Mayok Media

Category: Immigration

  • When Fathers Become Strangers: Aging, Sacrifice, Bitterness, and the Loneliness We Do Not Talk About

    Dr. Mary Mba

    May 15, 2026

    (AI generated image created by Dr. Mary Mba, May 15, 2026)

    My brother recently shared an audio recording with me, a reflective song/story about an elderly man in Zambia who sacrificed everything for his children, only to find himself lonely and emotionally abandoned in old age.

    The piece stayed with me long after I listened to it.

    Not because it is rare.

    But because it is painfully familiar.

    Across African families and diasporic communities, there are many versions of this story:
    parents who gave everything,
    children trying to survive their own complicated lives,
    old wounds left unresolved,
    and silence growing louder with age.

    As I listened, I found myself reflecting deeply not only on aging and loneliness, but also on fatherhood, masculinity, emotional distance, migration, resentment, forgiveness, and the fear of becoming obsolete after spending a lifetime building something.

    The story immediately reminded me of the emotional themes surrounding The Devil Wears Prada and conversations about The Devil Wears Prada 2. Beneath the glamour and fashion industry politics lies a deeply human fear:
    What happens when the world no longer needs what you spent your entire life becoming?

    The elderly retired banker in this song and powerful aging professionals like Miranda Priestly are emotionally connected by the same anxiety:
    the fear of becoming invisible after years of sacrifice, labor, excellence, and relevance.

    Below is the arranged lyrical version of the story that inspired these reflections.

    “Old Age Is Long”

    (Inspired by a widely circulated Zambian reflective song/story shared online. Original authorship currently unverified.)

    I got married at the age of thirty,
    Three years after graduating from Genza.
    I met my wife at Honsa Campus.
    She was beautiful, hardworking,
    And full of dreams.

    Three years later,
    We became husband and wife.

    Soon after,
    I secured a banking job.
    Life smiled at me.

    I worked tirelessly.
    I gave my wife and children
    The best life I could afford.

    I sent my children
    To the best primary and secondary schools in Lusaka.
    Nothing was too expensive
    When it came to their education.

    I paid school fees without complaint.
    I sacrificed my comfort.
    Every bonus, every saving, every opportunity
    I used for them.

    Some of my children studied abroad.
    Today, they are successful.
    One is a banker.
    One is a surgeon.
    One is a pilot.

    They all live outside Zambia now.

    I was proud.
    I thought I had succeeded as a father.

    But I made one mistake.
    A mistake I now live with every day.

    I saved nothing for my old age.

    I believed my children would be there for me.
    After all,
    Everything I had,
    I spent on them.

    Today I am seventy-five years old,
    Living in Chinkuli village.

    My banking job is gone.
    My strength is gone.
    My voice is weaker.
    My legs shake when I walk.

    I now live alone in the village.

    When my wife fell sick,
    My children rushed home.
    They took her abroad for treatment.
    They promised they would come back for me.

    That was years ago.

    My wife is still there,
    Living with them,
    Cared for,
    Surrounded by comfort.

    And me?

    I sit outside my mud house every evening,
    Watching the sunset.

    Sometimes I hold my phone,
    Hoping it will ring.

    Sometimes days pass.
    Weeks pass.
    Without a call.

    Yes, they send money for my treatment.
    But what I want
    Is attention.

    When I am hungry,
    I endure it quietly.

    When rain leaks through my roof,
    I shift my bed.

    At night,
    I ask myself painful questions:

    Did I raise children?
    Or did I raise strangers?

    Was I wrong to believe
    Love would remember me?

    Why did I give everything
    And keep nothing for myself?

    The truth hurts more than loneliness.

    Children grow up.
    Life moves on.
    Promises fade.

    Not always because people are wicked,
    But because everyone becomes busy
    With their own lives.

    So if you are a man reading this,
    Love your children.
    Train them well.
    Educate them.

    But do not forget yourself.

    Save for your old age.
    Prepare for tomorrow.

    Do not place your entire future
    In anyone’s hands,
    Not even your children’s.

