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By Adetayo Adetokun
I was sixteen when my father told me he could not have another child.
It was a slow Sunday afternoon. The kind where the house is held together by the sound of football commentary from the living room TV. I had just walked in with a glass of water when he said it—casually, like he was commenting on the referee’s decision.
The words did not register at first. But when they did, they slammed into my chest like a gust of wind I did not see coming. My hand trembled slightly, enough to make the glass clink. I sat down.
No preamble. No explanation. Just those words.
Before that day, everyone had assumed it was my mother. In fact, assumed is too kind. They declared it. Loudly. Cruelly. Relentlessly.
She was six years older than he was and came into the marriage with two children from a previous relationship. In my father’s family, that alone was enough reason to dismiss her as used. I grew up listening to aunts whisper behind her back, “She has a spoiled womb. She is the reason he has only one child.” Sometimes they say it loud enough for her to hear.
My mother never responded. She would just straighten her shoulders and carry on cooking, sweeping, praying, living. But I saw it—the slow heartbreak that chipped away at her spirit like waves against rock. Every failed attempt at conception was laid at her feet, and she bore it in silence, even though she knew the truth.
Because my father had known for years.
He just did not tell anyone.
***
My aunt died chasing a pregnancy that was never hers to bear.
She was only 34.
Her husband had convinced the entire family that she was the problem. He was loud about it—boasting about his strength, his virility, how he came from a ‘fertile bloodline’. Meanwhile, behind closed doors, doctors had told him he had severely low testosterone, a pituitary disorder, and a sperm count so low it was clinically labeled azoospermia—zero sperm per ejaculate.
He said nothing.
Instead, he sent my aunt down the path of endless hormone injections, experimental IVF rounds, and eventually, a complicated ovarian hyperstimulation that killed her. One moment, she was prepping for egg retrieval; the next, she was bleeding out on a steel table.
She died never knowing that she was never the problem.
This is the tragedy of male infertility wrapped in pride, silence, and misogyny.
Globally, one in six couples experience infertility. And according to World Health Organization (WHO) data, male-factor infertility accounts for nearly 50% of all infertility cases. That is half. Yet, in our societies, when a couple cannot conceive, the first, second, and last person we interrogate is the woman.
She is the one poked and prodded.
She is the one who is prayed over and pitied.
She is the one fed fertility herbs, blamed for miscarriages, or accused of being cursed.
Meanwhile, the man, often never tested, is considered innocent until proven impotent. And even then, we cushion the diagnosis with euphemisms: low sperm vitality, stress-induced dysfunction, a temporary hormonal shift.
Why is the male ego more sacred than a woman’s body?
Why is our silence so expensive?
When my father finally spoke, something in me broke open. Not in anger, but in understanding.
He was not the villain I thought he might be. He was a victim of the same culture that shamed women and silenced men. He had grown up being told that to be a man was to produce, to plant a seed, to spread your lineage. And if you couldn’t do that, what were you?
He chose shame over truth. He let my mother burn while he stood in the shadows.
And that is the part that haunts me.
Because she loved him. Fiercely. She went through ovulation tracking, fertility treatments, and even clomid-induced cycles that caused her migraines and made her vision blur. She was ready to do IVF. We were saving up for it.
All the while, he knew it was pointless.
Infertility is not a female problem. It is a human condition that affects both sexes, yet women carry the weight disproportionately. And often, that weight becomes too heavy to survive.
We need to:
Normalize Male Fertility Testing: A semen analysis is non-invasive, affordable, and accessible. There is no reason a woman should go through multiple invasive procedures before her partner even gets tested.
Include Men In Fertility Conversations: We must teach boys that reproductive health is their responsibility, too. That silence isn’t strength. That owning your body is bravery.
Break The Cultural Myths: Masculinity is not defined by the ability to procreate. Real masculinity is about integrity, truth, and support—not denial and displacement.
Give Women Peace: Stop blaming women for things biology never gave them control over. Stop breaking their backs with spiritual warfare, backdoor consultations, and cruel commentary.
I look back now and wonder how different things could have been if my father had told the truth earlier.
Maybe my mother would not have lived with the pain of being blamed.
Maybe my aunt would still be alive.
Maybe fewer women would die today in the quest to fix a problem they never caused.
This story is not just mine. It is the story of many families in silence.
We must stop pretending that infertility is a woman’s burden. We must stop killing women with silence.
If you are reading this and you are a man, get tested. Speak up. Show up.
And if you are a woman enduring this grief in silence, please know:
Sometimes, it is not you.
Sometimes, it was never you.
It is time we started telling the whole truth.
Even when it is uncomfortable.
Even when it unmakes everything we thought we knew.
Because the truth—however painful—can save lives.
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