Year: 2013

Sex education on a street kerb

Between HIV prevalence statistics, child grants, polygamy, Ben 10s, sexual violence and the annual initiation-school deaths, the medical, moral and economic panics that swirl around black bodies in South Africa are enough to power all the geysers in Gauteng for a month. Perhaps it is with this knowledge of the many panics surrounding all matters black and sexual that enterprising self-proclaimed miracle workers going by nondescript names like ‘Dr Tony from East Africa’ promise all manner of miracle cures for all kinds of sexual problems – from fixing relationship crises to penis enlargements. (For some mysterious reason, these doctors are almost always from East Africa). This social investment in matters relating to black sexuality may explain why on one Cape Town train, the only stickers gracing the walls and roofs of carriages are adverts for penis enlargements and “quick, same-day” abortions (their words). Whenever I take this train, I am uncertain what bothers me more: these doctors’ advertorial monopoly or the logic of having adverts for “quick, same-day” abortions side by side with adverts for penis enlargements.

True, I failed maths in school — which explains why all numbers have a slippery encounter with my mind — but the equation here seems too unfortunate, even for my anti-algebraic mind. I can’t decide whether it is a question of ‘to each their perils’ or an acknowledgement of some correlation between penis enlargements and women’s desperation for backstreet abortions. In this social climate, a roadside conversation about sex and its perils is bound to be tinted with all manner of ideas. But what better place than the Cape to have a random conversation about sex, with an unknown teenager, at 8:23 in the morning?

(Pic: Flickr / Rob Allen)

I am walking to work on a typical Cape winter’s day. Sheltered by my umbrella, I’m listening to an SAfm talk-show on serial killers. Among the panelists is an ex-convict, invited in his capacity as a former serial killer. He clarifies to the talk-show host that, eintlik, he is an ex-murderer. Not a former serial killer. He just happened to have murdered, well, several people.

I feel the presence of someone beside me. Being hyper-sensitised by the talk-show discussion, I almost jump. As I turn to my left, I hear the ultra-polite greeting, “Good morning m’aam”. I respond, as I remove my earphones, slightly puzzled at this young man, about sixteen, a few inches shorter than me, cuddled in a heavy coat, hands in his pocket.

“Ma’am, can I ask you something?”

I don’t know where this is going, and I am puzzled at the polite “Ma’am” laced with the heavy ‘coloured’ Afrikaans accent, but as we walk on, I say, “Okay?”

“Please, I am not being rude, but I want to know: is sex painful?”

Ei? But really now!?! I turn and look into his face, preparing to firmly tell him he is way too young to be trying this nonsense with me, and even for his age-mates, he will need to learn some ‘pick-up’ protocol. But as I look for words, I realise from the serious, slightly shy look on his face that he is not being cheeky. He is actually expecting a serious answer to this question; and from the shy look on his face, he has been pondering this question for a while.

“Yes, sometimes it is. Why do you ask?”

“My girlfriend says it is painful. Is it painful for men too?”

I never! It occurs to me then that I have never asked the men in my circles and life this question. The automatic assumption is that of course sex is always pleasurable for men. It is still drizzling, and my office is a block away. It quickly occurs to me that this is a Dear Sis Dolly moment; and I must respect this young man’s courage to ask this question of a complete stranger. He must have realised this conversation could go very badly. I quickly don my big-sister hat and step into this street-kerb sex-education scenario. I truthfully explain to him that sometimes it is painful for women, but I do not know if it can also be painful for men. I am a big sister/aunt. I tell him the best way around this is to always listen to his girlfriend, and never force her to have sex when she is not ready. I fumble around for polite language for explaining the importance of foreplay to women’s sexual comfort, as he listens attentively. Lastly, I tell him to always be safe and ensure he protects himself and his girlfriend, by using a condom. He giggles at this last part, and shyly tells me he knows about the importance of condoms.

“Good!” I smile back at him. “So, where are you going so early in the morning?” I ask.

To pick up something from his father, who works at our local supermarket.

As we parted ways, my heart ached for this teenager, who had to resort to a stranger on the street to explain sexual matters when he lived with his father. I found this encounter so bizarre that the first thing I did was describe it to my colleague at work because it was so odd that it felt like a hallucination. My colleague had only one question for me: Why is it that of all the people on the streets he decided to ask you?

The jury is still out on this question.

Oh, and now, thanks to my male friends, I have an answer for my young friend on whether sex is painful for men.

12 years ago

Yaya Toure wins 2013 BBC African Footballer of the Year

Côte d’Ivoire midfielder Yaya Toure was named the BBC’s African Footballer of the Year for 2013 on Monday.

It was the fifth straight year the Manchester City star had made the shortlist but the first time he’d taken the award.

“Thank you to all the fans around the world who continue to support me and who love me a lot,” said Toure in a BBC statement. “I’m very proud, I’m very happy, this award is amazing.

“It’s the fifth time in a row [being nominated] and this time is very special.”

Yaya Toure. (Pic: AFP)

Toure, who has scored 13 goals for club and country this year, was the choice of the BBC’s global audience.

