Basil Odilim
“My son just got married,” a man says with pride. “Yours, Femi?” “Not yet—he’s starting his master’s soon.” “And you, Ike?” “We’re planning his wedding already.” “How old is he now?” “Twenty-seven.”
In many Black communities—especially across Africa—this is the summit of success: finish school, marry young, build a house, raise children, retire modestly.
There’s dignity in that. But when such modest milestones become the ceiling—not the floor—of our aspirations, we’ve trapped ourselves in what I call The Small Dream Syndrome.
It’s not just that we dream small. It’s that we’ve been mentally conditioned to fear dreaming big. We avoid ambitions that take time, sacrifice, or the risk of public failure.
We crave visibility and quick rewards over long-term transformation. And most of all, we fear being laughed at by those we’re trying so hard to impress.
We don’t want to be the ones who tried and failed. We don’t want to be seen as arrogant or “trying to be white.” We don’t want to stand out, only to be left out.
So we shrink. And we conform. We teach our children to be safe, not bold. To belong, not to become.
This mindset didn’t begin with us. It was planted. First through slavery, then colonialism, and later by foreign-led systems that positioned us as laborers in someone else’s empire.
Though political independence came, the deeper psychological chains remained. The message we absorbed was simple: You can survive—but don’t dare try to lead.
Over time, we didn’t just accept that others looked down on us—we began to look down on ourselves. So when they treat us as inferior, it doesn’t even shock us anymore. We see it as normal. That’s the true damage: not their judgment, but our agreement with it.
Worse still, our self-doubt becomes contagious. We extend it to others—especially the ones who dare to want more. We tell them it won’t work. That it’s foolish. That it’s “not for people like us.”
But deep down, the fear is this: what if they succeed? What if they rise—and prove we were wrong to settle? So we talk them down—not always out of hatred, but to protect the fragile walls around our own compromise.
And that’s why getting out of this mindset is so hard—because we no longer question it. We celebrate it.
We parade our small dreams as if they were the peak of human potential. We wrap fear in tradition and call it wisdom. We punish ambition and call it humility.
Today, even when we gain wealth, we rarely use it to invent, transform, or build institutions. Too often, we use it to display.
Weddings become spectacles. Cars become trophies. Titles become armor. Christmas visits to the village become performances—designed not to uplift but to upstage.
We reward the one who conforms and shame the one who experiments. We celebrate early marriage but frown at someone pursuing a bold, uncertain vision. We measure success by how safe it looks—not how far it reaches.
But here’s the truth: a society that mocks ambition can never build a future. A people who only dream of respectability will never make history.
We’ve all felt the sting of being misunderstood for dreaming differently. I have. More than once. When I walked away from stability to pursue a vision others couldn’t see, I was warned. I was laughed at. I was even disowned by some who thought I was delusional. But I couldn’t shrink to fit what others thought was acceptable.
And we shouldn’t ask our children to either.
We need to normalize dreaming big—and failing forward. We need to protect those who try—not punish them when they fall.
Because the world doesn’t only belong to those who inherited it. It belongs to those who imagine it differently.
Let them laugh. Let them whisper. Let them say, “Who does she think she is?” She is someone who refused to die in a box that wasn’t made for her. He is someone who traded comfort for purpose.
And we—Black people everywhere—must remember: We are not here just to survive history. We are here to shape it.
So, how do we break free?
We must reject their recruitment into smallness. We must walk away from the comfortable circle of those who have nothing happening in their lives except marriage ceremonies and gossip.
We must refuse to be talked down by people who gave up on their own dreams. And when they ask, “Who do you think you are?” We must answer: Someone who refuses to settle.
That’s the way out. And the journey begins the moment we stop asking permission to be great.
