Category: Perspective

Kenya’s transgender warrior: From suicide bid to celebrity

Audrey Mbugua. (Pic: Reuters)
Audrey Mbugua. (Pic: Reuters)

Audrey Mbugua will not say whether it was a razor blade, pills or carbon monoxide that she used to try to kill herself.

Born a male in Kenya and given the name Andrew, she felt trapped in the wrong body and started dressing in women’s clothes while at university, attracting ridicule and rejection. After graduation, Mbugua was jobless, penniless and alone.

“I thought the best way was to end it all,” she recalled six years later, sitting in her leafy garden in Kiambu, 20km from the Kenyan capital, Nairobi.

“I didn’t have any hope. I didn’t have friends I could talk to. My family had deserted me,” said the slim 31-year-old, who wears glasses and her hair long.

Experts say up to 1 percent of the world’s population are transgender – men and women who feel they have been born with the wrong body and the wrong gender.

When Mbugua sought help to deal with her inner turmoil from a healthworker, the woman took Mbugua’s hands and prayed for her to be freed from the devil’s clutches.

“She pulls open her drawer, takes out a Bible and starts to preach to me,” Mbugua laughed. “I don’t think she knew what I was going through, so to cover up, she said it’s the work of Satan.”

Transgender people are some of the most invisible in Africa where rigid gender stereotyping continues to stifle freedoms. Many are forced to hide their identity and live on the margins of their communities or risk being vilified as immoral and unchristian by the conservative majority.

Mbugua is a rare exception.

Since a test case in 2013 to compel Kenya’s examinations council to change the name on her school leaving certificate from Andrew to Audrey, Mbugua has become an unlikely celebrity, using interviews to promote transgender rights.

Surgery
After Mbugua’s 2008 suicide attempt, doctors diagnosed her with gender identity disorder and arranged for surgery to change her sex.

But Kenya’s minister of medical services cancelled the operation at the last minute without explanation – an example of the confusion that has marred her quest to fully become a woman.

Facing one hurdle after another, Mbugua decided she had to take up the mantle of campaigning for transgender rights to combat the ignorance and stigma blighting her life.

“It has to be done so that people are able to live lives that are full of dignity, where people are not hindered from being who they are,” Mbugua said.

Transgender people across Africa are publicly humiliated, stripped, harassed by the police and thrown out of their homes. Alcoholism and suicide are often the only way out.

“A transgender person should be a prostitute, they should be used for sodomy – that is the general narrative,” Mbugua said.

Despite a degree in biotechnology, Mbugua has been unable to find work. She has had a dozen job interviews, but the interviewers made “nasty comments” and threatened to take her academic certificates to the police, accusing her of fraud.

Mbugua changed her name through deed poll in 2012, using this to replace Andrew with Audrey on her passport.

But she has been unable to change the name on her identity card, birth certificate or academic papers. An application to change her identity card has been pending since 2012.

Her 2013 case against Kenya’s examinations council unleashed a media frenzy with her story dominating front pages. Television interviewers asked her about her sex life, she was mocked online and young men in her village threatened to attack her.

“You feel like throwing yourself in front of the bus but you have to find a way of living with it,” she said. “I wanted to take as many hits as possible and show the world that you can hit a transsexual and she stands up.”

“I didn’t want people to think of people like me as cowards, as people who hide, who are ashamed of themselves,” she added.

In a landmark ruling in October, the court ordered the examinations council to change the name on Mbugua’s certificate. But the council appealed the ruling and the case is awaiting a date in the High Court.

Fundamental change?
South Africa and Botswana are the only African countries with laws explicitly allowing official documents to be changed to reflect a person’s desired identity, although medical evidence of transition is usually required.

Kenyan authorities say medical proof of transition – a sex change – is required to change the gender mark on Mbugua’s passport and identity card. But sex change surgery is virtually impossible to get in Kenya because the procedure is so unusual.

The few Kenyans Mbugua knows who have had surgery did it overseas.

In February, the High Court ruled against ordering the government to set medical guidelines for treatment of gender identity disorder, which must be in place before Mbugua can undergo surgery.

“Gender change operation is part of my treatment,” she said. “It’s the last piece of my treatment as recommended by doctors who saw me. It’s my right.”