    Because love is sweet,
    But old age is long.

    And loneliness
    Is louder
    When you no longer have strength left.

    (This reflective song/story was shared with me by my brother and appears to circulate widely online. I have been unable to verify the original author, singer, or source. If you are the creator or know the rightful attribution, please contact me so proper credit can be given.)

    The Song Refuses Simple Villains

    One of the reasons this song is so emotionally powerful is because it resists simple villains.

    The children are not portrayed as monsters.

    The father is not portrayed as entirely innocent either.

    The tragedy lies in emotional distance, generational expectations, migration, aging, and the painful misunderstandings surrounding love and sacrifice.

    This is not merely a story about “ungrateful children.”

    It is also a story about the emotional limitations many men inherited and passed down without realizing the consequences.

    The African Father as Provider

    Many African fathers of older generations were taught that a good father provides.

    Love was measured through:
    school fees,
    food,
    discipline,
    housing,
    survival,
    and sacrifice.

    Emotional intimacy was often treated as secondary, unnecessary, or even weak.

    Many men genuinely loved their children deeply, but they expressed that love through labor rather than emotional connection.

    Their affection sounded like:
    “Have you eaten?”
    “Study hard.”
    “Do not disgrace this family.”
    “Who paid your fees?”

    Not:
    “I love you.”
    “I am proud of you.”
    “How are you emotionally?”
    “I was wrong.”

    As a result, many children grew up materially supported but emotionally distant from their fathers.

    A father can fully fund a child’s education and still remain emotionally unknown to that child.

    That creates a painful contradiction:
    “My father sacrificed everything for me, but I never truly knew him.”

    This does not erase the father’s sacrifices.

    But it helps explain why financial provision alone does not always create emotional closeness in adulthood.

    When Discipline Becomes Fear

    This conversation also requires honesty about parenting culture in many African homes.

    Corporal punishment was normalized.
    Some fathers ruled through fear rather than relationship.

    Children were beaten harshly “for their own good.”
    Some witnessed domestic violence against their mothers.
    Some grew up around shouting, intimidation, humiliation, emotional neglect, infidelity, or anger.

    These experiences leave emotional marks that do not disappear automatically with age.

    This is where the conversation becomes uncomfortable.

    Because aging parents deserve compassion.

    But adult children also deserve honesty about the wounds they carry.

    Sometimes emotional distance in adulthood is not hatred.

    Sometimes it is unresolved pain.

    Some adult children avoid closeness because proximity reopens trauma they never healed from.

    This does not mean parents were monsters.
    Many were themselves products of harsh systems, poverty, patriarchy, survival pressures, and inherited emotional silence.

    But generational pain must still be acknowledged honestly if healing is ever going to happen.

    Migration and Diaspora Fragmentation

    The song also reflects another painful African reality:
    children leave home for education and opportunities abroad.

    Migration changes family structures.

    Children abroad:
    marry,
    raise children,
    work demanding jobs,
    adapt to different cultures,
    and become absorbed into survival systems elsewhere.

    Distance slowly becomes emotional normalcy.

    Phone calls become shorter.
    Visits become rarer.
    Years disappear quietly.

    Sometimes guilt itself makes children avoid calling.

    They know their parents are lonely.
    They know time is passing.
    They know they are absent.

    And shame creates even more silence.

    Masculinity and Emotional Isolation

    Many African men are raised to:
    suppress vulnerability,
    avoid emotional expression,
    lead through authority,
    and command respect rather than cultivate intimacy.

    This becomes dangerous in old age.

    Because once:
    work ends,
    physical strength fades,
    authority disappears,
    and children become independent,

    some men realize they never built emotional companionship.

    Their identity was tied to:
    being provider,
    disciplinarian,
    decision maker,
    and respected elder.

    But not necessarily:
    friend,
    nurturer,
    or emotionally accessible father.

    Retirement then becomes not only economic loss.

    It becomes emotional exposure.

    A man suddenly realizes:
    “I spent my entire life being needed, but never truly known.”

    That realization can be psychologically devastating.

