In many Nigerian cultures, grief is a performance. Cultural expectations police it: We are expected to grieve in silence, rush through our pain, and present a façade of strength, even when we are breaking inside. The volume of your wails, the length of mourning, and even your clothing are monitored and judged. “You must cry louder,” “You should wear black for a year,” “You shouldn’t remarry too soon,” or, conversely, “Don’t cry too much, or their spirit won’t rest.” But here’s the truth: This culture of suppressing grief is making us emotionally unhealthy.

Widows, especially, face immense pressure—society wants them to grieve just long enough to prove they loved their late husbands, but not so long that they become a burden. The expectations are even brutal in some traditions where a widow is expected to sit on the floor, unbathed, for days, while mourning in a prescribed manner. In some cases, she is forced to drink the water used to wash her husband’s corpse to prove she had no hand in his death. Widows are expected to grieve “appropriately”—whatever that means.

Meanwhile, widowers are often encouraged to remarry quickly. Society assumes a man cannot function without a wife, but expects a woman to remain a devoted widow indefinitely. But who decided how we should grieve? And what happens when the cultural script suffocates rather than supports?

Religion in Nigeria can shape how grief is processed. While religion provides comfort, it can also impose unrealistic expectations, making people feel guilty for grieving too much or for too long. Conversely, traditional belief systems often introduce fear into grief. Some people are warned not to cry too much, lest the deceased’s spirit linger. In some cases, mourning periods are extended unnecessarily due to rituals that must be performed before closure is allowed.

Instead of being a source of comfort, religion is sometimes used to shame mourners into silence. “God knows best,” people say, as if questioning or struggling with loss is a sign of weak faith. Many are told that crying too much means they are ungrateful or lacking in spiritual maturity. But even in the Bible, Jesus wept (John 11:35). Why, then, do we shame people for expressing their sorrow? Why do we force them to bottle up emotions that need to be processed to heal?

Men are expected to be stoic. A grieving son who sheds too many tears may hear, “Be a man.” Boys are taught that grief is best handled in silence, leading to generations of men who suppress their pain. On the other hand, women’s grief is scrutinised under a microscope. A widow who does not cry enough is suspected of foul play. A mother who loses a child and dares to smile again too soon is labelled “strong” as though her loss were a minor inconvenience. Strength is often forced on grieving women, even when all they want is permission to fall apart.

The way we grieve in Nigeria is deeply cultural, but culture evolves. As someone who has endured multiple losses, I have learned that grief does not fit into a box. You do not have to perform grief for an audience. You do not have to follow rituals that do not bring you peace. You do not have to heal on anyone’s timeline. Grief is messy and unpredictable. It does not always come with the loud wails or grand ceremonies that our culture expects. Sometimes, it is quiet suffering. Sometimes, it is laughter in the middle of pain. And all of it is valid.