Mbugua has become Kenya’s most famous transgender woman. Strangers stop her in the street and tell her she is brave and beautiful. She receives emails from doctors asking her to help transgender patients change their names on official documents.

She juggles her advocacy work with studying for a Masters degree, spending hours at her computer, blue and black nail polishes neatly lined up next to the screen.

She believes Kenyans are now more understanding of what it is to be transgender, accepting it as a medical condition that has nothing to do with homosexuality, which remains a taboo in much of Africa.

“Nowadays, I normally have a good night’s sleep because no one calls me that they have been arrested by city council or police on some trumped-up charges of cross-dressing or prostitution,” she said. “We have seen fundamental changes.”

Yvonne Chaka Chaka reflects on 10 years as a UN Goodwill Ambassador

Growing up in Soweto, Johannesburg during Apartheid, I used to dream of a future where all were equal under the law. Though at times it seemed out of reach, I committed myself to that dream and worked firmly for it.

Taking up my mother’s broom and imagining it was a microphone, I would spin around the kitchen and dream of the stage that would one day be mine, not knowing just how close I was to the force that would take hold of our society and create a unified nation.

Even as a little girl, I believed that my dreams could one day come true and that through entertainment I could change the traditional trajectory of a young black girl in South Africa.

Earlier this month I celebrated my 50th birthday and 30 years in the music industry. I’m deeply proud of the wild journey this little girl from Apartheid Soweto has had, but perhaps I’m most excited about what that journey means for other little girls – and boys – throughout Africa.

This month also marks 10years since I began working with the United Nations to raise awareness and mobilise commitment around health and development issues. Through my work as a Goodwill Ambassador with the Roll Back Malaria (RBM) Partnership and UNICEF, I’ve spent time in some of the most remote communities across this great continent and beyond. I’ve sat with mothers and children – in humble homes and community clinics – and I’ve seen the impact that preventable and treatable diseases like malaria and malnutrition have on communities’ smallest members.

The power of simple tools

But I’ve also seen the power of simple, proven and cost-effective tools. With malaria, for example, I’ve seen the power of a safe night’s sleep under an insecticide-treated net or a definitive diagnosis made possible with a rapid diagnostic test (RDT). Or that teaching simple hand washing with soap or ash can be the difference between life and death, optimum growth or stunting. These simple tools and skills don’t only offer peace of mind; they keep children in school and parents at work. They give hope and transform entire communities.

In 2000, the world came together with a focused determination to eradicate disease and poverty through the United Nations Millennium Development Goals (MDGs). Today, as their deadline looms, global poverty continues to decline, more children than ever are attending primary school, child deaths have dropped dramatically and targeted investments in health have saved millions. Since 2001, we’ve saved more than 4 million lives from malaria alone, and under-five mortality is decreasing faster than any time in the past two decades. Our collective efforts are working.

I’ve seen it first-hand through my work with RBM, UNICEF and countless partner organisations working to create healthier communities. Today, children’s wards are less burdened by preventable diseases, schools are filled with eager young minds and markets are bustling with activity.

But still, we continue to leave many of our youngest behind. Thanks to increased commitment to the health of our children, we have halved the number of children under the age of 5 dying each year since 1990. But still, roughly 17 000 children around the world die each day from preventable and treatable diseases. Not surprisingly, the large majority of childhood deaths occur in the world’s poorest countries. Today, 1 in 11 children born in sub-Saharan Africa dies before their fifth birthday – the significance of marking my 50th birthday is not lost on me in this tragic context.

Child survival includes some of the most cost-effective interventions of our time: vaccines and insecticide treated nets. When we add women to that equation, the return on our investment increases exponentially – healthy, empowered women yield healthy, stable and prosperous communities. It’s a no-brainer.

Lack of attention and investment

But we must be clear: children aren’t dying because we lack the knowledge to save them; they’re dying for lack of attention and investment. As we move forward, women and children must remain a central part of the development agenda, and they must be allowed and encouraged to participate in the process. Education will be crucial, not only for our future leaders, but also for their mothers – if we can educate women, we can drastically reduce neonatal mortality and offer children a healthy start to life. We must also ensure that women and children have access to life-saving health services along a continuum of care, from conception through a child’s fifth birthday.