    Marriage, Mothers, and Emotional Inheritance

    Another difficult truth is that marital conflict often shapes parent-child relationships.

    Sometimes mothers who endured betrayal, neglect, abuse, or humiliation consciously or unconsciously influence how children perceive their fathers.

    Sometimes children emotionally align with the parent they saw suffer most.

    At the same time, there are also cases where fathers are unfairly alienated because of unresolved bitterness between spouses.

    Families are rarely simple.

    There are fathers who sacrificed greatly and were still abandoned.

    There are also fathers who provided financially while emotionally wounding their families for decades.

    Both realities exist.

    The internet often wants heroes and villains.

    Real life is far more complicated.

    Aging and the Fear of Obsolescence

    What struck me most about this song is that beneath the loneliness lies another fear:
    the fear of irrelevance.

    The old banker is not grieving only poverty.

    He is grieving invisibility.

    He spent his entire life building something:
    a family,
    a future,
    successful children.

    Now he sits alone wondering whether the people he built his life around still truly see him.

    That emotional anxiety appears in many modern stories, including The Devil Wears Prada and conversations surrounding The Devil Wears Prada 2.

    Miranda Priestly’s fear is not simply aging.

    It is obsolescence.

    What happens when:
    younger people replace you,
    your sacrifices are forgotten,
    the systems you built evolve beyond you,
    and your usefulness fades?

    The old man in the village and powerful aging professionals are emotionally connected by the same terrifying question:
    “What happens when the world no longer needs me?”

    The Root of Bitterness

    Hebrews 12:15 “looking carefully lest anyone fall short of the grace of God; lest any root of bitterness springing up cause trouble, and by this many become defiled.” (New King James Version)

    The Bible warns about “the root of bitterness.”

    Bitterness rarely appears suddenly.

    It grows slowly through:
    silence,
    unresolved hurt,
    pride,
    humiliation,
    emotional neglect,
    unspoken apologies,
    and generational misunderstanding.

    Many families avoid difficult conversations for decades.

    Then illness comes.
    Or old age.
    Or funerals.

    And suddenly people wish they had said:
    “I am sorry.”
    “I forgive you.”
    “I was wrong.”
    “I love you.”
    “I needed you.”
    “Thank you.”

    Too many families are emotionally starving while pretending everything is fine.

    Families Need Honest Conversations

    We need spaces for truth without humiliation.

    Parents should be able to admit:
    “I was too harsh.”
    “I did not know how to express love.”
    “I hurt your mother.”
    “I thought provision was enough.”
    “I made mistakes.”

    Children should also be able to say:
    “I felt afraid of you.”
    “I needed tenderness.”
    “I still love you.”
    “I want healing too.”

    Forgiveness is not pretending harm never happened.

    Forgiveness is refusing to let pain become inheritance.

    Advice for Men in Their 50s and Beyond

    It is not too late.

    Call your children.
    Spend time with them.
    Listen without lecturing.
    Apologize without defensiveness.

    Do not wait until sickness or retirement to become emotionally available.

    Tell your children you love them while your voice is still strong enough to say it.

    Share your vulnerabilities, fears, anxieties, and discomfort.

    Let them know that you are also human, hence, fallible and not above mistakes.

    And fathers must also protect themselves:
    save for retirement,
    build friendships,
    cultivate hobbies,
    nurture community,
    and create emotional lives outside work and authority.

    No one should enter old age emotionally isolated.

    Final Reflection

    The elderly man in this song may or may not be a real individual.

    But his loneliness is real.

    It exists in villages.
    In cities.
    In retirement homes.
    In diaspora communities.
    In WhatsApp voice notes.
    In silent fathers.
    In wounded children.
    In aging marriages.

    This is why my brother sharing this audio affected me so deeply.

    Because this conversation is real.

    And we need to have it honestly.

    Love is not only sacrifice.

    Love is also:
    presence,
    gentleness,
    repair,
    listening,
    accountability,
    forgiveness,
    and emotional availability.

    Perhaps one of the greatest tragedies is not growing old.

    It is growing old surrounded by unresolved love.

