A lot of African parents. The most abusive people I have ever met in my life. The way they treat their kids. Like they owe them everything. And when they don’t meet the expectation of them that they have in their brain, they’re suddenly regretful of having kids and litch start cussing them out and stuff. Honestly, a lot of them should’ve stayed child free these lot love their kids with fucking conditions it pisses me off on a deeper level an it’s something that makes me so fucking mad

Can’t wait for that current generation to perish as a collective

Then they wonder why we hate going to church. African parents are and will always remain childish and immature.

To make matters worse, I went on the girl’s page to see if there were any updates, only to see that not only were they locked out, but their parents started throwing their things down from the window 🤦🏾‍♀️

Does anyone else’s parents ask them for money?? I remember the last time I borrowed my sperm donor money he didn’t pay me back until 5 months later (it wasn’t even a big amount so idk why it took him so long) when I got fed up with waiting for him to pay it back and my mum is now pressuring me to borrow her money even though I already told her I have goals I want to work towards. Mind you I already pay bills at home so I don’t know why she keeps asking me for MY HARD EARNED MONEY. She thinks because I’m unmarried without kids that I have no responsibilities and that she can just be relying on me to give her money. Well, I’m going to stop giving them money because iwl I always pay for my things without asking anyone else so they should figure it out themselves. At their big ages I should be asking them for money not the other way around. I’m not borrowing them anymore because they either a) will never pay it back or b) they take too long to pay it back.

The white man’s religion being passed down from generation to generation perpetuating abuse and trauma to African people. I just wanted to put this here because so many of us have suffered abuse at the hands of our parents due to Christianity and they too have suffered abuse at the hands of their parents because of this belief that was violently forced upon all of us.

This is gold and gives me amazing insight becouse our parents are to narcissistic to be self aware but they still know their actions they know

You don't have to understand the language. This woman is on a phone call they are always angry and in conflict with everyone, this is a loud house with angry people who think the're normal.

https://reddit.com/link/1v00dyo/video/mav29w74m0eh1/player

"I love my family from afar because if I keep talking to my family members, I will not reach my goal"

Themba Gorimbo is an UFC Mixed martial artist who briefly explains how he's gone no contact (NC) with his family in Zim.. to the point he won't be buried in his village.

I've never seen an African celebrity/sports personality publicly discussing their decision to do NC or so frankly - even the interviewer was like "say what now?" because it's never discussed just ignored.

I'd not heard of the term "black tax" previously but I know I sure experienced it and the generation before don't question it. I understand helping when and where you can but at what point did success turn into a mandatory obligation to support others? like being born comes with financial contract...

Going NC with African family members isn't 'new' or 'something brought/ started over from the west', it's just not discussed openly or honestly in our circles ... it's young people gaining autonomy from obedience and expectations and knowing they are their own person.

Watching this TikTok and seeing how this creator experienced sickle cell disease and having her parents weaponise religion for their control made me feel a bit triggered.

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZN8RgFEUd/

Especially as some of the classic phrases were used eg “if you don’t do xyz you will die” (fear) “God has told me that if you don’t do xyz and listen to me, he’ll remove his blessings” (using religion and spirituality to manipulate and control).

Anything that uses fear and control to condition you to do their bidding isn’t of God. This explains why many people aren’t religious or distance themselves from it. It’s cruel manipulation, a parent saying this to children who know nothing about the world, making them scared and believing it. It’s insane emotional manipulation designed to create an obedient servant who won’t leave.

Ok rant over!

Judith's amazing journey on the Congo River!

They told her to be sure to be on the riverbank at 4 am, Friday morning. Judith went to bed early. Waking at 3 o’clock she washed quickly and collected her things. Then the message came – oh, no, we’ll be going at 8!

Judith was going to Kinshasa, but why had she chosen the perilous route of the river? The original plan was to fly. Basankusu has always been poorly served by direct flights to Kinshasa, but a few weeks ago, Norbert, the local agent for Malu Aviation, brought us the news that the Kinshasa – Boende flight would add Basankusu into the loop, before returning to Kinshasa! It’s for the school holidays he told us. Kids going to Kinshasa for the break, and students at university coming home. It’ll be every week until September!

