I remember once, back when I was about eight, I came home crying because I’d messed up my lines during a school play. I was so embarrassed I wanted to disappear. My dad didn’t say much. He just sat me down, put his giant calloused hand on my shoulder, and told me, “You’re allowed to mess up. Just don’t let it stop you from trying again.”
That moment stuck. Not because of the words, but because of the kind of man I thought he was. Strong. Protective. Safe. Fathers are supposed to be that, right? That’s the image we carry no matter how grown we get.
So when I heard the story about a man who murdered his own son I froze.
Not in disbelief. I wish I could say that. But honestly, these days, it feels like I’m becoming numb to headlines like this. Still, something about this one hit different. Maybe because it messes with one of the deepest, most sacred bonds we believe in that between a parent and child.
From what I gathered, the man let’s call him Kofi (not his real name) had a long history of anger issues. People say the home was tense. Shouting matches. Doors slammed too hard. The kind of environment where love and fear somehow lived under the same roof.
What led to the final breaking point? Some say it was an argument about money. Others claim the boy, barely 17, was starting to push back finding his voice, testing his boundaries. Teen stuff, you know? Whatever it was, it ended in tragedy.
Now, I’m not here to defend Kofi. What he did is horrifying. But I can’t help but wonder: what brings a man to that place? That level of rage. That much detachment from the little boy he once probably held in his arms.
I think about my dad again. His quiet strength. How he never raised a hand, even when I pushed every single button. Was it something in his upbringing that made him different? Or was it just luck?
Because here's the uncomfortable truth some people snap. And sometimes they’re the ones closest to us.
We don’t talk about that enough. About how unresolved trauma passes down like old furniture. About how men, especially in our part of the world, are taught to bottle it all up. Be tough. Be silent. Be “the man of the house.” Until one day they explode.
I can’t help but feel for that boy. His life, his dreams, his quiet thoughts while scrolling on his phone at night gone. And I weirdly also feel something for the father. Not sympathy, but something like mourning. Mourning the human being he could’ve been if he’d had help, or healing, or even just a moment of clarity.
Look, I’m not a psychologist or a preacher. I’m just someone who’s seen enough cracks in people to know we’re all a little fragile. And maybe that’s why stories like this shake me. Because they’re not just about “monsters.” Sometimes, they’re about ordinary people who never learned how to deal with the storm inside them.
So what do we do with that?
How do we start healing before we become headlines? Before anger wins?
I don’t have the answers. But maybe the first step is to start having these messy, uncomfortable conversations. Before it’s too late.
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