Category: Perspective

What Mandela means to me, a Zimbabwean

“S’khokhele Nkomo, s’khokhele Nkomo! S’khokhele Mandela, s’khokele Lorryhlahla!” (Lead us Nkomo, lead us! Lead us Mandela, lead us Rolihlahla!) we sang at the top of our squeaky voices. Up and down the maize field he made us march, brandishing our little hoes for Kalashnikovs. Our commander was my eldest brother Jabu and he did not tolerate slackers. No raspberry drink or a piece of bread for lazy “gorillas”, which is how we pronounced guerrillas. This was the early 1970s in our village in the then Selukwe District of Rhodesia. My young siblings and I had no idea who Joshua Nkomo and Nelson Mandela were, but they sounded and felt extremely important to big brother and our mum. She was an extremely shy woman. In fact, this was the only time I remember her ululating in public.

After the umpteenth denial of my favourite drink, I just had to ask: “But who is this Mandela? Isn’t Nkomo what we call our cattle?”

The shock on Jabu’s face was indescribable. How could I not know? These two men were going to free us. Free all of us black people.

“From what?” my junior primary school-going-self was not bound by anything.

“From all of this! All of this!”

His arm swept across the entire universe in front of us. I nodded my not-so-small head. That sounded simple enough. If anyone could liberate me from hoeing the maize, carrying firewood each Thursday and fetching water from the brook too early in the morning in June, then that was alright. Nkomo and Mandela peered at me every day from Jabu’s little notebook. They had to be kept hidden in case the police and our father discovered them. Father did not like any talk of politics in our family.

Then vice-president Joshua Nkomo greets Nelson Mandela on his arrival in Harare on February 13 1997. (Reuters)

Forward to the early 1980s. I was now in secondary school. The name Nkomo had become synonymous with political ‘dissidents’; bad losers who wanted to prevent the rest of Zimbabwe from enjoying their independence. The mass media said Nkomo was bad, our lecturers at university also said he was a dissident. Jabu had already given up asking Nkomo to lead us anywhere, and was focusing on his football career instead. It was said Nkomo was not the one who had led our armed struggle for independence and freed us Zimbabweans, but the other one. I had never heard of this other one in the 1970s. We certainly didn’t sing about him on mummy’s maize patch.

Mandela was still around though, this time in colour! There was his smiley face, with the trademark dharakishon (hair parting), on his head. I learnt he was in prison. Suffering to free the people of South Africa. A few dozen of them were in my class at the University of Zimbabwe. They told me their stories. Sechaba’s father had been killed in prison, Linda’s mum beaten to death after a demonstration, Hlubi’s brother believed kidnapped and or killed by the police.

I cried each time I watched a play put on by the drama department. I read the news, books and watched television shows about Mandela and the other freedom fighters all for myself. This time I could toyi-toyi with meaning, not just because I was afraid of missing out on raspberry juice. We marched in solidarity with the youth of South Africa on June 16. Mandela’s birthday was a key feature on my calendar. On Africa Day we held vigils in Africa Unity Square in Harare. On October 7 1988, I almost lost a limb pushing and shoving to get into the stadium for a human rights concert held to call for an end to apartheid. Bruce Springsteen, Tracy Chapman, Sting, Peter Gabriel and Youssou N’Dour performed. I voraciously read every speech and watched every bit of footage of Mandela’s wife, Winnie. I liked her wigs, which looked exactly like my mum’s. She spoke fearlessly. Beautifully. I admired her. Sometimes I forgot about Mandela; Winnie represented him.

We Zimbabweans closely followed the story of Mandela and apartheid, not just out of neighbourly curiosity. Zimbabwe supported the anti-apartheid movement, provided support and arms and gave refuge to ANC members. Just as others had done for us. As a result, there were several fatal bombings in Harare in the late 80s by South Africa’s apartheid government.

Mandela no longer felt as remote to me as he had back in my childhood. At last I began to appreciate what my brother had tried to teach me all those years ago. I rooted for Mandela and his people to achieve what we had in 1980. He was going to lead ‘us’, to freedom, and I felt led by him. The South was no longer another country.