Data will also be key to ensure all children are counted. Unfortunately, far too many births go undocumented and children are welcomed into the world without notice, with immediate lack of account, services or voice. It’s simple: if every life counts, each life must be counted. When we don’t register births, we welcome any number of negative experiences – including abuse and neglect – on some of our most vulnerable family members. We cannot pretend to protect our children and provide them a healthier world if we don’t know they exist.

In June 2012, hundreds of world leaders gathered in Washington, D.C., where they renewed their commitment to the future of our children through Committing to Child Survival: A Promise Renewed. Since then, nearly 180 governments have pledged to scale up efforts to accelerate declines in preventable maternal, newborn and child deaths. I am grateful for the remarkable commitment and progress that has been made, but it remains fragile and our business is unfinished. Now, more than ever, we must work in partnership – within and between sectors – to stretch the value of our investments and maximise the impact of our efforts.

The road ahead won’t be easy, but if we continue to walk together and share the burden, I’m confident that we can deliver on the promises we’ve made to all children of the world. Every child deserves the chance to dream of his or her future – the stage they might occupy, the power they might hold, the love they might share – and the opportunity to make it happen. Let us work together boldly to nurture those dreams and protect the birthdays yet to come.

African men don’t get feminism

(Pic: Flickr / Julie Jordan Scott)
(Pic: Flickr / Julie Jordan Scott)

In 2013, I wrote an article for Voices of Africa entitled “African men don’t do feminists.” It was a satirical account of my observations dating African men on and off of the continent. I spoke about how uncompromising these men seemed to be, particularly when speaking about what type of woman they wanted as a partner. From the cooking, cleaning, and child rearing, I spoke to the fact that in many cases, African men would demand that their partners uphold traditional ideals of womanhood, which today can be seen as dated and suffocating to a woman who identifies as a feminist. Now, the definition of feminism is a controversial one, it can be hard to understand and from reading the comments on my article, I realised that African men also don’t really know what feminism is. From talk of “she-males” to “highly educated” women looking to destroy patriarchy, here are a few comments that prove African men still don’t get feminism:

“What we want are women who respect man’s headship in the home and emulate their mothers who respected their husbands, raised their children and built a good generation not the modern day she-male that are out there especially the highly educated ones…”

This guy wants traditional patriarchy to be upheld, and for women in 2015 to emulate our mothers born in the 40s, 50s, and 60s. Feminism is about progress and adaptation, not stagnant gender roles based on what has made many generations of African men most comfortable. A woman who expresses discomfort with pounding yam and popping out babies upon request, is a she-male? A woman pursuing a degree instead of a man is a “highly educated” enemy of progress? A paradigm shift in the psyches of African women does not automatically lead to the emasculation of African men everywhere. Lesson 1: Feminism is not about destroying African tradition, it’s about ensuring that women have a fair chance at a rich and purposeful life, on their own terms.

“I’ve had tons of female feminist friends. Most of the guys who dated them were ugly men and never the tall very handsome (rich or not rich) guys with a nice physique. Never saw one of my feminist friends with a hot man…”

It seems to this gentlemen that only ugly men would be willing to deal with women who identify as feminist.  So instead of him viewing feminism as a tool for empowerment, a platform on which women can stand and demand equal pay, respect, and the right to govern their own bodies, feminism is a club of angry women who can only pick up uglies. The fact that this commenter is using a man as THE metric when measuring a woman’s worth tells women to forget your degrees, professional experience, or over all autonomy; a tall, handsome man is the only prize worth vying for. Lesson 2: A feminist is not defined by what she looks like, nor what her partner looks like.

“I am very proud to be an African man who values my tradition and culture and will never drop it for another borrowed or acquired…”

Feminism is NOT a borrowed ideology! It’s important to remember that while American and European white women were burning bras, our mothers and grandmothers were raging against colonialism. They were becoming the first women educated in their respective countries. They were fighting in civil wars, and protecting villages as soldiers ran through to rape and pillage their villages. That is feminism, pioneering in the face of adversity, and creating a space for women to follow. Lesson 3: Feminism is not “borrowed or acquired”, it’s something that is engrained in the matriarchal communities many Africans were raised in.

