The Price of Silence - By Olumide Omowaleola Deborah

Written By: Olumide Omowaleola Deborah

Category: Essay

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In "The Price of Silence," Olumide Omowaleola Deborah delves into the multifaceted nature of silence as part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This thought-provoking essay examines how silence can both protect and oppress, a theme deeply rooted in historical and contemporary contexts. Focusing on pivotal events in Nigeria's history, Olumide explores the intricate dynamics of silence and power, inviting readers to reflect on the moral implications of when and why we choose to remain silent.

About the Work

Olumide Omowaleola Deborah's essay is a profound meditation on the dual nature of silence. It navigates the delicate balance between silence as a refuge and as complicity in injustice. Through poignant historical references and contemporary parallels, Olumide challenges readers to question the moral consequences of silence. The work is rich with imagery and insight, urging us to consider silence not merely as the absence of sound but as a powerful agent of change or stagnation.

The Price of Silence

Original Submission by Olumide Omowaleola Deborah

The Price of Silence

There are silences that protect us.

And there are silences that protect the people who hurt us.

They sound exactly the same.

Both are quiet. Both leave words unspoken. Both can look like peace from across a room. Yet beneath that quiet lies a question we rarely ask:

What is this silence protecting?

We have treated silence as though it were morally innocent—as though refusing to speak automatically makes us peaceful, mature, or wise. But silence is never simply the absence of sound. It can be a decision, a refuge, a warning, a wound, or a weapon.

Silence is a currency. We spend it to buy peace, privacy, safety, or time. But sometimes we discover, too late, that the price of that peace was truth.

That is why silence has no fixed moral meaning.

The silence of someone listening before responding is not the silence of someone witnessing injustice and deciding that intervention is inconvenient. The silence that protects a grieving person is not the silence imposed upon someone who fears the consequences of speaking.

The sound may be identical.

The moral reality is not.

The question, therefore, is not simply whether we speak.

It is what our silence makes possible.

Nigeria's history offers a powerful way of asking that question.

In 1929, women in southeastern Nigeria confronted a colonial political system that had disrupted existing structures of authority and strengthened the power of warrant chiefs. Tensions intensified around taxation and colonial administration. What began in Oloko spread across parts of the Owerri and Calabar provinces, drawing thousands of women into organised resistance. Their protests challenged colonial administrative institutions and the political structures that had marginalised them. The episode became known as the Women's War.

The significance of the Women's War is not merely that women protested.

It is that people whom the colonial system did not treat as central political actors demonstrated that they possessed political agency of their own.

They refused to accept imposed quiet as the natural condition of the powerless.

They did not merely find their voices.

They discovered that their collective voice could alter the political landscape.

Nearly a century separates 1929 from 2020. Nigeria changed governments, technologies, institutions, and generations. Yet one question survived the changing landscape:

Who gets heard, and what happens to those who are not?

In 2020, that question acquired a completely different setting.

The COVID-19 pandemic emptied streets, closed schools, disrupted businesses, and transformed ordinary life. The silence was not primarily political; it was produced by fear, public-health restrictions, and the uncertainty of an unprecedented crisis. Nigeria's economy contracted sharply that year, with the World Bank reporting a recession and increasing pressure on vulnerable households.

The streets became quieter.

But quiet did not mean that suffering had disappeared.

For people whose livelihoods depended on daily economic activity, an empty street could mean an empty income. For students, a closed school was more than a locked building; it was an interruption to education and routine. For families, staying home could mean safety from a virus while simultaneously creating new economic and social pressures.

COVID-19 therefore complicated our understanding of silence.

A quiet society can still be a suffering society.

And then, before 2020 had finished writing its history, Nigeria became loud again.

The #EndSARS movement emerged from years of complaints about police brutality and abuses associated with the Special Anti-Robbery Squad. In October 2020, Nigerians—particularly young people—used social media and street demonstrations to document grievances and demand an end to police brutality and greater accountability. The government announced the dissolution of SARS on October 11, but protests continued.

The contrast is striking.

The same year that forced Nigerians into quiet also produced one of the country's most visible youth-led protests.

The streets that had been emptied by a pandemic filled with people demanding to be heard.

This was not silence imposed by circumstance.

It was silence deliberately rejected.

The movement's language captured that rejection: “Soro Soke”—speak up.

But speaking came at a cost.

On October 20, 2020, Amnesty International reported that security forces opened fire during protests in Lagos and documented at least 12 deaths at Lekki Toll Gate and Alausa. Amnesty called for an investigation into the killings.

That history matters because it prevents us from romanticising speech.

Breaking silence does not guarantee victory.

Being heard does not guarantee justice.

Sometimes speaking truth places a person in greater danger rather than immediately making them safer.

Yet the alternative cannot simply be silence.

Because when people never speak, power is rarely forced to explain itself.

This is the thread connecting 1929 and 2020.

The circumstances were different. The technologies were different. The generations were different.

But the underlying demand was remarkably familiar:

Listen to us.