He was released from prison on February 11 1990, a day before my 25^th birthday. There he was, just as I had imagined him, his face still as kind as I remembered. Winnie was at his side, in that wig! I did no work that day or the few days after that. I was free, too.

Nelson Mandela and his then wife Winnie raise their fists upon his release from prison on February 11 1990. (AFP)

Fast forward to the 21^st century. Nkomo has been dead since 1999, removed from this earth and largely airbrushed from history. He only gets dredged out when we need to use his name for present expediency.

And now, Mandela is gone. Each time I saw him and other older freedom struggle leaders of his generation on television, I simply thought of my dad who is now in his 80s. I wanted to rush and give them their bedroom slippers, a nice dressing gown, and a warm cup of cocoa. I am sure Mandela got that when he retired – unlike Nkomo who worked till he dropped, and others who don’t seem like they are ready for that warm cocoa yet.

I wish I had had the chance to sit on a cushion at Mandela’s feet and ask him: The Queen or Mrs Thatcher? What was with that hair cut? Boxing, seriously man? Did you miss Winnie? Otis Redding or Don Williams? Tambo or Sisulu, and don’t give me the political speak, which one did you really like? It would be just an ordinary conversation with an ordinary man who had extraordinary experiences.

I will always remember his kind face and his good leadership. (Reuters)

I think of Mandela, Nkomo and other men of their generation as reminders of where we have come from. I celebrate them, their often forgotten wives and their children. These men embodied our long and painful liberation struggles. They brought us this far, they’ve had their time. Mandela gracefully handed over the reins to the next generation and stepped away from public life over a decade ago, yet he will remain in my memory and consciousness forever. He gave me, a black Zimbabwean and African woman, something to hold on to; to believe in. He was a good leader. I will always remember him and speak of him in this way to my granddaughters when they grow up; casting him not as a man with mythical or saintly qualities, but a mere mortal like the rest of us. And I’m sure they won’t raise a quizzical eyebrow and ask: “Are you sure, Gogo? Did he really do all those things or are you exaggerating?”

I was freed from carrying firewood and fetching water from miles away and, thankfully, from toyi-toying on that barren maize patch! Thirty and some years later, the blood still rushes through my head each time I watch old footage of “gorillas” singing liberation songs. I get goose bumps when they sing “Sikhokele Nkomo! Sikhokele Rolihlahla”. When I sing it now, it’s still “Lorryhlala”, deliberately, for a good giggle. I doubt Mandela would mind.

Everjoice J. Win is a Zimbabwean feminist and writer.

12 years ago

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

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

12 years ago

Growing up with HIV: Jean’s story

Coming to terms with HIV has not been easy for 13-year old Jean. Shy and soft-spoken, he is not completely at ease with telling others about the complexities of growing up with HIV.

“When I learnt I was HIV positive, my mother’s big sister told me not to tell anyone because there are some people who, when they hear that you’re HIV positive, they don’t want to get close to you,” says Jean. “People here don’t know what HIV is and when they find out you are HIV positive, they don’t want to have anything to do with you.”

Having lost both his parents, Jean lives with his aunt in Abidjan, the largest city in Côte d’Ivoire. Here, adolescents aged 10 to 19 constitute a quarter of the total population and in 2012 they accounted for almost 10% of all new HIV infections in the country[1].

According to Dr Jean Konan Kouamé, an HIV specialist with Unicef in Côte d’Ivoire, such high infection rates can be attributed to “early sexual debut, ignorance about how HIV can be transmitted and limited access to HIV prevention and treatment services”.

According to recent data, 88% of the population has never taken an HIV test[2]. Dr. Kouamé believes that this is “because people do not know that if they know their HIV status they can access a treatment that allows them to live longer and healthy lives”.

