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Enock Wanyama

Pulse Contributor

It was 3 a.m., and I couldn’t sleep. My phone lay in my hand, a glowing rectangle of despair.

Moments earlier, I’d watched a man’s dignity stripped away in broad daylight—reduced to shreds like some cheap knock-off fabric on sale at Gikomba Market. The video was too graphic to stomach, yet impossible to unsee. It shook me. Not just the act itself, but the eerie normalcy of it. The sheer indifference of it all.

I thought about Bruce. Poor Bruce. Did he wake up that morning knowing his life would be splashed across our timelines like a bad meme? I doubt it. Maybe he woke up hopeful, the way we all do on rare, optimistic mornings.

Maybe he brewed some tea, listened to his favorite morning show, and decided it was a cologne kind of day. Bruce might have even prepped an elaborate breakfast—the kind where you hum as you whisk eggs for your Spanish omelette, pretending life is a cooking show and not a slow descent into chaos.

Or maybe it was one of those cursed mornings where everything goes wrong. You wake up late. You stub your toe. The last clean shirt you own has a stain. You take one look at the dishes in the sink and pretend you didn’t see them. Maybe Bruce, like the rest of us, didn’t have the energy to face life, much less the dystopian nightmare it would morph into.

Then the unimaginable happened. Bruce, a man like you and me, was humiliated in the most barbaric fashion. And what did we do? We tweeted. We sat in our homes and offices, sipping coffee and scrolling, clutching pearls from the safety of our swivel chairs. Oh, we were outraged, sure—but not enough to actually do anything.

The next day at work, the air was thick with tension. Inevitably, the conversation turned to the video. I kicked it off with a frustrated declaration. “Sorry, but if Bruce were a woman, we’d all be out in the streets by now. It’d be placards, hashtags, and CNN interviews by 6 a.m.”

Gertrude, our resident feminist and undisputed queen of comebacks, raised an eyebrow. “True,”she said, “but why haven’t men gone out to support him? Why are you all so silent?” And just like that, she dropped the mic. Her question landed with the force of a sack of cement.

My brain froze. I had no answer. None. The silence in the room spoke louder than any of us could, and soon, the conversation veered off into lighter topics—Justin Bieber’s latest album and Chimamanda Adichie’s literary genius. But that question stayed with me. It followed me home, clinging to my thoughts like the smell of burnt toast.

<h3>Just why don’t men stand up for fellow men?</h3>

Let’s not sugarcoat it: men are terrible at showing up for each other. Globally, most evils inflicted on men are by other men. A man is more likely to be your hazard than your haven. If men had theme songs, they’d go something like, “Every man for himself and God for us all.”

We’re conditioned this way. From childhood, we’re taught to “man up,” to carry our pain like a badge of honor, to compete, not connect. Vulnerability? That’s for the weak. So when Bruce got shredded, metaphorically and literally, our first instinct wasn’t to rally behind him but to pretend it wasn’t our business. After all, isn’t that what being a man is all about?

We’re selfish. Not selfish in the way that means hoarding the last slice of pizza, but selfish in a way that makes us avoid emotional investment. Standing up for Bruce would mean acknowledging that what happened to him could happen to any of us.

And honestly, who wants that kind of existential crisis over their morning coffee? Men don’t have each other’s backs because we’re too busy protecting our own fronts. We avoid eye contact with vulnerability the way Nairobians avoid rain on a Monday morning. We’ve been trained to see each other as competition, not community.

As I sat there that night, staring at my ceiling and replaying Gertrude’s words, I realized the truth: men don’t stand up for each other because we’ve never been taught how. Our silence isn’t just apathy—it’s fear. Fear of vulnerability. Fear of failure. Fear of being the next Bruce.

And so we tweet. We scroll. We move on. Because standing up requires effort, and frankly, effort is expensive. We’d rather keep our dignity intact, even if it means ignoring someone else’s is being torn apart.

Bruce deserved better. But this is the world we’ve built. A world where men are expected to stand alone.

The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of Pulse as its publisher.

Editor's Note:&nbsp;Recognising the societal pressures men face, Pulse Kenya has partnered with Money Clinic for the second edition of the&nbsp;Average Joe's forum happening on November 23, 2024. The organisers are committed to creating a supportive, media-free environment where attendees can openly share and learn from one another.

Attendees can&nbsp;<a target="_self" class="editor-link" href="https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSc0uFqIxh6v8vFR12FcL8O3fDE0SFWuvnf7MFNtViMv8bZH7g/viewform?edit2=2_ABaOnudPpzvoUCN4J77x9W90oItB08Zs0vShqGBusCo7ZpAE8NWmzV0vYHkq4oPklxELrH0">register here,</a> it will only cost you&nbsp;Sh500.

A man is brutally humiliated in public, yet the world’s reaction is nothing more than idle scrolling and tweets. In a society where men are taught to suppress vulnerability and avoid emotional investment, standing up for one another becomes a rare act. The silence that follows such an atrocity reveals a deeper fear—fear of vulnerability, failure, and becoming the next victim.

Why don't men stand up for fellow men? [Pulse Contributor's Opinion]

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Pulse Kenya is the most followed news and entertainment platform in Kenya. It informs and engages young Kenyans around the clock and provides updates by the hour.

Enock Wanyama

Articles written by the author

Why don't men stand up for fellow men? [Pulse Contributor's Opinion]