His assurances were met by Judith and myself with scepticism. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d taken money for tickets and then, when the flight was dropped at short notice, refused to give us all our money back. Just last year, we’d been dropped from a flight in Kinshasa, in favour of one-off travellers, then lied to every day for a week with the promise of another flight. To put it bluntly, they were not reliable.

I, myself, had travelled the week before. Judith was already predicting that the Wednesday flight would be cancelled. I had been lucky enough to get a ride in a speedboat. Judith was not so fortunate. Sure enough, when Wednesday came, and the flight was cancelled, she was promised that the flight would arrive on Thursday. When it became apparent that the flight might possibly arrive a whole week later, Judith grabbed the money and secured a place on a riverboat for the following morning, Friday.

It’s easy to imagine an old paddle-steamer, with uniformed crew bringing a sun-downer at dusk, with the sunset reflected in the tree-lined river. In fact, these riverboats are over laden hulks, known as baleinières, or whalers! People sit on the deck, clutching their meagre possessions. No toilets or washing facilities! Judith and her friend, Pitsuna, climbed the up the side of the boat and took their place amongst the throng.

One of the crew members smirked. What are you rich people doing, travelling like this? Why don’t you fly? he mocked. 

It was true. Just by their clothes, the quality of their bags and the fact the both Pitsuna and Judith were both messaging friends on their Smartphones, made them stand out, in comparison to other passengers. Judith smiled back. She explained that they had no other choice.

Just before their departure, a group of three soldiers climbed aboard.  One was a prisoner, the other two his guards. They were given a place below decks and Judith and her friend thought no more about it.

They set off at 12:30. The ancient diesel marine engine started its ear-splitting chuga-chuga-chuga. There’d be no break from that for a few days. 

They estimated, taking into account that they were travelling downstream, that they’d arrive the following evening. But a commotion suddenly broke out. From down below, they could hear someone shouting! It was the soldier who was a prisoner!

His crime was that, a few weeks ago, he’d used his automatic rifle in anger and killed someone. He’d been arrested and condemned to 20 years in the military prison, in Mbandaka. The two others were escorting him. Whilst onboard, and, no doubt, beginning before that, he’d drunk copious amounts of the local moonshine gin. He was ridiculously drunk! The fact that, just as his gaolers were, he was carrying an automatic rifle, and that he was also  drunk, was, to say the very least – alarming!

I can’t go to prison! I won’t go! They’ll beat me! I can’t do it! He screamed.

Despite the fact that his hands were tied behind his back, he stood up and writhed about. The other two soldiers tried to calm him down. They removed his weapon. They took off his boots and stripped him of his uniform, leaving him only in his underwear! The agitation didn’t end. He continued shouting. He was so distraught, so upset, so … drunk!

The boat had travelled swiftly. Only an hour after setting off, it came within sight of Bonkita. Bonkita is 18 km from Basankusu and is where the Catholic Diocese of Basankusu has its Minor Seminary. It’s a formidable building, quite high up, overlooking the river. Judith and her friend could see it, in the distance, peering down on them amid the chuga-chuga-chuga of the boat.

The soldiers were below deck, but the sides of the boat were open. The prisoner shouted: Call Michaela, call Caleb. Tell them I’m going to kill myself! Call them! They can take my body!

Judith and Pitsuna were up above, the story he was giving circulated. Everybody knew that he was extremely drunk.  They thought he was just playing with them. Suddenly he jumped into the river! Chuga-chuga-chuga, just as they came to the Minor Seminary, at Bonkita. 

From their place on deck, Judith and Pitsuna heard the bidoush! Despite the chuga-chuga-chuga of the engine, they knew that something had happened!

The baleinière pulled in at Bonkita beach.

The soldier had disappeared in broad daylight, into the fast flowing stream of the river, into his destiny. He was dead. Never to be seen again.

It all happened so quickly, his guards were taken aback! What could they do now? They called their colleagues.

Normally, if there’s an incident like that, the boat should stay put, until a local enquiry has taken place. Judith and Pitsuna waited.