    Because old age is long.

    And silence echoes loudly in homes where healing never came.

  • Three Generations of Resilient Women

    Mary Mba (Ph.D.)

    She walked alone,
    my mother—
    first girl in Ezialayi
    to sit in a classroom
    meant only for boys.
    She wrote her name
    on chalkboards of resistance,
    etched it into history
    with every lesson she taught
    as a teacher,
    as a principal,
    as a mother.

    She taught me
    to speak softly
    but walk boldly.
    To read by lantern light,
    to lead from the margins,
    to wear my worth
    like a second skin.

    And I—
    I carried her books in my blood,
    her courage in my bones.
    As I studied, birthed, worked,
    nursed babies between classes,
    and stitched dreams together
    with whatever thread I could find.

    You watched me,
    my daughter,
    small hands in my robe,
    head high in meetings,
    feet tapping under tables,
    learning early that women
    do not wait for permission
    to rise.

    And now it is you—
    hooded in honor,
    garlanded in grace,
    degrees blooming
    in both hands.
    A granddaughter.
    A daughter.
    A rising sun.

    This is not just a graduation.
    It is a legacy fulfilled.
    A lineage of learning.
    A full circle closed—
    only to begin again.

  • The Museum of Gods

    Mary Mba (Ph.D.)

    A Lament for the Stolen Sacred

    They came with ships and sermons,
    crosses in one hand,
    guns in the other.
    They found altars we had made from stone and spirit,
    and called them blasphemy.

    They did not bow.
    They did not ask.
    They took.

    What they called idols
    were our elders in wood.
    Our prayers in bronze.
    Our wisdom braided into clay.

    They shattered the shrines
    and stole the statues.
    Said, “You are savages,”
    as they wrapped our gods in linen
    and mailed them to Europe.

    Then they built museums—
    temples of theft—
    where people now stand in quiet awe
    before the very things we were beaten for loving.

    And they say:

    “Look at the craftsmanship.”
    “Such primitive elegance.”
    “How valuable this is.”

    But what they mean is:

    “It only became sacred once we took it.”

    They bow now—
    but only to the plaque,
    to the frame,
    to the price tag.

    We see the altars behind glass.
    We are told to be grateful.
    That they were “preserved.”

    But what they mean is:

    “You were never meant to be trusted with your own holiness.”

    So we light candles in our lungs.
    We whisper prayers in hidden tongues.
    We touch soil and remember its name.
    We bow—not to stone,
    but to spirit.

    Because we know—

    A god behind glass
    is still a god.
    And the stolen sacred
    still sings.

  • Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark: Real Monsters, Political Horror, Fear, and the Fight for Truth

    Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark: Real Monsters, Political Horror, Fear, and the Fight for Truth

    By Mary Mba, Ph.D.

    Scary Stories, Real Monsters: Political

    When Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark hit theaters in 2019, I remember walking out of the theatre with chills—not just from the film’s haunted monsters, but from the eerie resonance it had with real life. I quickly bought the entire three volumes of the book – because, I am that much of a book lover! Set in 1968 America—a time of war, protest, and political fear—the movie felt like a mirror reflecting our present, especially under Donald Trump’s administration. Watching it again now, in 2025, the mirror feels even sharper.

    Directed by André Øvredal and produced by Guillermo del Toro, the film is based on the cult-classic book series by Alvin Schwartz, notorious for its eerie tales and unforgettable illustrations. Set in 1968, the movie follows a group of teenagers who stumble upon a haunted book that begins writing new horror stories—stories that come true and target them one by one. But what begins as supernatural terror quickly reveals deeper truths: the danger of silence, the violence of misinformation, and the haunting power of stories told to protect the powerful and punish the marginalized.

    This is more than a horror movie. It’s a metaphor. A warning. A map of how fear, when turned into story, becomes power.

    Now, in 2025, with the resurgence of policies and rhetoric built on exclusion and fear, the film feels frighteningly prophetic.

