Depression Wears Ankara Too.

They said she was glowing.

The aunties beamed as she walked in, her gele folded into architectural grace, her smile taut but present.

“Fine girl, you look like money,” they whispered.

She nodded, teeth showing. That same nod she had learned from her mother, who knew how to die inside quietly and still serve jollof to a room full of guests.

No one saw the ache in her chest. The tightness that came and went without warning. The weight that made breathing feel like work.

No one saw the sleepless night before. How she stared at the ceiling for hours, her mind racing through fears she couldn’t name out loud. How she got out of bed before sunrise, not because she was rested, but because lying there any longer felt unbearable.

No one noticed how her hands shook as she did her makeup, trying to cover the bags under her eyes with concealer and hope. The brush trembled, but she kept going because looking tired would raise questions she didn’t want to answer.

No one heard her whisper to the mirror: Just get through today. Just today. Not with confidence, but desperation. She didn’t have energy for tomorrow. Just enough for the next hour.

Because a woman who dresses well is assumed to be fine.

If her laugh is loud, they don’t hear the silence underneath it. If her eyeliner is sharp, they don’t see the tears it hides. The world doesn’t expect sadness to wear color. It doesn’t believe pain can wear heels.

But it does. And it’s everywhere. We’ve just learned not to look.

Depression wears Ankara too.

It ties a wrapper with precision, smooths the pleats with tired fingers. It kneels to greet, bends with respect. It serves food with a smile. It washes the dishes without complaint. It fasts during Ramadan, prays five times a day, recites Surah Yasin on Friday mornings. It says “Alhamdulillah” because it must. Even when the heart feels hollow.

It knows the Yoruba names for every spice; ata rodo, iru, efinrin. It knows daddawa, yaji, kuka in Hausa, nététou in Fulani. It knows how to prepare tuwo and egusi, moi moi and masa. It knows the right moment to say “Subhanallah,” to nod and say “Allah ya sauwake” when another woman hints at her own hidden sorrow. It knows the coded language of suffering.

It dresses beautifully. It wears zani and gele, or wraps her hijab in layered folds. Her eyeliner is even. Her smile is warm. Her voice doesn’t crack, yet. She laughs at the wedding. She poses for the photo. Her Instagram says “Feeling blessed.” Her eyes say otherwise.

In our culture, sadness must hide behind strength.

You must clean through your crying. You must cook your way through heartbreak. You must lead the women’s meeting at the mosque even when your hands are shaking. You must hold your mother’s sorrow and your husband’s silence and still get up before dawn.

We don’t name depression. We call it gajiya.

“She’s just tired.”

We call it laziness.

“She no wan do anything again.”

We blame it on prayerlessness.

“She dey far from God.”

We dismiss it.

“You know how women get sometimes.”

We pour Dettol on it. We sweep it under the mat. We take it to a prayer house. We say “Wani abu ne ke damunta,” as if spiritual attack explains everything. We ask, “Ta yi aure ko?” as if a husband is the cure. We advise her to “learn to be grateful,” as though gratitude is a plaster for despair.

But maybe she’s not lazy. Not possessed. Not ungrateful.

Maybe she’s exhausted. Maybe she’s in pain. Maybe she’s trying.

She may still serve kunu at the naming ceremony. She may still bring zobo to her daughter’s school event. She may still chant “Allahu Akbar” as she walks to the mosque. She may still wear her lace with gold accessories. But inside, she’s unraveling.

But what of the woman who cannot get out of bed?

Who cries in the bathroom so the children won’t hear?

Who forgets her own voice because she is always tending to others?

What of the woman who is tired, not from work, but from existing?

Not because she is ungrateful, but because she is unraveling?

She is not failing God.

She is not weak.

She is not dramatic.

She is simply tired. Bone-deep. Spirit-deep.

There are so many of us.

Women who show up shining but are slowly sinking.

Who cover their pain in gele and sequins and Sunday-best perfume.

Because if we look the part, maybe no one will ask what’s beneath.

Because nobody wants to hear that joy is sometimes just performance.

And yet,

Maybe healing begins with truth.

With saying, I am not okay today.

With taking off the gele and not apologizing for the unravel.

With letting silence exist without rushing to fill it.

With finding language for our ache and not needing to translate it into prayer or productivity.

We are allowed to be tired.

We are allowed to be sad.

We are allowed to be women in full, not just the strong ones, not just the beautiful ones, not just the grateful ones.

Because depression does not always look like a hospital bed.

Sometimes it looks like a woman in Ankara, passing around rice, laughing at the pastor’s joke, her heart heavy and her spirit fraying at the edges.

We are losing women in plain sight.

Women in headscarves and high heels.

Women who recite verses by heart and still cry behind closed doors.

Women who are always the strong one until they’re not.

Because depression speaks Hausa. It speaks Yoruba. It speaks Fulfulde.

It sits silently in the room, between folded laundry and full plates.

It goes to church. It goes to mosque.

It whispers, “You are not enough,” and no one hears it because your wrapper matches your top.

And that woman deserves softness too.

She deserves help, not suspicion.

She deserves to be believed, not rebuked.

She deserves rest, not ridicule.

She deserves healing that does not come with shame.

Because depression wears Ankara too.

And maybe next tim

e, instead of saying, “You look good,”

We should say,

“Are you okay, really?”

And mean it.