Stigma associated with HIV is such that people living with the virus are reluctant to disclose their status even to their immediate family. For children going through the delicate transition to adolescence, this can result in isolation and loneliness, which makes it difficult to access care, treatment and support services available to them.

Jean came out of isolation when he met Cécile Traoré, a support worker with Femmes Actives, a non-governmental organisation (NGO) that provides support to children and women living with HIV. Cécile pays regular visits to Jean in his home. She checks whether he is taking his HIV medication correctly and simply lends him a friendly ear.

NGOs like Femmes Actives play a key role in supporting adolescents living with HIV and emphasising the importance of antiretroviral treatment. (Pic: Unicef)

“Adolescents need social, physiological and moral support, they need someone to confide in and share their life experiences with,” says Cécile. “It’s not easy to support an adolescent because they need to be monitored continuously, otherwise they let things go.”

With Cécile’s help, Jean joined a support group for children living with HIV. The group provides children with a safe space where they can share their experiences, learn life skills and forge new relationships.

“During the meeting, we’re asked questions, we draw, we talk about what’s going on in our lives and we are given advice,” says Jean. “I feel very good, I feel at ease because I’m with children who have the same HIV status as me.”

Watch an interview with Jean below

Adolescence is a difficult period of transition from childhood to adulthood that is characterised by physical and sexual maturation, movement toward social and economic independence, and development of identity.

Barriers to accessing health services
Health services in Côte d’Ivoire are not always equipped to provide care and support that takes into account the specific needs of adolescences living with HIV and that is why this age group is often left in limbo between child and adult care. Only a small proportion of adolescents who are long-term survivors born with HIV have access to antiretroviral treatment, and most receive it through limited numbers of specialised centres in urban and peri-urban settings.

Jean knows very well how difficult it can be to cope with the challenges of being a teenager living with HIV: “If a young person who is HIV positive has no one to support them, they need a lot of support from their family or an NGO, otherwise they are going to think a lot about negative stuff and stress about the fact that they have HIV,” he says.

NGOs like Femmes Actives play a key role in bridging this gap. Thanks to Cécile jean was able to gradually come to terms with his life as an adolescent living with HIV and learn the importance of adhering to antiretroviral treatment. Through the support group, he met other children with whom he can talk freely about common concerns in a non-judgmental environment.

However in Côte d’Ivoire and across the African continent, adolescents face many barriers to accessing health and support services and they are routinely neglected in national and global AIDS strategies.

Opportunities for greater success in reducing the impact of HIV on adolescents lie in increasing demand for, access to and uptake of key interventions. Barriers to access services must be removed, while the social and economic factors that increase adolescents’ vulnerability to HIV must be addressed. Only by making the most of these opportunities, an AIDS-free generation will be achieved.

Chiara Frisone is a communication consult with Unicef’s Africa Service Unit.

[1] Stocktaking Report on Children and AIDS. Unicef 2013

[2] Enquête Démographique et de Santé et à Indicateurs Multiples EDSCI-III. Côte d’Ivoire, 2011-2012. Ministère de la Santé et de la Lutte contre le Sida, Institut National de la Statistique, MEASURE DHS, ICF International.

12 years ago

On a mission to save Africa’s dying culture

An Africa with abundant resources, where you simply scatter seeds and harvest fruit, and everybody is a friend and a welcome guest. An Africa where stories are told under the stars and songs are sung around the fire, where beer is drunk and wisdom passed on to robust, hopeful young people. That is the Africa Stephen Rwangyezi (58), founder of Ndere Troupe, the biggest cultural group in Uganda, is trying to capture and preserve for generations to come.

Many times, it has been like trying to catch lightning in a bottle. In his quest to preserve culture, he has been thrown out of a wedding where he was scheduled to perform, he and other members of Ndere Troupe were scrapped off the programme list at a presidential event, and he was dubbed the devil by a reverend.

The Africa he seeks to show the world is one many cannot quite fathom. It is in sharp contrast with the images of desperation, hunger, poverty and a hopeless generation that can only pass on the culture of dependence.

