Good Morning,
I woke up feeling like a man today. Not just in the way I look or sound, but in a deeper, almost unspoken shift that’s happened. The transition from a boy to a man, it’s like it already took place, and I’m only now beginning to acknowledge it.

Maybe it’s the independence I feel or the innate drive to provide. Maybe it’s the stubble growing in or the depth in my voice. Whatever it is, I just feel like a man.

I walk downstairs, and Mum is in the kitchen. As I take out the trash, she smiles and says, “You’re such a good boy.” But I think, “I’m a man. A 16-year-old man, but a man nonetheless.” Who says maturity is just about age? Just last week, I picked up Zuri from school without being asked, helped her with her homework, and made sure she ate. I kept our parents at peace, not because they asked, but because I wanted to.

The last time I caused any real trouble was nearly eight months ago. Since then, I’ve grown a lot. I learn from every experience. I don’t dwell on my past or live in regret; instead, I try to create opportunities from everything. When we got our biology tests back two weeks ago, and the teacher scolded everyone who didn’t score well, I felt something stir. The insults, I thought, were unnecessary. Rather than dwelling in anger, I decided to learn from it. I went up to Dr. Uman afterward and calmly explained that I didn’t appreciate being humiliated in front of everyone. I’m not dumb just because I’m not great at biology, and I don’t deserve to be belittled for it.

He responded, “Who is this boy, talking to me like that?” The “boy” part felt like he was linking my maturity to age, as if that alone should define my worth or my place. But maturity, I think, is far deeper. There are people in their seventies less mature than some teenagers. It’s a concept woven from respect, reflection, empathy, and action.

Yesterday, on my way home, I bought fruits for Mum and Dad. They’d run out, and I knew they’d appreciate the gesture. My mum said, “That’s my son,” and my dad added, “He’s the man.” It felt good to be acknowledged as the man I feel like.

But today, when I took out the trash, and Mum said I was a good boy, I wondered: am I sometimes a boy and sometimes a man depending on what I do? Or maybe I’m overthinking this, and that’s proof I’m still a boy. Does being a man mean not overthinking? Or do men ponder things too, just different things?

Maybe I’ll ask Dad. He’s a man, not because of his age but because he just exudes manhood. In his words, his expressions, his actions, the way he loves us all. Dad is a man. And I hope one day, I’ll grow into my own sense of it, too.