“But, women and men are not equal as human beings in terms of strength, traits, and talents, plus they look different. New Age feminists have other motives, which sadly catches well-meaning women into their merry band of ideological thinking.”

Women and men are equal as human beings! There are biological factors that make SOME men taller, and SOME men physically stronger than the average woman, but to say we are not the same human beings is preposterous. On that note, feminists are not going around kidnapping your “well-meaning” girlfriends, wives, and daughters and making them join a cult of angry butch lesbians. Feminism speaks to the fact that even though I have a vagina, and breasts, and I carry children inside of me for nine months, does not mean I should be treated any less human than a man. My femininity can be respected and celebrated without it limiting my growth in society. This scary “ideological thinking” this gentleman is discussing, is the radical notion that women deserve the same pay, education, and personal freedoms as men. Lesson 4: Being a woman should not limit anyone in their attempt to be treated equally no matter the situation or environment.

Like I told my boyfriend (I know some of you are surprised, yes, I was able to catch a man in my scary feminist spider’s web), all I ask of him, and of my brothers, my father, and any man in my life, is to give women the space to progress. Let women speak, do not interrupt them, do not dismiss them, listen to what kind of life they want to live, support their choices, and if you don’t, respectfully give them reasons as to why. Giving the women around you the space to express and empower themselves is not just protecting their bodies, but also their agency.

Stephanie A. Kimou was born in Abidjan, Côte d’Ivoire and raised in Washington, DC. She is a blogger by night at A Black Girl in the World and a policy analyst by day. She holds a masters degree in international affairs from Georgetown University in DC, and has studied at the African Gender Institute in Cape Town and the University of Paris in France. Her mother has told her she has two years to get married, or else. Writing is the way she deals with this stress. Connect with her on Twitter: @stephkeems

Being Kenyan and Indian

(Pic: Flickr / teachandlearn)
(Pic: Flickr / teachandlearn)

In January, a group of Langata Primary schoolchildren protesting that their playground had been illegally grabbed, were tear-gassed by police. Nothing like this had happened in our recent memory as Kenyans, and the manner in which it was broadcast to the world helped amplify our outrage. There were loud demands for these land grabbers to be publicly named. I was in the car, sitting in the infamous Nairobi traffic when I heard Charity Ngilu, the cabinet secretary for the Ministry of Land, announce the identity of the alleged land grabbers. They included four brothers named Singh, a name of Southeast Asian/Indian origin. And like thousands of other brown people in the country, I shook my head.

What is the sound of thousands of Indians rolling their eyes?

I remember thinking to myself, did they really have to be Indian? As if suffering through Kamlesh Pattni (the Kenyan Indian tied to the Goldenberg scandal of the 90s, estimated to have cost Kenya the equivalent  of 10% of its annual GDP) wasn’t enough. This was just another nail in the coffin that is the familiar narrative, ‘Indians are thieves and stealing this country’.

Yet for every Pattni there are thousands of Kenyan Indians who work hard to elevate Kenya every day. The Sunny Bindras, Zarina Patels, Farrah Nuranis, Shamit Patels, Nivedita Mukherjees, Shailja Patels, Rasna Warahs, Zahid Rajans.

Predictably, the witty Kenyan Twitter community reacted with breakneck speed, delighting in their discovery of the versatility of the name Singh. A new hashtag was born, which was trending within an hour: #NgiluSinghJokes.

A lot of people raised eyebrows at the identity of the land grabbers, claiming that Ngilu’s naming of the private developers was unconvinSINGH. That the real culprits were being protected.

Others murmured apprehension that this hashtag would go too far and end up ostracising an entire community for the actions of four individuals.  Another hashtag from last year was revived – #KenyanNotIndian – where Kenyans of Indian origin asserted their nationalism. It says something about us as a society when your gut reaction is to distance yourself as far away as possible from a part of your identity for fear that it will be used against you in some way. I suspect this has some visceral effect on an individual, deep inside where memories nestle. I hear the exhaustion of feeling the need to apologise on behalf of an entire skin colour for the actions of a few individuals.

But we don’t see other Kenyan communities apologising for their rogue individuals who have pillaged, eaten and vomited all over the shoes of Kenyans. And yet. The Somali community in Kenya are individually and personally being made to pay a traumatic price for our hypocrisy when it comes to this. Divide and rule. We learned from the Masters.

