By Moshood Raji

The Burden of the Throne: A Memoir for Men Born Different

They don’t understand what it means to be born different.

Most never will.

They think it’s power. They think it’s glory. They think it’s easy, the spotlight, the dominance, the so-called privilege of leadership.

But when a man is born with a king’s soul, it is not a gift. It is a curse.

Because from your first breath, the world turns against you. Not with fists, but with expectation. Not with kindness, but with silence. Not with comfort, but with isolation.

People see something in your eyes, "that fire", "that weight", "that destiny," and instead of honoring it, they fear it. They shrink. They whisper. They conspire.

You don’t get the warmth of normal life. You don’t get safety. You don’t get softness.

What you get is weight. Burden. The unspoken rule written on your bones: lead or die under the pressure.

Fire as Birthright

You weren’t taught peace. You were thrown into storms.

And the only way out was through fire.

Through betrayal.

Through rejection.

Through becoming something so brutal that even your younger self wouldn’t recognize you.

While others begged for approval, you were forced to walk alone. Because every room you stepped into, your presence unsettled the weak. Your silence made the loud uncomfortable. Your intensity exposed their softness.

You didn’t choose that.

It chose you.

That is what a king’s soul does. It divides. It separates. It marks you.

Not for celebration, but for war.

The Curse of Isolation

They call you arrogant, but you’re just focused.

They call you cold, but you’ve seen too much to smile.

They call you distant, but the truth is you’re just walking further than they were ever willing to.

Friendships fade. Family doesn’t understand. Love turns to battlefield.

Not because you destroyed it, but because no one’s ready to walk next to a man who carries this kind of gravity.

And so, the deeper your power grows, the quieter your world becomes.

That’s the rule no one talks about.

Because the king’s soul isn’t loud. It isn’t social. It doesn’t beg for company. It devours solitude because nothing else can hold it.

Silence as a Palace

You sit in rooms so quiet you can hear the weight of your own breath.

At first, you think it’s punishment. Loneliness. Exile.

But over time, you realize: silence is not your prison. It’s your palace.

It is here your thoughts turn to weapons.

Your values turn into laws.

Your purpose turns into command.

Don’t run back to noise. Don’t explain your distance. Don’t soften your edges for comfort.

The man born with a king’s soul must first learn to rule himself before he is worthy of ruling anything beyond.

Rage as Architect

Deep inside every man with a king’s soul is a rage no one sees.

It isn’t chosen. It isn’t invited. It comes with the birthright.

A lifetime of silence.

A lifetime of being misunderstood.

A lifetime of being underestimated, of carrying weight and complaining about nothing.

The pressure builds. The pain multiplies. The weight compounds.

Until it no longer crushes you.

It builds you.

That rage becomes your foundation.

Not the kind that explodes in tantrums.

Not the kind that cries for attention.

The kind that moves like a blade in the dark. Silent. Lethal. Precise.

You don’t yell. You deliver.

You don’t threaten. You execute.

Because the rage of a man born to rule isn’t loud.

It’s deadly.

The Birth of a King

There comes a moment in every man’s life when he finally understands: no one is coming.

No one is going to save him.

No one is going to help him carry it.

No one is going to rescue the crown from the mud.

And in that moment, the king is born.

Not by blood.

Not by blessing.

But by decision.

A decision made in pure cold isolation. When every voice disappears. When every hand vanishes. When every hope of help is gone.

You stand alone, in the ruins of a burning kingdom, with nothing but your fists and your rage.

Most men crumble there. They beg. They plead. They make deals with weakness.

But not you.

Because a king doesn’t ask for mercy.

He becomes the judge.

The Law of Kings

The law is brutal, but it is real:

• No one owes you anything.

• No one is obligated to understand you.

• No one is responsible for your survival.

You carry your weight.

You bury your debt.

You sharpen your will on rejection, failure, and hunger.

You walk alone until others are forced to follow.

Not out of loyalty, but out of fear.

Because real kings don’t lead with charm.

They lead with consequence.

They don’t beg for followers.

They move forward until footsteps fall in behind them.

And when they speak, it isn’t to be liked.

It’s to issue orders that reshape reality.

The Throne

The throne wasn’t handed down.

It wasn’t inherited.

It wasn’t given through blessing or bloodline.

It was carved from agony.

Shaped in isolation.

Forged in hell.

It was sealed with every ounce of pain the world swore would break you.

But it didn’t.

Because kings aren’t crowned by applause.

They are revealed in silence.

They are built through scars.

Final Revelation

They counted you out.

They ignored your grind.

They laughed at your silence.

Now they don’t laugh anymore.

They whisper.

Because what you’ve become is no longer human to them.

Every scar became a lesson.

Every betrayal became a boundary.

Every failure became a weapon.

This isn’t just a soul. It’s a fortress.

Built in nights they never saw.

Through battles they never knew you fought.

And now you sit on the throne, not in glory, not in pride, but in stillness.

Because the man with a king’s soul doesn’t celebrate.

He watches.

He protects.

He enforces.

And when the world forgets what it took to build the throne,

He reminds them.

Without ever speaking a word.

The Weight of Silence

The king is not made.

He is revealed.

In silence.

In blood.

In the shadow of everything that tried to kill him.

That is the curse.

That is the crown.

That is the weight of being born with a king’s soul.

inspired by After All channel