    Haunted Books and Presidential Narratives

    In the film, a haunted book writes people into their deaths. The monster isn’t just Sarah Bellows, the ghost writing these tales—it’s the story itself. That’s where I saw the clearest parallel. During Trump’s first presidency, and now again, we’ve witnessed a flood of false, fear-driven narratives: immigrants as invaders, cities as war zones, the “other” as threat. These aren’t just political strategies—they are scary stories.

    And like in the film, the stories became real. Families were separated. ICE raids terrorized neighborhoods. DEI programs are now being banned. Schools are being forced to erase truth to protect power. At Haskell Indian Nations University, students lost teachers, coaches, and access to classes because of federally imposed cuts. Even some of Trump’s supporters are now losing their jobs. The stories don’t spare anyone in the end.

    Spiders Under the Skin: COVID, Contagion, and the Fear of Infestation

    One of the most disturbing scenes in the film is when a girl’s red spot explodes with spiders—an infestation no one saw coming. It’s a perfect metaphor for COVID-19. During the pandemic, fear of infection turned into racial hatred, especially against Asian Americans. Trump’s use of the term “China Virus” fueled hate crimes and conspiracy theories. The fear wasn’t just of the virus—it was of people. That’s how horror works: it dehumanizes first, then attacks.

    Monsters and Moral Panic

    The Jangly Man. Harold the Scarecrow. The Pale Lady. These monsters represent institutional violence, bureaucratic horror, and systemic fear. But the real monster? The book. The story. Because once a lie is told often enough, it writes itself into law.

    The monsters today wear new faces: “voter fraud,” “CRT,” “wokeness,” “illegals,” “replacement theory.” All scary stories written to justify real harm. And just like in the film, these monsters keep reappearing until we rewrite the story.

    The Gospel of Fear: Evangelical Narratives and Political Mythmaking

    Here’s where things get even deeper—and scarier.

    In The Plague by Albert Camus, Father Paneloux, a devout priest, tells his congregation that the deadly epidemic is a punishment from God for their sins. He preaches certainty. Judgment. But after witnessing the slow, agonizing death of a child, his theology begins to fracture. He offers a second sermon, filled not with answers, but with anguish. “We must love what we cannot understand,” he says, no longer able to justify suffering with spiritual logic.

    Now, think of Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark. The town of Mill Valley casts Sarah Bellows as a witch, a monster, a vessel of evil. Her story becomes gospel—passed down, accepted, unchallenged. But the truth? Sarah was a scapegoat, silenced by her powerful family to protect their reputation. The town believed the lie because it was easier than facing the truth.

    This is the same pattern we see in American evangelical narratives around Trump. For years, prominent religious leaders declared him a divine instrument—a flawed but chosen vessel sent by God to save the nation. His policies, no matter how harmful, were spiritualized. Wrapped in prophecy. Justified with scripture.

    But now, as cuts to global health programs, aid organizations, and basic humanitarian services take effect—even those who once defended him are starting to feel the fallout. The suffering can no longer be hidden. Just like Father Paneloux. Just like the people of Mill Valley. The story is cracking.

    And here’s the hard truth: when fear becomes theology, monsters are born. When the gospel is used to silence, scapegoat, and justify cruelty—it stops being gospel at all. It becomes horror.

    So we must ask:

    • What kind of savior harms those he claims to protect?
    • What kind of story makes monsters of the innocent?

    It’s time to stop reading the same haunted script. It’s time to write something better.

    Rewriting the Story

    In the end, Stella doesn’t kill Sarah Bellows. She listens. She writes a new story—one based on truth. That’s what we’re being asked to do now.

    Camus called it “common decency.” I call it courageous storytelling. We have to tell the truth, especially when it’s uncomfortable. We have to protect our most vulnerable, especially when they’re being erased. And we have to remember: narratives are not neutral. They can kill. But they can also heal.

    The monsters aren’t just on screen. They’re in headlines, laws, policies, pulpits. But so is the pen.

    And we’re still holding it.

    💬 Share Your Thoughts

    Have you seen Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark? Did you see the parallels too? I’d love to hear your thoughts. Leave a comment or share this with someone who needs to read it.