Like many Somali Kenyans, there is a feeling among the Indian Kenyan community of always having to assert our legitimacy as citizens of this country. But we belong. Yet, if you look at the history books of Kenya, you won’t hear our stories from our mouths. There is so very little that has been written and is being written about the community, by the community. We have largely put our heads down and worked away industriously, but where are our voices when it comes to the narrative of this country? So I am claiming this space. I want my story, my existence to be in the cataloguing of Kenyan history. Because it’s not just mine, it belongs to thousands.

Back to #KenyanNotIndian. Here is the thing. It unsettles me. Doesn’t fit snugly on my skin. If anything it feels like uncomfortable Spanx underwear that you squeeze into to hide the parts of yourself you don’t want to subject to the World’s gaze. Never mind that you can’t breathe and your stomach is spooning your oesophagus, at least your lumps aren’t showing.

I am Kenyan AND Indian. It is quite simple really. I don’t believe the two are mutually exclusive. They sit very comfortably together in me. There is no contradiction and one doesn’t take away from the other. My nationality is Kenyan and my ethnicity is Indian.

What does that mean?

My loyalty, allegiance, heart, patriotism and soul belong to Kenya the country. But I embrace and am proud of my Indian heritage.

What does it actually mean?

I would go to war for Kenya (if I believed in that sort of thing), but if I was hit, my last words would come out in Gujurati.

My blood, sweat and tears belong to Kenya. But the sweat probably smells a little like curry.

What makes me Indian ? I don’t really know the answer to this. I can’t trace my ancestry very far and I don’t have a shags (ancestral home). It makes me feel deeply unsettled. Not knowing my roots. I envy you who have your forefathers buried on soil that has tasted your blood. What’s my lineage? Who were my people? What did they stand for? What was their legacy? What were they known for? When they talked of the Kassams, did they extol us for our virtuous nature or mutter under their breath in disgust?

A few years ago, I went to India for the first time. It was like going back to the Motherland. Aside from the bizarre sensation of being surrounded by brown people, and for the first time not being the minority, it felt rather comforting. I was curious to see if I would feel a tugging. A belonging. And I did a little. It was in the Indian sensibility. An intangible something I couldn’t put my finger on. Yet, it was clear we didn’t belong. Everywhere we went, Indians asked us where we came from, which was entirely discombobulating.

But I speak Gujurati (very badly). I cook chicken curry (not very well). I dance to Indian music (terribly). I wear punjabi suits (as often as I can) and the ultimate test; I live in a mad huge household spilling at the seams with family who are always in each other’s armpits.

I mellow out my father’s fiery chicken curry with mounds of Ugali. When I want music that will squeeze my insides I listen to Nyadundo and Nusrat. My favourite sari is made from an emerald green kikoy. My family enthusiastically infuse Sauti Sol’s Lipala dance with Bhangra moves.

What makes me Kenyan? I don’t really know the answer to this either. I was born here. Surely that in itself is enough. I have been known to use my mouth to point out directions. My language is peppered with Kenyanisms. Wololololo. Ngai. Ati. Kumbe. Kwani. In fact, half the time, I am not sure whether the word I am saying is Kiswahili or Gujurati, they feel so interwoven. Which is only fair, considering Kenya stole chapatis. Ultimately, I am only as peculiar as the next Kenyan.

And the question in itself is a loaded one. I am no less Kenyan than the Bukusu who would have been Ugandan had the Queen sneezed when she was tracing the borders of East Africa.

I love being Kenyan. The camaraderie, our ridiculous sense of humour…and personal space. The sense that we are in this together. And what an enormous privilege it is to be afforded the opportunity to participate in the shaping of your country. Don’t take this lightly. To be able to make a meaningful impact on the country you will pass down to your children is not something every citizen of the world has.

So here is my challenge to anyone who feels the understandable visceral need to assert your Kenyan-ness. Let it not be a reaction to a perceived threat. If you give a shit, and frankly none of us has the luxury not to anymore, then make your voice heard and your actions felt. Participate in the shaping of society. Actively. Jostle for space. Don’t hold yourself at a distance. Get involved. Participate. Building yourself is not enough. It is time to build the Kenya you want your children to inherit.

