been cared for, looked at with sympathy, had chairs drawn for me, had Keke drivers stop to pick me up, and been treated specially by friends, classmates, acquaintances, and total strangers.
Even more surprising is the attention I’ve received from people who once dismissed my pain; some who called me an attention seeker or just lazy. Two years ago, a lecturer screamed, “Am I the cause of your problem?” when I asked to retake a test I missed while in the hospital. But now he sees me with a walking aid and suddenly acts like my school dad, worried as if he is the cause of my problem.
Since my first year, I’ve had worrisome symptoms I dismissed as stress and environmental changes. In my second year, I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia and undifferentiated arthritis. Fibromyalgia is a chronic pain condition that causes muscle and joint pain, fatigue, migraines, and more. Undifferentiated arthritis is an inflammatory joint disease that doesn’t fit neatly into any single arthritis type but still causes pain, stiffness, and disability.
The disability that comes with both conditions was invisible, which left me with a lot of explaining to do; why I couldn’t stand or sit for long, why I couldn’t carry not-heavy stuff, why I missed classes intermittently, why I declined certain requests, and the whys are endless. My attempt at answering these whys has only gotten me “but you don’t look sick now”. So, I learned to keep quiet. To say “I’m fine” when I wasn’t. Because nothing invites ridicule faster than an invisible pain.
I mask my pain and fatigue in beautiful Abayas and expensive skincare. I got a medical report for official purposes, such as missing tests. Because of this, those who don’t know my struggle are quick to label me lazy or dramatic. When I say, “Sorry, I can’t follow you there, my legs hurt”, it’s read as, “I’m too big to walk”.
In these three years, I’ve witnessed how inconsiderate and insensitive people can be to things that aren’t visible. But with a stick, there is a validation that something is wrong. And the same set of people who have dismissed my pain now presume what I can and cannot do. Strangers I’ve never spoken to ask, “What happened to your leg? Are you okay?” It feels like my walking aid is a visibility cloak, the proof people need to treat me with humanity.
It felt good, of course; the relief of not having to explain. But it was also sobering. Because what changed wasn’t my body. It was what people could see.
And that’s when it hit me: Nigerians can be kind, but often their kindness needs a visible cue, an announcement that you’re struggling. That you’re going through a lot. That you need help. That you’re deserving of their humanity and compassion. It’s as if suffering must be certified before it deserves care. Until then, you are simply lazy, unserious, dramatic, or an attention seeker.
I remembered when I was younger. When children said they were sick, the adults would provide them with food. Which was good, as food in itself is healing. But if you managed to clear the plate, then you were suddenly well enough for school, errands, or chores. Pain that doesn’t stop you from eating or moving is not “real” pain. Headache without a fever? You’re dramatic. Leg pain, but still run to the gate? “So, you can walk now.”
Similarly, we were raised to check on people and to be there when someone is clearly in trouble. We were taught “to be sensitive” to people who are disabled, and to watch our words around people who are obviously grieving. And that is how we learnt that illness must prove itself to be believed.
We also learnt to be suspicious of invisible pain. If we can’t see the illness, we may be deceived. “Is she just looking for pity?”, “Is he faking to avoid work?”. For the sick, we also learn to hide pain that isn’t visible or push through it because no one believes discomfort they can’t see. By the time we’re adults, empathy has become conditional. We are kind, but only when pain performs well enough to convince us.
This conditional empathy follows us everywhere; in the workplace, in classrooms, even in families. Chronic pain, depression, and mental issues are all dismissed until there is visible proof. A cast. A crutch. A hospital admission. Or even worse, suicide. Suddenly, the same people who mocked or ignored you will rush to help carry your bag, offer a seat, or fetch water. And then, the usual “they should have spoken up”.
Our kindness is conditional. It’s built on how convincingly you can wear your pain. And it is also fragile. The moment I look “too okay for someone in pain”; walking briskly, crossing a gutter unaided, going out or having fun, I see concern shapeshift into doubt and suspicion. “So, you were exaggerating?”, “It’s not that bad, right?”, “Is your walking stick for fashion?”
This kindness laced with doubt forces disabled and chronically ill people to constantly prove their suffering. It makes invisibility a disadvantage and turns support into something you must earn by appearing pitiable. It’s exhausting. It is also dangerous because many of us overwork, keep silent about pai,n or delay asking for help until our bodies break just to avoid being labelled weak or dramatic.
And yet, Nigerians are capable of extraordinary warmth. I have felt it in the stranger who stopped a tricycle for me, the classmate who quietly carried my bag, the mosque sister who held me like an old friend. Our capacity to care is there; it just shouldn’t need proof.
I love the warmth Nigerians can show. I love that a stranger at the mosque saw me and cared. But I wish I didn’t need a stick to be seen.
Because someday my legs might feel strong enough to walk unaided again. And I wonder: will you still believe me then? Will you still be kind?
Sakeenah Kareem is a creative writer, journalist, and student at the University of Ibadan. Her work explores identity, empathy, and the human experience. She tweets and grams @tranquill_ink
Cover photo credit: Paul Uchechukwu