He held off competition from Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang (Gabon and Borussia Dortmund), Victor Moses (Nigeria and Liverpool, on loan from Chelsea), John Obi Mikel (Nigeria and Chelsea), and Jonathan Pitroipa (Burkina Faso and Rennes).

Toure was presented with the award at Manchester City’s Carrington training ground on Monday.

“We are pleased for Yaya Toure that he has finally won the BBC African Footballer of the Year on his fifth nomination for the award,” said BBC Africa’s current affairs editor Vera Kwakofi.

“This shows the high esteem in which he is held by lovers of African football and the respect the fans have for his exploits for club and country.”

Toure now has the chance to complete an awards double having been selected among a 25-man shortlist for the African Football Confederation (CAF) African Footballer of the Year for 2013.

In contrast to the BBC award, Toure has won the CAF equivalent in each of the last two years and winning it for a third consecutive year would see him match the achievement of Cameroon striker Samuel Eto’o, winner in 2003, 2004 and 2005.

The winner of the latest edition is due to be announced at a ceremony in Lagos, Nigeria, on January 9. – Sapa-AFP

12 years ago

Kenyan sci-fi series flips the script on immigration

At its core, Usoni is a story of immigration. The Kenyan sci-fi television series is set in 2062 and paints a portrait of what the world would be like if immigration was reversed and European refugees were fleeing to Africa.

Created by Dr Marc Rigaudis of the United States International University (USIU) in Nairobi, the film casts Africa as an oasis, the only place where the sun shines. It follows a young couple who embark on a dangerous journey to reach the continent but before their dream can be realised, they must overcome the worst of humanity and beat impossible odds.

Speaking to TechMoran, producer Denver Ochieng explained: “Usoni is actually a series focusing on the travel of a couple from the natural disaster stricken Europe to the now illustrious Africa in 2062. It is a story which focuses on the immigration hurdles of Africans to Europe and looks at how it would be if the reverse were to happen.”

The pilot episode was screened at USIU last week. Now we wait to see if it’ll be picked up by local or even international channels.

Shooting scenes on the boat. (Pic: Usoni crew / Facebook)

12 years ago

Pay, pay and pay some more: Renting in Dar es Salaam

I was born and raised in Dar es Salaam. We locals call our city Bongo – a Swahili slang for brain, and you need a sharp one to survive here.

My mother saved her civil servant salary for about three years to build the house I grew up in. For most of my life, I’ve lived with her in Changanyikeni, a peaceful suburb where everyone minds their own business. Apart from a lack of water in the suburb – we had to fetch some from the university block – Changanyikeni was a pleasant place to call home.

But after years of comfort, I felt like I needed a place of my own. I had spent three months in South Africa living by myself. During that time, independence grew on me – there was no one to answer to about my whereabouts or why I was out late or didn’t want to eat dinner.

And so, at the age of 28, I decided to move out and find a place to rent in Dar es Salaam.

I gravitated towards the suburbs of Sinza, Mwenge, Kinondoni and Kijitonyama, which are coveted among young Tanzanians living on their own. They are close to the city centre and offer plenty of entertainment in the form of bars, night clubs and shopping malls.

(Pic: Flickr / hownowdesign)

My first step was to find the right connections. The renting business in Dar is not exactly conventional. It’s dominated by middle men who connect potential tenants with landlords. You’ll find them every morning lurking around the suburbs, waiting for house-seekers to arrive so they can start pitching.

Most of them are good liars. They will wax lyrical about the perfect house, convince you to view it, and when you do, you’ll realise what an exaggeration “in good condition” and “lovely views” can be. And for every house you walk into, you’ll need to dish out at least $7 to the middle man as a “showing fee”.

I was first taken to Sinza, a middle class suburb full of bachelors and newlyweds who fork out a hefty USD 200 for a 2-bedroom house and at least USD 50 more for utilities. It is a nice suburb but I did not see myself living there. There is a bar, grocery store or night club after every two houses; it’s a party from Monday to Monday. Young people prefer Sinza since they do not have to drive out to have a drink; it can be found just next door.

My next option was Kinondoni but one of the middlemen told me to be very careful since all sorts of dark deals went down here. Drug dealers and prostitutes operate in this area, and the rent prices also put me off: USD 250 to USD 300.

A friend of mind suggested I try the suburb where he lived – Mbagala. Rental prices are very cheap here. For 70 USD a month, a fully fenced housed could be yours to live in.

He invited me to stay over at his place to get a feel of the suburb. The next morning I saw commotion at the bus stand near his house. People were fighting to board the bus to get to work in time. Some were even climbing in through the windows. One man complained he’d never occupied a seat on the bus for the past three months since it’s always overcrowded as people fight to get to work on time. With that, I immediately crossed Mbagala off my list.

After months of hunting for a place of my own, I realised that every suburb has its own drama. I ended up getting a one bedroom house in Kinondoni, away from the shady streets, for USD 150 per month.

I was relieved that my months of hustling were over – but I was also broke. Landlords in Dar es Salaam don’t accept one month’s rent. You need to pay six to twelve months’ rent upfront. If the house you’re renting has damages, the landlord will ask you to organise and pay for the repairs. The money will be deducted from the next month’s rent – or so they say.

