I'd like to describe my aunt Ngozi, my mother's younger sister, who lives in Enugu in the east of Nigeria. I spent most school holidays at her house, so she's more like a second mother to me than an aunt.
The bravest thing I've seen her do wasn't dramatic in the film sense. About six years ago she was working as an accountant for a fairly large company, and she noticed that some payments in the books didn't add up. When she raised it, her manager told her to leave it alone, and it was made very clear that her job depended on keeping quiet. She went home, talked it through with my uncle, and the next morning she reported it to the company's board anyway. For nearly a year she was treated coldly at work and passed over for a promotion. In the end the board investigated, the manager was removed, and she was eventually promoted.
The reason I think she's brave is that she had a lot to lose and nobody would have blamed her for staying silent. She has three children and school fees to pay, so it wasn't a free choice. She also didn't do it for attention; she never posted about it or turned it into a story to impress people. When I asked her later whether she'd been scared, she laughed and said she'd been terrified every single day. To me that's what bravery really means. It isn't the absence of fear; it's doing the right thing while you're frightened.