“But we are blessed. Beautiful culture, lovely weather,” he says. “When my mother cooks, she always takes into account extra people who may visit unannounced. She can do this because everything in Africa is in abundance.”

Stephen Rwangyezi preaches African culture with conviction. (Pic: Samson Baranga)

Rwangyezi still vividly remembers the day he was called the devil. He tells the story with sad eyes. That day, he was attending the wedding of one of one of his mentees who once performed with Ndere Troupe. Coming from an indigent family and going through primary school only because of his ability to play the flute, Rwangyezi has a special relationship with the young people he trains. He selects those with underprivileged backgrounds and nurtures them in African performance while paying for their education in the best schools in the country. He says they are like sons and daughters to him.

So on this day when he was called the devil, he was really a father attending the wedding of one of his daughters. When she said “I do”, Rwangyezi played African drums that infuriated the reverend.

“Where is that devilish sound coming from?” he asked.

When her husband, an army man, said “I do”, his team played the brass band and the reverend said: “Now that is music!”

A deeply hurtful experience, no doubt. But Rwangyezi says it is hard to blame people like the reverend who preach the gospel of “the colonial church”, for Africa is suffering under cultural enslavement and the continent needs a new liberation. To Rwangyezi, cultural enslavement is even more dangerous than colonialism and slavery because it is perpetrated by African leaders.

“If the World Bank says it will not fund music on the curriculum, the announcement is made by our president. We are blind to the real forces behind.”

Rwangyezi’s mission is to change the notion that all things African are evil, backward and pagan. He has come a long way from 1984 – when he would perform for an audience of three – to travelling the world and being the face of Ugandan cultural music. He laments that Africans are fast adopting the ways of the west – western dress, western religion and western food – without stopping to think about whether or not it is good for them. On the other hand, Rwangyezi says, the western world is doing all it can to preserve its culture because they know how important cultural identity and pride is.

“Our children will never forgive us when they grow up and go to the diaspora and realise that they have no identity,” he says. “We are still slaves in our own land. We are growing tobacco but can you eat tobacco if there is famine? We grow it because the colonialists said so. We must think of ways to find ourselves again.”

An Africa with dilapidated museums, where local languages are forbidden in schools, culture and history is undocumented. An Africa where the young think success means long hair weaves and American SUVs. Rwangyezi is determined to rewrite this script.

“African music was only performed in the dark, now we are putting it on a bigger stage for the world to see,” he says. “We want to show that you can be educated and still appreciate culture. We are documenting African culture so that a Chinese can one day prepare kwon kal [millet bread] with the recipes we leave behind. So that you can know the name and origin of that African hairstyle you have.” He looks at my short, twisted nappy hair.

(Pic: Ndere.com)

Rwangyezi believes that teaching culture to the young is the key to transforming Africa.

“I saw my father not being as happy as he would have liked to be, restricted by civilisation,” he says of his upbringing. His father despised African music but his other relatives loved it. They encouraged him to pursue his passion and taught him African culture.

“I saw genuine happiness among these ‘backward’ and ‘primitive’ people. I saw fantastic music but I only saw it in the night. African music was never nurtured and allowed to grow in spite of its beauty,” he says nostalgically.

He preaches African culture with conviction, even if he did get married in a church. He laughs a little when I point this out, saying: “Culture is dynamic. I am wearing a suit even though I am a cultural practitioner.”

As our afternoon together comes to a close, a woman – one of his employees – approaches him, kneels down and whispers something. In some cultures in Uganda, women must kneel when speaking to elders and men. I ask him if he is not concerned about culture being on a collision course with human rights ideals like women equality, pointing out the African culture has been a mask for many evils like female genital mutilation and domestic violence.

“I would never support FGM or violence,” he says. “But when it comes to kneeling, it does not mean that the woman is inferior. Japanese are a world power, but don’t they bow? It is their identity. Culture grows and must be interpreted progressively.”

To Rwangyezi, the real threat to African culture is lack of government commitment and media that have failed to amplify cultural voices.