Renowned Guinea-Bissauan singer Eneida Marta speaks and sings spectacularly in nine native languages – Fula, Biafada, Bijago, Mandjak, Mankanya, Futa Fula, Balanta, Papel and Mandinga. She is well known for infusing her roots into each song, from the lyrics to the language to the instruments. Marta uses traditional instruments like the tchifre cow horn, the onomatopoeic bumbulum tree trunk drum and the tina (made from a wine barrel cut in two, immersed in water and played only by women). She has released three albums to date.
I woke up this morning to a strange sensation in my baby toe – a cross between an itch and a sting. On closer inspection, I noticed a transparent, pea-sized blister with a black dot in the middle. Living and working in some of the more dodgy areas of this wonderful continent, I am quite accustomed to insect bites and itches so I didn’t pay it much attention.
A few days later, my husband and close friend observed that they had similar ‘blisters’ on their toes. We had a group inspection in which we all spent a few minutes seated outside studying each other’s toes. Our investigation revealed that a) I still have blue paint on my feet from a project I worked on a few weeks ago; and b) our little blisters were identical: same colour, same size and the same strange sensation.
We called one of the local fishermen who was walking past and showed him our toes.
“Jigga Jigga Jigga!” he exclaimed. “You remove now before she gets more happy in your toe. She is not a good guest for your toe. You need to remove now.”
We decided that we did not want a non-paying guest staying in our feet and tried to find out how to remove them. We did a bit of research: these buggers are parasitic fleas called jiggers. They live in soil and sand and feed intermittently on warm-blooded hosts like cats, sheep and … our feet.
To reproduce, the female flea burrows head-first into the host’s (my/our) skin, leaving the tip of its abdomen visible through a tiny hole. This orifice allows the jigger to breathe and defecate while feeding on blood vessels! In the next two weeks, its abdomen swells with up eggs, which it releases through the hole to the ground to hatch and lie in wait for the next unsuspecting “host”. They need to be removed whole or they will spread.
Is that not the most disgusting thing you have ever heard?
The most fascinating discovery for me was that jiggers are a common and serious development issue in East Africa. A local NGO, Ahadi, is committed to creating jigger infestation awareness. Established in 2007, it has established 42 help centres in Kenya, and provides services like education, treatment, fumigation of homes and schools, and medication to hundreds of thousands of jigger-infected people. Without treatment, they can lose their ability to walk and work. Kids drop out of school, and stigmatisation and low self-esteem are common effects. There is also the risk of HIV being passed from person to person when needles used to remove these buggers are shared.
The more we read about jiggers the more we wanted to get rid of them, immediately.
In Kenya, there is “a guy” for everything you need. You want fresh octopus, you know “a guy” to call. You want to fix your roof, your toilet, your car, just call “a guy”. I was not surprised that there is a “”jigger guy” too. He was summoned.
He looked like Mr T, complete with the gold chain and signature haircut. He showed us how to remove the bugs. His method involved using a pin and blade to cut a circle around the infected area. He then lifted the skin off, somehow it gave without much hassle. Suddenly, the white egg sack was visible. He carefully dug out and removed the sack without piercing or damaging it. It is bloody sore and left a pea-sized hole in my toe. He made me bite down on a chapatti while he did it. I guess this is a form of Kenyan anaesthesia I had not heard of before.
A health worker at the Good Life Orphanage in Kenya treats a child’s jigger-infected toe. (Flickr/The Good Life Orphanage)
Mr T had to leave after performing my surgery. He was quiet throughout my mini operation, and as he left he said: “Now you see me do it, now you can do the rest. Just do.”
Just do. With those words, I became the designated jigga removal service provider. I had my two patients bite down on a chapatti and attempted the same procedure on them. Since it was dark I did it with a head light and the torch on my phone. Cut circle, lift skin, remove sack (try not to let the eggs spread all over), clean, cover. Easy breezy.
I am pleased to report that I removed both egg sacks intact. It felt like quite an accomplishment.
This is why I love Kenya and my continent. It is constantly schooling me in lessons I would never receive anywhere else. There are lessons of survival everywhere – even under my toe.
Bash, from South Africa, is a freelance project development analyst based on the south coast of Kenya. She spends most of her time snorkelling, is obsessed with giraffes, has too many tattoos and loves traveling. She misses Nik Naks and Mrs Balls chutney.
Christie Brown is a Ghanaian-based luxury women’s fashion label aimed at the contemporary African woman. It was founded in March 2008 by creative director Aisha Obuobi and named after her grandmother Christie Brown, a talented seamstress.
Obuobi’s creations extend from bespoke gowns to statement pieces to accessories, all inspired by African culture and art.
They’ve featured on the runways of Africa Fashion Week and Paris Fashion Week, and in the pages of Vogue Italia, Harper’s Bazaar, Black Hair and Glamour.