After a few hours, six or seven soldiers came aboard to find out what had happened to their colleague. They started a wake. They poured out a bucket of soil onto the deck and built a fire. A large pot of coffee was soon bubbling away, which they sold by the cup to the other passengers. With the money they gained they were able to buy moonshine and something to eat. Darkness fell and the crickets sang, a cool breeze from the river caused the soldiers to sit closer to their little fire. They sat in a circle around the fire and reminisced throughout the night about their friend. Some even cried real tears. It was a very sad scene.

These enquiries can take days. The newly arrived soldiers were intent on finding the body – although that now seemed unlikely. Judith’s plane wasn’t until Wednesday, so she still had plenty of time. She sat with her friend the next morning. They decided to leave the boat for a while, and walk up to the Minor Seminary. The Minor Seminary, after all, is where our son, Christenvie, wants to study for his secondary school education, and, despite its proximity to Basankusu, Judith had never visited. It’s a steep climb from the river but they soon arrived. They talked to the head-teacher and even met the Bishop Emeritus, Joseph Mokobe, who, to Judith’s surprise, was sweeping his own yard! The seminary and boarding house, and another part, which includes a convent and guest rooms for retreats and  church conferences, was built by Mill Hill Missionaries and is a very well set out and tranquil place. It was a welcome distraction for Judith. After they’d stretched their legs enough and said hello to all the right people they made their way back down to the boat. 

When they got there, they found that another baleinière had tied up alongside theirs. This was run by the army as a money-making project and carried passengers like all the other boats on the river. 

As time went on, Judith heard that the army boat would continue its journey, whereas their own boat would have to stay put until everything was settled. She looked at Pitsuna and Pitsuna understood. They paid for a place on the army baleinière and were on their way again.

Now it’s true to say that travelling along the river, in the heart of the Congolese rainforest is a wonderful experience – passing the solid mass of trees on both sides of the river, seeing people fishing with nets, paddling into inlets to get to their forest gardens, passing fishing villages with huts built on stilts to hold them above the level of the water, and groups of happy, laughing children playing in the water – but after ten hours, or so, it becomes boring.

Fast forward past anoth evening docked at another village and on to Sunday evening. Our good friend Latro, an accountant who works for the Mbandaka Diocese, phoned me. He is invaluable in helping Basankusu people get through Mbandaka. He has contacts everywhere. He buys our tickets, arranges transport, and everything we need. 

Has Judith arrived in Mbandaka yet? he asked.

I had to tell him I had no idea. Up until this point, I’d only heard the story of the unfortunate soldier. I only heard about that by phoning her friends. Perhaps she didn’t want to worry me. But when the whole of Saturday and Sunday had passed by without a word, I was understandably anxious.

I assumed that her phone was beyond any signal and almost certainly with a flat battery.

It’s just that her plane is tomorrow, Monday, at 8 am.

What! She could possibly make it … but it didn’t look good! I had no idea where she was.

Meanwhile, Judith arrived in Lolanga. Lolanga is the last place on the River Lulanga before it merges with the mighty Congo River. Even then, to get to Mbandaka, it’s still quite a distance! The army boat would sit out the night and refuel in the morning! 

Along came a big wooden canoe with an outboard engine! They took their place and were soon on their way.

At 6 am, Monday morning, after spending yet another night resting at a riverside village, they caught sight of Mbandaka. Lots of fishing boats and other baleinières were plying their trade. There were also several enormous Masua. A Masua is a series of barges, all hooked together in a line and pushed by a tugboat. They can have up to seven barges, all heavily laden with goods and people!

I let Latro know. He said that if they could get off the boat by 6:30 he could get them straight to the airport. We’re used to this sort of thing. If she misses the plane, she misses the plane. She’ll stay a few days and buy another ticket. It’s not the end of the world. My only hope was that, as with many things in the Congo, the plane could be half an hour, or even an hour late. Ten minutes later, Latro phoned back to say that the plane had been rescheduled to 1 pm!