I won’t be moving again anytime soon. Independence certainly comes at a cost but I didn’t expect it would involve this many people or so many dollars.

Erick Mchome is a former features writer for The Citizen newspaper in Tanzania. He is the 2011 David Astor Award Winner and worked at the Mail & Guardian between September and December 2011.

12 years ago

The Great Ethiopian Run: in the footsteps of Haile Gebrselassie

I am standing at the start line of the Great Ethiopian Run: not only the biggest race in Africa but one of the continent’s biggest talent-spotting contests. Officially there are 38 000 of us, all in yellow-and-green race T-shirts, jostling and shoving and staring down a line of police with batons. But hundreds of others have sneaked into line, with home-brewed kit, swelling the numbers still further. A marshal warns me, “Don’t try to get in front when they start – you’ll be trampled!”, then there’s the blast of a horn, a rising crackle of noise, and the police cordon sprints for safety. Ahead of me two men lose their shoes in the tumult – and don’t return – and I wonder: what the hell have I let myself in for?

For others, however, this 10km race around the hills of Addis Ababa, at an altitude of 2 300 metres, offers the chance to follow in the footsteps of the great Ethiopian runners: Abebe Bikila, who won the 1960 Olympic marathon in Rome running barefoot; the revered Haile Gebrselassie, 10 000m gold medallist at the Atlanta and Sydney Olympics; and the current 5km and 10km world record holder Kenenisa Bekele. Previous winners in the race’s 13-year history have gone on to win major marathons and Olympic medals. The race – which is shown live on Ethiopian TV – is not just a showcase for runners, but for the country, too.

That it takes place at all is down to Gebrselassie, who many see as a future president of Ethiopia. Invited by Brendan Foster, the founder of the Great North Run, to come over to Newcastle, Haile responded: “Why don’t you help me to start a Great Ethiopian Run?” So Foster did.

“The whole country is running,” says Gebrselassie, offering Ethopian coffee so strong you suspect it partly explains the speed of the country’s athletes. “We try to rise up the people to do something. Sport has just one language, and when you encourage people through sport you encourage every sector, whatever their job. One religion, one culture, one language – and that is running.”

Haile Gebrselassie celebrates after winning his third consecutive Vienna half marathon on April 14 2013. (Pic: AFP)

But caffeine-fuelled beverages aside, why are Ethiopian distance runners so good? “It’s because of opportunities here,” says Gebrselassie, who spends the days before the race patiently smiling, chatting and posing for photographs. “Plus the lifestyle: the kids walk to school – no, they run! – every day. I ran six miles every day to school and back so my training started when I was three or four.” Unsurprisingly, the Great Ethiopian Run even has a race for the under fives.

Though there are a few international runners – a team from Norway and a speedy gang from Birmingham – the race at elite level is tough for most foreigners because of that altitude. While your legs feel good to go, your lungs wheeze and moan in protest. It’s like someone has strapped an iron band around your chest and compressed it.

My first experience of this comes on a track built by Bekele high in the mountains. Bekele himself has come to train, and we jog very slowly with him. At least, my GPS watch says it’s slow – my lungs appear to think I’ve just finished a sub-four-minute mile. This is why athletes train at altitude – and why those born at it have an advantage – the body adapts to the relative lack of oxygen. But not, of course, on day one. And not when you are trying not to wheeze too loudly behind a multiple Olympic gold medallist.

After warming up, we follow Bekele into the woods where he and many other elite athletes train. He slips away in a matter of seconds, leaving us to puff and tootle around a few miles of hyena territory. “That’s OK, they only come out at night,” says a cheery runner. “Just don’t be last!”

But by race day, either I’ve adapted slightly or the adrenaline has kicked in. Once I summon the courage to get out of the sidelines and into the sea of runners, I’m away. The first few kilometres are very slow, because of the sheer press of people, many of whom are too interested in talking, showing off and having fun to care what time they finish in, but the atmosphere is incredible. There are spontaneous outbreaks of loud joyous songs and chanting. Others dance and shout. I can’t stop smiling.

The noise quietens – though only very slightly – as those hills kick in. I’m surrounded by friendly, chatty people, though the man who wants to talk to me about my impressions of Ethiopia probably shouldn’t have chosen an uphill stretch to do it. Where some races have hi-tech drizzle showers to cool you off, this one has a full-on garden hose. Most people stop to dance in its makeshift shower.

Way, way, too soon (something I have never thought in a race before, and suspect never will again) the 9km marker is in sight and it’s just the home stretch. The men’s winner, Atsedu Tsegay, finished a long time ago and is about to be presented with his trophy by Gebrselassie.

My finish time is six minutes slower than my personal best, but that’s irrelevant: this is the craziest race I’ve ever done and one of the best experiences of my life. As Haile eloquently puts it: “The best way to get rid of all stress and everything is to sweat a bit. It’s a kind of treatment.” And one that I would happily sign up to again.

Kate Carter for the Guardian