I had a very interesting conversation with a friend Kieran recently, one that got me reflecting deeply on the intersection of language, culture, and emotional expression. As we talked about the way sound and music affect our emotions and physiology, I realised that the words we use to describe things like depression may not always resonate in the same way for everyone. In the UK, we often pride ourselves on being dignified and refined, yet in many Black communities, particularly among men, emotional expression is much more open and raw. This difference in expression made me consider how the very sound of our language—how we say things—can shape our experience of emotions, especially in therapeutic contexts. What my friend said about diversity in language and experience really stayed with me, and it’s something I feel compelled to explore further.
In many African cultures, language is sacred. Words are not just tools for communication, they are carriers of spirit, memory, and power. Yet when it comes to describing mental health, especially depression, many African languages fall silent. Or worse, they echo shame.
What happens when the words we’re given don’t match the weight we carry?
For many Black people across the diaspora and in Africa, the word “depression” can feel foreign. It sounds clinical, Western, and disconnected from the real textures of pain — the spiritual exhaustion, ancestral heaviness, and emotional silencing that many carry daily. Often, when someone tries to explain their mental struggles, they’re met with confusion: “Just pray.” “You're too strong for that.” “That’s white people’s stuff.”
But what if we had our own word?
The Power of Naming
In ancient traditions — from the Nile Valley to the mountains of Ethiopia, from Yoruba priests to Hebrew prophets — to name something was to give it power, to begin the process of understanding and healing it.
When we name what we feel in our own language, we reclaim ownership of our stories.
So I began a journey: to create a new word. Not borrowed from textbooks or DSM manuals, but crafted from the textures of African language, spiritual meaning, and emotional truth. A word for depression that speaks to us.
Black, African, and Depressed
As of the 2021 Census, approximately 2.4 million individuals in England and Wales identified as "Black, Black British, Caribbean or African," comprising 4.2% of the population. While specific data on the number of African-born Black men residing in Britain is not readily available, we do know that in 2021, there were 266,877 Nigerian-born residents in the UK. This figure does not account for individuals from other African countries or their UK-born descendants.Diversity UK+1Office for National Statistics+1The Guardian
Black men who have migrated from African nations such as Nigeria, Sudan, Uganda, and South Africa to Britain encounter unique challenges that can contribute to experiences of depression:
- Cultural Displacement and Identity Struggles: Adjusting to a new cultural environment often leads to feelings of isolation and a struggle to maintain one's cultural identity. The tension between preserving one's heritage and assimilating into British society can be a significant source of stress.Statista
- Racism and Discrimination: Encounters with systemic racism and everyday discrimination can erode self-esteem and perpetuate feelings of alienation. Such experiences are linked to adverse mental health outcomes, including depression.
- Economic Challenges: Difficulties in securing employment that matches one's qualifications, or facing underemployment, can lead to financial strain and a diminished sense of purpose, both of which are risk factors for depression.
- Barriers to Mental Health Services: Stigma surrounding mental health within some African communities, combined with potential lack of culturally sensitive services in the UK, can deter individuals from seeking necessary support.
- Separation from Support Networks: Being distanced from family and traditional community support systems can exacerbate feelings of loneliness and decrease resilience against mental health challenges.
Why “Depression” Doesn’t Fit: Language, Mouth, and Meaning for Black Men
The word depression is clinical, flat, and foreign. It was coined from Latin deprimere — “to press down.” But when spoken aloud, especially by African men living in Britain, something about it doesn’t land. It feels disconnected, sterile, almost too quiet for the kind of pain it’s meant to describe.
For many Black men, especially those born in countries like Nigeria, Sudan, Uganda, Ghana, or South Africa, English is not the emotional language of their upbringing. It’s the language of colonisation, school discipline, immigration paperwork, and polite suppression. It's the language of surviving — not of feeling.
The Mouth Was Not Trained for This Word
African languages — from Yoruba to Swahili, Luganda to Zulu — are tonal, rhythmic, and embodied. Words carry vibration, weight, and often story. When someone says obulumi (Luganda for pain), it doesn't just describe — it feels like pain. The mouth opens wide. The chest moves. The throat is involved. There’s a resonance.
“Depression,” by contrast, is cold in the mouth. It’s a word you can mutter with clenched teeth. There’s no music in it, no metaphor, no emotional movement. For men whose mother tongues are built on rhythm and breath, the word feels… dead.
It Doesn’t Resonate Spiritually
In many African spiritual traditions, emotional suffering is not just a chemical imbalance — it’s a disturbance in the spirit. It might be caused by grief, disconnection from ancestors, broken communal ties, or life losing its sacred rhythm.
The word depression doesn’t allow for that. It positions the problem inside the individual’s brain — as if healing is purely a matter of pills and personal willpower. But African worldviews often see the person as inseparable from community, environment, and the spiritual world.
So when a Black man says, “I don’t feel like myself,” he might be describing soul loss — not serotonin. When he says, “I’m not strong anymore,” he might mean a spiritual power has left him. “Depression” doesn’t carry this meaning.
It Doesn’t Fit How Black Men Express Pain
Many Black men were never given the tools to name emotions directly. Instead, they describe how it shows up in the body:
- “My chest is tight.”
