I learned early that leadership does not always arrive with permission. Sometimes it arrives as expectation. Sometimes as silence in a room where someone must speak. Sometimes as responsibility handed to you long before you feel ready to carry it.
Growing up, I often found myself in positions of leadership I did not campaign for. I was the firstborn daughter. The first grandchild. The one expected to know better, do better, hold things together. In school, teachers chose me not because I demanded authority, but because I was proactive, well-mannered, reliable. I followed rules. I noticed what needed to be done. I stepped in.
Looking back, I realize I was often placed in the middle — between chaos and calm, between instruction and execution, between adults who led loudly and children who were expected to comply.
At the time, I thought this was simply what leadership looked like. But as I grew older, I began to see the pattern more clearly.
In many of our cultural spaces, leadership is portrayed as dominance — the one with the final say, the unchallenged voice, the person who gives orders and sets rules they themselves sometimes struggle to follow. Leadership is loud. Unyielding. It demands obedience more than it models integrity.
And yet, what we are often starving for is not direction. It is example. We do not need more commands. We need more integrity. More kindness. More respect practiced consistently, not preached occasionally.
For young African women, this absence is especially painful. Our voices are powerful — and that power is complicated. Sometimes our voices become weapons we must use to defend ourselves. Other times, they are thrown back at us, sharp and unrecognizable. We are taught early that speaking comes at a cost.
When a woman speaks up, she must calculate the consequences first:
- Watch her tone.
- Soften her words.
- Smile while asserting herself.
"The same conviction that earns a man the title 'leader' often earns a woman the label 'bitter'."
So we learn to live in tension. To exist in the middle of knowing what must be said and deciding whether it is safe to say it. In the middle of respect and responsibility. In the middle of tradition and transformation.
Being in the middle is exhausting. It means being the driving force of change without applause. It means modeling what you have never seen so that the women after you might have a blueprint. It means being firm enough to say no, to hold your ground — but gentle enough not to lose yourself in the process.
Many of our mothers carried their leadership with pain. They endured. They swallowed. They survived. And for that, we honor them deeply. But some of us are choosing something different. We are choosing to lead with warmth.
To correct and still comfort. To reprimand and still give hugs. To be firm without becoming hard. This choice is not accidental. It is intentional. And it is costly.
Systems that reward volume over values will always resist women who lead quietly but consistently. Kindness is still mistaken for weakness. Silence is still safer than honesty in many rooms. And yet, growth has never been comfortable for those brave enough to stand in the middle.
This is why spaces like Toastmasters surprised me. Unlike many traditional environments, Toastmasters is a levelled plain — a practice ground for the kind of leadership I was still learning to claim. Here, voice is not inherited; it is practiced. Authority is not assumed; it is earned through preparation, listening, and growth. Feedback is not an attack; it is an offering.
In this space, I am allowed to speak without shrinking. I have learned to stand and share my thoughts knowing that I will not be interrupted, dismissed, or rushed — that my voice will be received with attention, even when it is still finding its strength.
I am allowed to lead without shouting. Through meeting roles and leadership opportunities, I have seen that authority here comes not from volume, but from preparation, consistency, and service. I have learned that it is possible to guide a room firmly while remaining calm, respectful, and composed.
And I am allowed to grow without being hardened. Feedback is offered with care, evaluations are balanced with encouragement, and mistakes are treated as part of the process rather than personal failures. In this environment, growth does not require armor — only willingness.
Breaking cycles does not require grand speeches or dramatic rebellion. It requires small, repeated choices — to respond instead of react, to lead by example, to speak with courage and care even when it would be easier to stay quiet.
Being in the middle is not weakness. It is responsibility. And for women willing to stand there — especially African women — it is a quiet, radical act of leadership.