When Men’s Voices Drown Women’s Cries: A Call for Genuine Accountability
By Noko Mabofa Maleka
In recent months, I have watched with growing dismay as platforms emerge—ostensibly to address “men’s issues”—rising like mushrooms after the rain. On the surface, these forums promise solidarity, self‑improvement, and brotherhood. But listen closely: they are eerily reminiscent of walls built around bullies, drowning out the small, desperate voices that cry for help while perishing in the hands of the same oppressors. To create yet another space for men to air their grievances—especially now, as survivors of gender‑based violence (GBV) and child molestation finally find the courage to speak—reveals a society more interested in protecting its perpetrators than its victims.
Consider this: when men petition against rising petrol prices, or protest “unfair stereotypes,” they do so from positions of relative comfort and safety. Meanwhile, seven‑year‑old children—souvenirs of men’s unchecked power—are ravaged in the privacy of our homes and churches. How can we afford to tune in to a man’s lament about the cost of living when another man is busy sexually assaulting the most vulnerable among us? This is not an either/or question but a moral reckoning: our collective refusal to prioritize the protection of children and women speaks volumes about where our true sympathies lie.
In black communities—where the scars of historical oppression still bleed fresh—this failure is especially devastating. We speak passionately of ancestral pain and community upliftment, yet we allow a justice system that proclaims itself “evolved” to acquit molesters, rapists, and predators who feast on those they vow to protect. Dozens of teenage girls in a church were silenced, yet our courts found “reasonable doubt,” and the perpetrators walked free. Still, the conveners of men’s conferences did not call an emergency session; they did not dispatch an urgent intervention. Instead, they patted themselves on the back, proud of their collective brotherhood, unashamed of the terror they inflict.
It is high time we called this what it truly is: willful complicity. When men petition the state for “greater representation,” or for “dialogue on mental health,” without first demanding an end to GBV, they reveal that their version of “healing” excludes those they have harmed. Any conference that fails to place ending child molestation and gender‑based violence at the top of its agenda is nothing more than a promotional tour for male egos.
Some may argue that men, too, suffer under patriarchy—that the very structures they uphold also bind them. I do not deny that societal expectations of hyper‑masculinity can be debilitating. But the victims of these expectations are overwhelmingly women and children. A man’s emotional burden is a pale echo of the terror inflicted on a little girl whose voice is barely a whisper against the roar of her rapist. Until men learn to listen to that whisper, they have no business commanding the microphone.
I think of the recent high‑court acquittal of a man accused of raping dozens of teens within a church compound—an institution that should have been a sanctuary. The judge cited “insufficient evidence,” ignoring the chorus of brave survivors who stepped forward. The man, with more than five illegal passports, strolled free; those very passports stand as testament to our collective negligence. Yet the so‑called champions of “men’s mental health” said nothing. Their silence was deafening.
To my fellow men: before you design spaces to unpack your pain, ask yourselves whose pain you are willing to set aside. Are you prepared to halt every conference, every podcast, every newsletter, until we have an unambiguous national plan to eradicate GBV and child molestation? Will you use your platforms to fund shelters, legal aid, or educational campaigns that teach consent and respect? If your answer is no, then you are not an ally—you are an obstacle.
And to the broader society: if we continue to validate these male‑centric forums without demanding they confront the violence perpetuated by men, then we ourselves are complicit. We must insist that every “men’s issue” conversation be preceded by a dedication to victims’ safety and justice. Anything less is a betrayal of our humanity.
It breaks my heart to say this, but I hate that I am a man when I hear yet another story of a father, teacher, pastor, or neighbor betraying the trust invested in him. I hate that my gender is weaponized against those who deserve protection above all else. Let us find our shame, let us find our outrage—not for the slights against our comfort, but for the millions of women and children whose lives we could save if we only cared to listen.
At the end of the day, true manhood is not found in glossy conference brochures or viral Twitter hashtags. It is found in the tremulous voice of a survivor, finally heard and believed. Let us build our platforms not for self‑pity, but for self‑sacrifice. Let us make our first act of brotherhood the protection of those who cannot protect themselves. Only then will our words have meaning—and our conference halls, truly purpose.