The women of 1929 used the collective political practices available to them. The young Nigerians of 2020 used hashtags, phones, videos, protest signs, and physical gatherings.

Different century.

Different tools.

Same human demand.

That does not mean every protest is automatically right, or that every voice is automatically truthful. A mature society requires more than noise; it requires evidence, accountability, and the willingness to examine competing claims.

That is precisely why silence itself deserves moral scrutiny.

If speaking is always courageous, then silence must always be cowardice.

That would be false.

There is a silence that is thoughtful.

A silence that allows another person to speak.

A silence that protects someone's privacy.

A silence that prevents anger from becoming cruelty.

A silence that says, I am listening.

Such silence is not weakness.

It is discipline.

The problem begins when silence is no longer freely chosen.

A student who stays quiet because they are thinking has agency.

A student who stays quiet because they have learned that nobody will listen has been denied something different.

A citizen who refuses to join a pointless argument is exercising judgment.

A citizen who cannot question authority without fearing the consequences is experiencing constraint.

The distinction is not volume.

It is choice.

This is why asking, “Why didn't you speak?” can sometimes be an unfair question.

Not everyone pays the same price for telling the truth.

Some people can challenge authority and walk away. Others risk relationships, opportunities, reputation, or security. Some voices are welcomed as “bold.” Others are dismissed as disrespectful before they are even heard.

Courage, therefore, cannot simply mean speaking.

It also means understanding the cost of speech—and deciding, when necessary, that truth is worth the cost.

But there is another danger: the silence of convenience.

It is the silence behind “It is not my business.”

The silence behind “Someone else will handle it.”

The silence behind “I don't want trouble.”

Sometimes these responses are reasonable. We cannot intervene in every conflict or carry every burden.

But when everyone waits for someone else to act, responsibility disappears into the crowd.

That is how injustice can become ordinary.

Not because everyone supports it, but because too many people decide that opposing it is someone else's responsibility.

This may be the most uncomfortable truth about silence:

You do not always have to agree with injustice to help it survive. Sometimes you only have to remain sufficiently quiet.

That is why silence should not be treated as morally neutral.

Every society teaches its people what can be said, who can say it, and what happens to those who say too much.

The question is not merely:

Are we speaking?

It is:

Who has been made afraid to speak?

And perhaps an even harder question:

Who benefits when they remain afraid?

These questions move the discussion beyond individual courage and toward power.

A family becomes unhealthy when peace depends upon one person continually swallowing their pain.

A classroom becomes intellectually empty when questioning is treated as disrespect.

A nation becomes fragile when citizens are expected to accept everything and question nothing.

But a society can also become exhausting when every disagreement becomes a battle and every silence is interpreted as cowardice.

We do not need a world where everyone speaks all the time.

We need a world where people are free to choose when silence is wisdom and when silence is surrender.

That freedom matters.

Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is listen.

Sometimes it is speak.

Sometimes it is stand beside someone whose voice has finally emerged.

And sometimes it is recognising that our own comfort has become dependent upon somebody else's silence.

Nigeria's history makes this distinction difficult to ignore.

The Women's War of 1929 demonstrated that communities excluded from formal political power could still challenge colonial authority. COVID-19 demonstrated that silence could emerge from necessity and contain enormous suffering. #EndSARS demonstrated that a generation could deliberately turn private grievances into a public demand for accountability.

These are not identical stories.

They should not be forced into one.

But together they reveal something larger:

Silence is never merely about sound. It is about power.

Who is allowed to speak?

Who is expected to listen?

Who can afford to remain silent?

And who pays the price when everyone else does?

Perhaps that is the mistake we make when we call silence “peace.”

Peace is not simply a room in which nobody is speaking.

A room can be silent because everyone is safe.

It can also be silent because everyone is afraid.

From the outside, we may not know the difference.

That is why we must learn to listen to silence itself.

Not every silence needs to be broken.

Some silences need to be respected.

Some need to be understood.

And some need to be challenged.

The question is what lies behind them.

So let silence remain when it protects dignity.

Let it remain when it gives us the wisdom to listen.

Let it remain when words would only wound.

But when silence becomes the condition for comfort, when it shields injustice, when it buries truth, when it teaches the powerless that their suffering is safer unheard—

we must recognise the transaction taking place.

We are paying for peace with somebody else's voice.

And that is too expensive a price.

Because silence can preserve a moment of peace.

But when justice is the currency we surrender for it, silence is no longer peace.

It is the bill.

Essay by Olumide Omowaleola Deborah

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar celebrates creative voices from around the world. This prestigious platform encourages participants to explore diverse themes through poetry, essays, and creative writing. The competition aims to foster a global dialogue on art, culture, and societal issues, offering a space for writers to share their unique perspectives and insights.

Thank you, Olumide Omowaleola Deborah, for your compelling essay, "The Price of Silence," a significant contribution to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Your exploration of silence and its implications offers profound insights into the complexities of human communication and societal structures. We appreciate your thoughtful engagement with such a critical theme.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.