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gkpogli803

gkpogli803's Books(2)

THE BREAD WINNER

THE BREAD WINNER

 Modern
5.0
In many African homes, the breadwinner is seen as the anchor-the provider, the protector, the one who must not fall. But behind the strength lies a story that few dare to tell. The Bread Winner is a raw, deeply reflective nonfiction narrative that lifts the veil on the unseen pain, sacrifices, and betrayals endured by those who carry the weight of entire families on their backs. It journeys through the emotional and cultural landscape of survival, where poverty is inherited, dignity is stretched, and silence becomes a shield. Without using characters or fiction, this powerful book speaks for millions-the exhausted father, the overburdened mother, the forgotten daughter, the exploited young girl sent to hustle, the strong one who has no one to lean on. It exposes the cracks in a culture that demands everything from its breadwinners yet offers them no safety when they break. It explores how poverty shapes the destiny of generations and how societal expectations often crush the very people who strive to keep everyone else afloat. This is not a story-it is a reckoning. The Bread Winner is a call to see, to feel, and to question. It is for the forgotten pillars. For those who give, even when nothing is left. For those who suffer in silence. This is your voice. This is your truth. --- Author's Note I did not write The Bread Winner as an outsider looking in. I wrote it from within-from lived experience, from community conversations, from buried truths that had no other place to breathe. I wrote it because too many breadwinners are dying with their stories untold, their pain invalidated, their struggles misunderstood. This book is for the unsung. The overworked and underloved. The ones who kept giving, even when they had nothing left. It is for the girl who was sent away to hustle, the man who never got to cry, and the woman who buried herself for others to live. There are no names in this book-because this is not a single story. It is a collective voice. A mirror to the soul of our society. My hope is that as you read, you will feel seen-or you will finally see others. And perhaps, just perhaps, we can begin to build a world where the strong do not have to break alone.
THE SOFT MAN

THE SOFT MAN

 Young Adult
5.0
Growing up as a boy, we were taught silence before we ever learned language. It was in the way our fathers flinched when we cried, the way teachers barked when our voices trembled, the way older boys laughed when we said we were afraid. Somewhere between scraped knees and broken hearts, we were taught to swallow pain, to bury sadness so deep that even we forgot where we put it. We learned that the phrase "I'm alright" wasn't a truth-it was a uniform. Something you wore to look presentable to the world, even if your soul was in shambles. It didn't matter what was going on inside. The world only cared about the outside: strong jaw, firm grip, dry eyes. No one ever taught us how to say, "I'm scared." Or "I'm tired." Or "I need help." Instead, we were told that a man doesn't look like his problems. That real men suffer in silence. That we shouldn't show it-not the hurt, not the confusion, not the heartbreak. "Be a man," they said, and what they meant was: "Don't feel. Don't cry. Don't talk." And so we grew up learning to smile with cracked lips and hollow eyes. We mastered the art of laughing through pain, of working through grief, of leading while bleeding. We became men who couldn't mourn their losses properly. Men who went to work the morning after burying a parent. Men who paid school fees with trembling hands and came home to children who would never know how much they sacrificed. We became men who sat silently in rooms full of people, screaming inside but smiling outside. Men who were praised for being "strong," but who were quietly dying from the weight of being everything for everyone and nothing for themselves. We were told vulnerability was a luxury we couldn't afford. That softness was dangerous. That emotions were feminine. That to feel deeply was to fail masculinity. And yet-how deeply we felt. We felt it when we watched our mothers cry behind closed doors. When we were scolded for hugging our fathers too long. When we wanted to talk, but had no one who would listen without judgment. We carried it. All of it. Until some of us broke. And some of us turned cold. And some of us just vanished behind our own silence. But the truth is: we were never machines. We were boys who became men too quickly. Boys who never got to be soft. Boys who were taught to harden before they could heal. Now, as men, we must unlearn. We must tell the younger ones: It's okay to say "I'm not alright." It's okay to cry. It's okay to feel. It's okay to be a man and be soft. Because softness is not weakness. It is survival. It is truth. It is strength in its most honest form.