Irungu Hougton recently declared that there are legacies to be grabbed. Don’t be left behind. As he said, “If you can’t do something great, do something small in a great way.”

Let us reshape the narrative of what being #KenyanAndIndian means.

Aleya Kassam is a Kenyan writer and performer. She blogs at www.chanyado.wordpress.com. Connect with her on Twitter: @aleyakassam

The African identity crisis

(Pic: Reuters)
(Pic: Reuters)

I have recently been pondering the legitimacy of what we consider to be African. As the colonisers stripped off our identity and gave us new ones, much was lost and intertwined and influenced by their philosophies. I chuckle to think that the African diaspora sometimes thinks that Africans in Africa don’t have identity issues. Hah!

Our brothers and sisters of the diaspora are sometimes utterly oblivious to the struggles of the Africans who stayed behind. Indubitably, a lot was lost in slave ships, and staying granted us the privilege of immortalising many cultural aspects and traditions that they lost in the seas and upon arrival to new shores. Knowing which tribe I belong to and being able to emulate certain practices is one of such privileges. But although we were not stolen (or sold) from Africa, Africa was stolen from us…right here in Africa.

Our languages were stolen. How many African countries have indigenous languages as official languages, next to the language of their colonisers? Amongst our youth (the future), how many of us can speak the languages of our forefathers? I know quite a number of us can, and therefore this reality is not true for all of us especially in countries like South Africa and Zimbabwe, where there are multiple languages stipulated in the Constitution and where people commonly speak indigenous languages besides English. But, how many of us can boast of such (especially the so-called educated populace, the driving force of society)? And how much is being done to push this cultural agenda in countries/societies?

Our minds were stolen. How much do we learn about pre-colonial Africa? Our former civilisations have gone into obscurity.

How much Black literature do we teach in our schools? Who is sponsoring our best-selling authors and where are they being educated? The scientists, archeologists and anthropologists that explore Africa, where are they from?

Many are the books we read about us that were not written by us. “The most powerful weapon in the hands of the oppressor is the mind of the oppressed,” Steve Biko reminds us.

Our pride was stolen. The images the rest of the world sees of Africa are the same images Africa sees of Africa. W.E.B Dubois was beautifully articulate when he spoke of double consciousness, this “…peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others…“. In our own minds, Africa is associated with distress and anything we deem to be “too African” is considered backwards, ugly.

Our resources were stolen. We paid a high price for freedom, and we all see the flag of independence that went up but never saw the negotiations that went down in exchange for liberty. The colonial powers did not just leave without making us sign lethal contracts and treaties that continue to harm us today, giving them 10% of this and 30% of that. French presence in francophone Africa is, for instance, well documented through Franceafrique, and there is clear economic, political and military control. In the words of François Mitterrand: “Without Africa, France will have no history in the 21st century“.

Looking at a continent that was and still is highly controlled and influenced by foreigners, I think it is time we challenge the authenticity of the African identity. Our view of Africa and the politics of our existence are not dictated by us. Upon independence, political leaders launched “Africanisation” initiatives to bring us back to our roots, renaming places amongst other things. The Republic of Upper Volta became Burkina Faso (“the land of upright men”), Northern Rhodesia became Zambia – and if there were initiatives to “Africanise” Africa then I think we have to consider how we became “un-African”. Aren’t we African bodies with European minds? So, when you say you are African, what do you mean?

We are often told about the privilege of having been born in the motherland. But I see no benefit in knowledge one is not aware of.

Harriet Tubman did say she freed so many slaves but could have freed a thousand more if only they knew they were slaves. In essence you are still in slavery if you don’t know you are free. Africa is perpetuating the legacy of its captors and in various aspects we have become mere relics of colonialism, unaware of our identity. What good is being African if you don’t know you are African?

Not only do we have to seek but we have to understand our roots, because what good is perpetuating traditions without understanding origins? There is no value.

We cannot change history but we can study it, learn from it and appreciate it.

And nothing will make you appreciate your African identity more than having it being stolen, feeling lost and finding it again. These minute findings are gigantic steps towards dealing with our crisis.

Clenia Gigi is a a student, avid reader, poet, spoken-word artist, Pan-Africanist and feminist.