- “My mind won’t stop talking.”
- “I can’t sleep.”
- “I feel tired in my bones.”
None of these sound like “depression” — but all of them are depression, embodied and unspoken. The English word feels like a label slapped on a quiet storm.
That’s why some men reject the label altogether. It doesn’t match their experience. It feels like something a doctor tells them — not something that reflects who they are.
Language Shapes Healing
If a man cannot speak his suffering in a language that resonates with his soul, how can he begin to heal? Words are not just descriptions — they are bridges between the invisible and the visible. The wrong word can keep a wound hidden. The right word can crack the silence open.
That’s why culturally-rooted words like Kuzitho (Bantu-inspired: when your spirit turns against you) or Nyaloki (Luo: when strength is gone) matter. They speak directly to the heart, bypassing Western frameworks and tapping into a deeper truth.
How Black Men Have Historically Described Depression
For many Black men born in African countries like Nigeria, Uganda, Sudan, or South Africa and later raised or settled in Britain, depression has rarely been called by its name. Not because the pain wasn’t there — but because the language, culture, and expectations often left no room for vulnerability.
Instead, depression has worn many disguises.
“I’m just tired.”
One of the most common phrases — simple, but loaded. Fatigue here isn’t just physical; it’s spiritual exhaustion. This “tired” often means, I’m overwhelmed. I’m worn down by life. I don’t know how to keep going.
“It is well.” / “God is in control.”
Faith becomes both a refuge and a mask. These phrases are culturally and spiritually rich, but they’re also used to suppress emotion. When a Black man says this with a distant look, he might be saying: I’m not okay, but I’ve been taught to surrender instead of speak.
“I dey manage.” / “We move.”
Common among Nigerian and Ghanaian men, this phrase suggests resilience. But beneath it often lies a survival mode — a man pushing through without processing, coping without healing.
“I can’t come and kill myself.”
Another West African idiom, said jokingly — yet behind the humour is the pressure of having to carry too much and still act fine. It speaks to unspoken stress, the weight of responsibility, and a fear of collapse.
“It’s just stress.”
Stress is one of the few culturally acceptable words Black men can use to describe emotional suffering. But it’s often a placeholder for much deeper issues: isolation, grief, despair, or hopelessness.
“I’m going through it.”
A subtle confession, often followed by a shrug. It signals trouble, but not enough permission to talk openly. For many, this phrase is code for: I’m breaking inside, but I don’t want to look weak.
The Silence of the Strong
In many African households, boys are raised to be strong, composed, and dependable. Crying is “for girls.” Vulnerability is a luxury. Emotions are suppressed in favour of survival. So when depression creeps in, many Black men don’t even recognize it — they just feel “off,” “angry,” or “numb.”
In the UK, this pressure only intensifies. These men are navigating racism, cultural displacement, economic pressure, and the silent grief of missing home — all while being expected to “man up.” Mental health services often don’t feel culturally safe or spiritually aware. So they carry the weight in silence. Or they distract themselves with work, alcohol, relationships, faith, or withdrawal.
Some find language in music — in the blues of Fela Kuti, the rawness of Stormzy’s “Lay Me Bare,” or the melancholy soul of Sauti Sol. But even then, the feelings are expressed through rhythm, not words.
What This Tells Us
It tells us that depression in Black men isn’t always loud. It’s coded. It’s spiritual. It’s generational. It often lives in the body — in back pain, insomnia, low appetite, or chest pressure — and not just in the mind.
It also tells us that new language is needed. One that honours both African heritage and modern reality. One that lets a man say, I’m not okay, without shame. That’s why creating culturally grounded words — like Kuzitho or Nyaloki — matters so deeply.
It’s not just about vocabulary. It’s about visibility. It’s about giving Black men the permission and the power to feel — fully, freely, and in their own way.
A New Vocabulary for the Soul
Here are ten soul-words — part poem, part medicine — to describe depression in a way that speaks from African identity, ancestral wisdom, and spiritual truth:
- Kuzitho (Bantu)
“When your own spirit becomes your enemy.”
For the battles no one sees — the war within. - Sheba’an (Hebrew + Arabic)
“Suffering too deep for words.”
A sacred kind of sorrow, heavy and holy. - Ntwem (Twi)
“The unseen crack in the spirit.”
For when you’re broken, but still smiling. - Aruqet (Egyptian + Hebrew)
“The pain that seeks healing.”
Depression not as disorder, but a wound calling for care. - Ubumbua (Swahili)
“The great unravelling.”
When life comes undone, thread by thread. - Temasha (Amharic + Hebrew)
“The dark silence within.”
A quiet place where sorrow sits. - Ma’ru (Arabic + Yoruba)
“Sacred bitterness.”
Sadness worn like cloth — heavy, familiar, and ritual. - Zankoma (Akan + Swahili)
“When the mind won’t stop speaking.”
Racing thoughts. Still body. No peace. - Isfetum (Ancient Egyptian)
“A state of inner chaos.”
When nothing outside is wrong, but everything inside is. - Nyaloki (Luo)
“The strength is gone.”
Not tired. Exhausted in soul, bone, and breath.
Cassim