Obuobi worked with tie-dye and batik for her latest collection, Resort 2013. It’s flirtatious, whimsical and part of a collaboration with Grace of Grazia Fabrics, who has built a 20-year-old batik/tie-dye business.
As we walked down a street in Grahamstown recently after a long day of learning about the fundamentals of social accountability, I observed my companion tracking the women around us on campus with his eyes. They were flaunting carefully selected fashion-conscious outfits. Bountiful pear shapes were hugged by skinny jeans and stretchy colour-block dresses that swished to the rhythm of their gait. There really are few things more delightful than the sight of a woman flouncing about in an outfit that makes her glow with confidence.
“No wonder the rate of rape is so high in this country,” he said. Just like that, my bubble of enjoyment burst. My own invisible blanket of security shriveled in the cool, sunny air. Danger lurked everywhere and male menace strode right next to me, ruining a pleasant stroll. What had just happened?
A lot of ink has been spilled over the politics of hair for women of African descent. There are basic conventions to follow. Every morning as I wrestle my fierce afro into submission with the help of coconut oil and a Black Power metal-toothed comb, there is no confusion in my mind as to what it will communicate to the world at large. But when it comes to selecting an outfit, I find the social calculations harder to make. The fact that nudity is not an option is vexing enough. Figuring out where the lines of propriety lie in new situations can give me conniptions.
Every day I face the gauntlet of choices about depilating and deodorising and re-odourising and taming my natural curves. Absolutely no detection of my menstrual cycle is allowed in public, hence a battery of products to manage the regular shedding of my uterus lining. Restrictive garments for the bits that move when left loose, and outer garments to conceal whichever parts of me are out of public favor. Shoes heightened to tilt my hips back and thrust my bra-shaped tits forward – often paired with items that, confusingly enough, help me maintain the requisite amount of sexual aloofness. We haven’t even talked accessories yet.
And woe betide me if I get the balance wrong. If my skirt is too short for the social gathering it will say the wrong things about my sexual mores, and if it is too long it will still say the wrong things about my sexual mores. How long a hem does a girl need to attract the attentions of the right kind of guy? Is it three-inch heels for “I’m ready to settle down in a spiritual union if you are” and nine-inch heels for “bring the whiskey, I’ve got the handcuffs and we can take turns playing the naughty police officer”? Or is it other way around? I forget.
But most importantly: what’s the rape signal, exactly? Because I would hate to send a “please attack me, traumatise me, and destroy a part of my soul” signal by mistake when I only meant to say “it’s a little hot today”. Maybe I should have asked my companion on our walk. The weight of male irresponsibility that women’s garments are made to bear is heinous, and it is depressing how the threat of sexual violence is used to enforce the rather restrictive concept of female respectability.
A protester at a Slut Walk march held on September 24 2011 in Johannesburg. The Slut Walk initiative serves to protest against the perception that the way a woman dresses can justify rape and sexual violence. (Gallo)
Since I choose to believe that the roots of this “respectability” business are firmly planted in patriarchal fears of the sacred feminine, among other things, I put some effort into avoiding its strictures. My home, Dar-es-Salaam, is cosmopolitan, the beneficiary of centuries of cultural intercourse, and it shows in the range of ways residents choose to dress. There is plenty of secular space to work in, even if we have to make allowances for our Muslim sensibility and our Bantu Christian conservatism.
The default rule in the performance of respectability is that the more you cover, the higher you score. In a city where the humidity rarely drops below sticky and the heat ranges between miserable and suffocating, one must employ a little sense when selecting a daily outfit. It can be hard not to resent the shirtless men cooling off their skin whenever they please, but since most of them work in physically demanding jobs there are visual compensations.
Years of navigating and negotiating Dar’s particular combination of expectations has taught me that it comes down to the nuances of a given environment or, more specifically, the weight that is accorded to the male gaze, even in women-only spaces. Not enough ink has been spilled over the politics of dress for women of African descent, at least none that avoids the profit-seeking of the fashion industry on one hand and the sexists on the other. Figuring out where the lines of propriety lie in new situations might be challenging, but I can’t help but be fascinated by the political aspect of it.
There are benefits to mastery, the primary one being physical safety. I like to think that I have become a seasoned politician in this arena. Although a nudity-embracing society remains the unattainable ideal, I do enjoy a wardrobe that includes neck-to-feet gowns, plunging necklines and a little red string bikini that I am rather fond of – all without incident so far. For the most part all is well with the world except for those times when I stray outside the familiar, and a handy chauvinist reminds me that the lines of propriety have shifted, giving me the horrors in pretty little Grahamstown.
Elsie Eyakuze is a freelance consultant in print and online media from Tanzania, working mainly in the development sector. She blogs at mikochenireport.blogspot.com. Connect with her on Twitter.
Celebrated photographer Andrew Tshabangu speaks to the Mail & Guardian about collaborating with Rene-Paul Savignan on a powerful project to document the diversity of spiritual practices on Réunion Island and in South Africa.