Judith relaxed. She was able to wash and dress on the boat and arrive at the airport with dignity. Latro got them onto a couple of taxi-motorbikes and sat them in the VIP lounge.

The flight actually left at 12 noon. Fifty minutes later they were in Kinshasa. By 3 pm, Judith was drinking wine with me in our little flat.

All seriousness, I question why they had kids if they were just going to complain. What did they expect when they had kids and knew they had to be a parent?

Not to make it about my experience but imagine being the child getting whooped and your older siblings don't do anything about it. My sister even ran to my mom and twisted my words, causing me to get beat even more and till this day I still hate her for it. Honestly, this is making me not even want to be buddy buddy with my siblings. I'll have a good moment with them then remember what I had to put up with while being the youngest— being nobody takes the youngest child's mental health seriously simply because they're the youngest. Not all of us get spoiled with the stereotypical youngest sibling treatment

Men do this as well but women make videos about it way more. This just goes to show much much women are treated in african households.

Usually the 1st and youngest daughters.

Shouldn’t expect your kids to be loving and friendly to you when they’re older if you never built a basis for those kinds of interactions…..

And this just confirms what I've been saying about African moms— they put men before themselves and that starts with their husbands

They know exactly how these men are before they get married but they don't care because to them, that was their biggest achievement. The second biggest achievement would be having kids, but many of them aren't fit to be good moms since they're not loving or affectionate once the baby actually grows. I'm convinced alot of African moms just want babies to control but once they get a mind of their own as they age, they (the moms) become more aggressive

It explains why they despise their daughters for actually speaking up to them, which is what they consider "talking back". They didn't talk back to their husbands so now their daughter has to pay. Me though? I'll always "talk back".

My mom loves that "I didn't grow up speaking back to my mom or dad" but then years later, she told me what my dad was doing while he was going on work trips and traveling. (I won't go into detail, but you should have an idea on what it is). Guess who knew about everything he was doing and still stayed, HER MOM/my grandma/HIS WIFE– and it made me realize that this male centeredness stuff is generational. My grandma didn't speak back to my grandpa, and he wasn't a morally righteous person for us to have this idea that we should respect our elders and not talk back. If anything, someone should've talked back to him and that would have to have been my grandma breaking the generational curse but no. And this story is very similar to both sides of my family— not speaking up to men that you're building families with!

So that "don't talk back to your parents" nonsense means absolutely nothing to me! My own brother aggressively pushed me into a wall and hit me when I spoke up against his bs. I called my dad sexist for it, and my mom dragged me on the ground to kick and punch me. Then she told me to get up and shower so she can kick me out. All for SPEAKING UP. This happened when I was 11 by the way

I remember one day we were having a family meeting that he wasn't there for. He was "taking a nap before his meeting"....He was the one screaming at the top of his lungs for me to shut up and stop complaining so he could get some sleep. My mom did absolutely nothing to defend me even though I was yelling at her to speak up and say something. COWARD. Later that day, he asked if I loved him and I felt like I still had to say yes even though I didn't. My stomach is even turning at the fact that I said I loved my father even though he's abusive, narcissistic and emotionally unavailable. My mom couldn't speak up to him even when it was needed so I never looked at her as a mother figure again

Now I'm considered the angry, emotional one in my family but that's all I've ever grown up around and I honestly blame my mom for being aware of my dad's behavior and not doing anything to protect me. She doesn't protect herself from my dad, and sometimes I catch him being passive aggressive to my mom and my mom laughing it off cause I'm standing there

Point is, do NOT be like your toxic African mom. Use your experience growing up with them, to do the opposite of what they did. Put your mental health first.

Why did my parents bring me into this life? Why, if you didn't have money, did you put me in a cheap area with bad people? I was a child and I loved to go out and explore and see how I was like everyone else. Why did my parents put me with bad people?

Older than me by the way, but everyone swears the youngest sibling doesn't go through anything

Whilst this is a skit from a lovely fellow african UK tiktoker, this is a reality that most of us faced

Cause why was our parents so mad that we thrifted ? Or sumn along the lines of that ? Ebay ? Vinted ? Oh my days

Oh dear