    #Storytelling #HorrorAsMetaphor #EquityInEducation #Camus #AcademicLeadership #ScaryStoriesToTellInTheDark #AntiRacism #DEI #LinkedInThoughtLeadership

  • Rebellion and the Absurd: How Immigrants Must Resist Trumpism Without Becoming Oppressors

    “Rebellion and the Absurd: How Immigrants Must Resist Trumpism Without Becoming Oppressors”

    By Mary Mba (Ph.D.)
    Published on MayokMedia.com

    The Immigrant’s Struggle in an Absurd America

    America is a land of contradictions. It was built by immigrants, yet it fears them. It calls itself a land of freedom, yet it erects walls, bans, and detention centers.

    For immigrants, especially Black and African immigrants, Trump’s America was a lesson in absurdity. How do you navigate a system that claims to stand for justice but criminalizes your very existence?

    Albert Camus, the philosopher of the absurd and rebellion, teaches that in a world where oppression is normalized, we have only two choices:

    • Give in—accept oppression, live in fear, and become invisible.
    • Rebel—not with hate, but with defiance, truth, and dignity.

    This piece explores how immigrants can apply Camus’ philosophy of rebellion to resist oppression without losing their humanity.

    The Absurdity of Trump’s Immigration Policies

    Camus defines the absurd as the conflict between human hope and a world that refuses to meet those hopes.

    • Immigrants come to America seeking opportunity, only to find themselves vilified.
    • African and Muslim immigrants were singled out, despite the country benefiting from their labor, talents, and culture.

    Key Examples of Absurd Immigration Policies Under Trump:

    1. The Muslim Ban (2017): Aimed at barring entry from African and Middle Eastern nations.
    2. Family Separations at the Border: Ripping children away from parents as a deterrent.
    3. Cutting Refugee Admissions to Record Lows: Shutting doors on those fleeing war and persecution.

    Camus would argue that these policies do not serve justice but exist to manufacture an enemy—scapegoating immigrants to consolidate political power.

    The Camusian Response: Rebellion Without Hate

    In The Rebel, Camus warns that many revolutions start with justice but end in tyranny because they become obsessed with power.

    If immigrants and their allies want to resist xenophobia, racism, and nationalism, we must do so without falling into the same traps of exclusion, fear, and retribution.

    • Rebelling with Truth – Dismantling false narratives (e.g., immigrants as criminals, job stealers).
    • Rebelling with Action – Advocating, voting, and mobilizing to create lasting policy changes.
    • Rebelling with Solidarity – Uniting across racial, religious, and national lines to fight for justice.

    Historical and Modern Examples of Ethical Rebellion:

    • Frederick Douglass (19th Century): Exposed the hypocrisy of American democracy while advocating for abolition.
    • Civil Rights Movement (1960s): Used nonviolent resistance to dismantle segregation.
    • Black Lives Matter (2020): Mobilized globally against police brutality and systemic racism.
    • DACA & Dreamers (Ongoing): A generation of undocumented youth refusing to be erased.

    Each of these movements embodies Camus’ idea that rebellion is not about vengeance—it is about affirming human dignity.

    Thriving as the Ultimate Rebellion

    For immigrants, the greatest act of defiance is existing and thriving despite efforts to erase them.
    – Staying in America despite racist policies is rebellion.
    – Raising children who will succeed is rebellion.
    – Telling our stories and shaping the national conversation is rebellion.

    Trump’s America wanted immigrants to live in fear, to disappear, to feel unwanted.
    The response? We stay. We fight. We thrive.

    As Camus wrote:
    “Mankind’s greatness lies in his decision to be stronger than his condition.”

    Conclusion: The Immigrant’s Rebellion

    Camus teaches that rebellion does not promise immediate victory—but it is the only path to dignity.

    • Even after Trump is gone, xenophobia will remain.
    • Oppression will continue, but so will resistance.

     How will you resist? How will you rebel?
    Drop a comment below and share your thoughts.

    (Call to Action for Engagement:)
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    #Immigration #TheRebel #Camus #Politics #Diversity #Resistance #Activism