Who told the elder that age is a crown,

and the younger that silence is the price of wearing it?

Older siblings are supposed to be roofs over smaller heads,

the first umbrellas when the rain comes,

the hands that pull you away from the edge

before you even know there is a cliff.

But what happens

when the roof begins to leak?

What happens

when the umbrella becomes the rain?

They are meant to be peace givers,

yet some become collectors of peace,

walking into their younger ones' lives

and leaving silence where laughter used to live.

And then Africa clears her throat:

“Go and apologise. She is your elder.”

Even when she is wrong.

Even when she started the fire.

Even when your only crime

was refusing to burn with her.

No.

That nonsense needs a full stop.

Respect is not a blindfold.

Age is not a shield against accountability.

And being the first child does not make you the first judge.

The One who created us

did not place a number on our foreheads

and say, “This one is older, therefore this one is always right.”

He looks beyond the years in our bones,

into the footprints we leave on other people's hearts.

So let the elder be an elder.

Protect without possessing.

Correct without crushing.

Lead without humiliating.

Love without turning love into a weapon.

Because a younger sibling should find shelter in an older one,

not another storm.

Africa needs to hear this:

Sometimes, the younger ones deserve an apology first too.