Entertainment
I grew up in a small city, a place that always felt limited, like the edge of the world. In that city, the idea of reaching beyond what we could immediately see seemed impossible. The world didn’t feel like something I could ever escape from, or even be a part of in any real way. I lived in a community where tradition held a tight grip on us, especially on girls. Because of the culture and the way it defined our lives from the moment we were born, I didn’t even know how to dream. Dreaming itself seemed like a forbidden act, something selfish or shameful. Girls like me weren’t raised to imagine possibilities. We were raised to accept limitations.
Then, without being asked, my life was decided for me. In the place I call home, it is common knowledge that from around age 14 to age 24, a girl is expected to be preparing for marriage, or already married. That’s just how things go. The moment a girl shows signs of growing up, society begins to whisper about her future—as someone’s wife, someone’s helper, someone’s second. And she’s expected to be happy with that. In my community, it’s not just that dreaming is discouraged; it’s that dreaming is treated as dangerous. A girl who dreams is considered disobedient, rebellious, or even broken.
This kind of life makes many girls want to escape—not just physically, but mentally and emotionally too. Being part of these communities can feel like being trapped inside an invisible cage. It’s like someone taking away your right to make your own decisions before you even realize you had the right to begin with.
But everything changed for me the day I watched a documentary about a girl who was building a rocket. Her name was Ritu Karidhal. She is known as the Rocket Woman of India, and her story stuck with me. It wasn’t just her intelligence or her success that moved me—it was the spark in her eyes when she talked about her dreams. I asked myself something I’d never dared to ask before: “Why can’t you do that too?” That one question became the start of a brand new version of myself. I began to dream, and the dreams grew larger and stronger because now I had seen a hope that I couldn’t ignore. A seed had been planted deep inside me, and no one could take it away.
Entertainment, I realized, is much more than just fun. It changes how we see the world and how we see ourselves within that world. For girls in Africa—girls like me—entertainment becomes a kind of mirror. It reflects back our strength, our potential, and our ability to rise. So many times when we feel discouraged and small, we come across a documentary or a film or a poem about a strong girl somewhere in the world. And when we see that, something inside us lights up. It tells us we are not alone, and that we, too, can overcome what holds us back. Slowly, that repeated exposure helps us believe in ourselves. We begin to understand that we can shape our own stories.
There’s one girl I’ll never forget. Her name is Bayush. She was married at a young age, as many girls in our culture are, but she did something rare. She divorced—at just age seven—so she could attend school. That decision made her a legend among us. Many of us admire her deeply, but the way adults in the community talk about her is different. They turn her story into a warning, almost like a horror tale. They say she betrayed our traditions, that she doesn’t represent the Ethiopian community. But to me, she was a light. She was my idol. Because of her, I knew it was possible to stand up—even when it feels impossible.
As I grew older, life didn’t get easier. My responsibilities increased. I had to balance school with home duties. I studied late into the night, even when I was tired. And it was difficult watching my twin brother enjoying his youth, laughing and resting, while I carried much of the weight at home. It might sound unfair—and it is—but in our society, that’s just the way it is. Being a girl often means being given more to carry and fewer opportunities to breathe. But I didn’t quit. Instead, I let that pain fuel my purpose. I started dreaming bigger than ever before. In secret, I began taking online courses—lessons I couldn’t find in school. I didn’t tell anyone. I just kept going. Every course I completed made my spirit stronger.
Sadly, even our teachers don’t always believe in us. Many of them assume that we are in school just because we have nowhere else to be. They think we’re just wasting time until we marry. But they are wrong. We are here because we want more. We are here because we believe we matter.
Entertainment helps connect girls across Africa. I remember watching Nigerian films, listening to Kenyan poets, and reading South African stories. Every one of those experiences reminded me that our struggles are shared. But even more importantly, our hope is shared too.
One day at school, I met a shy girl who barely spoke. I decided to help her build her confidence. I didn’t just tutor her in lessons—we shared stories. We talked about life. Sometimes, all it takes is a movie or a song to give a girl the courage to speak or the strength to try again.
Entertainment will not fix everything. But it gives us a beginning. It gives us courage and opens our eyes. It helps us believe that something else is possible. Especially for African girls, entertainment is not just about passing time or having fun. It is about being seen, being heard, and feeling strong. It is about learning to dream.
By: Eden Mesfin Mentase
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