Repression and Purity Culture

The Victorian Era has been primarily depicted as repressed and sexually repressive. However, in his book, ‘The History of Sexuality,’ Michael Foucault believes that the Victorian Era was not sexually repressive but was obsessed with sex. They found new ways to have discourses around sex. People in the Victorian Era found new mechanisms to talk about sex. Foucault’s critical argument is that during the Victorian era, there was a transition from a prohibition of discussion of sex to a classification and classification, categorization, and medicalization of sexual behaviors and identities. He argues that this shift had profound implications for how individuals experienced and understood their sexuality and how society sought to regulate and control it.

Power and knowledge are deeply intertwined. Those in power decide what is considered normal or deviant behavior. Power has often been in the hands of the Christian church, which views men as inherently more powerful than women, requires women to be more submissive, and, to an extent, objectifies women. Additionally, this power means we view heterosexuality as the only default and anything other than that a deviation and, in the eyes of the church, as a “sin” or “workings of the devil.” Hence, to argue that discussions around sex were not repressed in the Victorian era or now is a fallacy. Sexual repression dictated how we can and cannot talk about sex. The impacts of sexual repression are felt till now. In the Victorian Era, virtue and virginity were synonymous. A woman who lost her virginity outside of marriage—regardless of the circumstances surrounding that loss–was ruined. This idea is alive in the form of purity culture, which upholds that a woman’s value, worth, and place are based on how she expresses herself sexually, implying “purity” is her only value. Despite the ease with which information flows, sex and sexuality are still discussed in hush tones. It is believed that the knowledge of sex and sexuality belongs to religious leaders. They have the power to bless a matrimonial union. They dictate who can and cannot get married. Due to the secrecy around sex, many youth learn about sex from their peers or pornographic content, which are unreliable sources. Teenagers are often exposed to violent and coercive pornographic material, which often misses critical points of sex, such as consent.

I have many qualms with the Kenyan education system, and one of them is the sex education or lack thereof. One of the few times sex and reproduction were brought up is in the Class 6 Science textbook, where we spent most of it understanding the biological functions of sexual organs. This topic has been viewed as a taboo and has been left to those in power. While we might want to believe those in power are looking out for the children’s well-being, this is not always the case. The way some of my teachers talked to us about sex was borderline traumatic, and I do not use this word lightly. There was a significant emphasis on staying pure, and the main reason to stay pure was not because of the love you have for your religion but rather your future husband. Euphemisms such as “broken goods” were used to refer to women suspected of engaging in premarital sex. This is what would be referred to as purity culture. Purity culture is a set of beliefs, norms, and practices that emphasize maintaining sexual purity and chastity, often within a religious or cultural context. It typically revolves around the importance of abstinence before marriage and promotes conservative attitudes toward sex and sexuality. Purity culture significantly emphasizes traditional gender roles and expectations, particularly regarding women and their behavior.

The implications of purity culture include considerable pressure on women to behave in a certain way to be desired within the workings of the patriarchy due to the power imbalance between men and women in sex. At the same time, we have found new ways to discuss sex. The euphemisms we use to have discourses around sex are inherently harmful to cishet heterosexual women. Examples include “no one wants to drive a car with high mileage” or “Who will purchase a cow if you can get the milk for free.” These comparisons drive one point home: one must remain chaste until marriage. However, society does not judge men harshly for engaging in sex before marriage, and this is due to their power. Purity culture has tainted sex as purely transactional, something women do not gain much from compared to men.

The need to stay chaste also meant refraining from making men “stumble.” Crop tops and shorts on barely prepubescent bodies made grown men “stumble” instead of the church holding young boys and men accountable. The responsibility was shifted to girls and women. How we dress and behave has been scrutinized to ensure men do not “stumble” and to ensure we stay chaste. Our worth is derived from whether we are pure or not. These ideologies are harmful. Purity culture fails to address consent and treats victims of sexual assault as perpetrators of a sin. Sexual assault is an intricate matter as is; adding the complexity of purity culture intensifies victim-blaming.

Purity culture is alive and well. Until we start having candid discussions around sex and sexuality, without euphemisms or weird analogies, it shall continue to live on, and we shall continue to feel its ravages.

Boy Empowerment: The Rebrand of the Patriarchy

Photo courtesy of Wangechi Mutu ‘The Feminist Challenge’ at MoMA

The Second Lady of Kenya, Dorcas Gachagua, announced plans to introduce ‘boy-child empowerment programs’ nationwide. Mrs. Dorcas Gachugua emphasized, “We cannot afford to lose a generation of our young men. We have to take them to rehabilitation centers where they can get the assistance they so badly need.” Additionally, the former Cabinet Secretary for Public Service and Gender, Professor Margaret Kobia, echoed similar sentiments to the second lady, and society has given the girl child a lot of focus, forgetting the boys, a thing she said needs rectification. The former Cabinet Secretary mentioned that the government is mainly concerned with the turn of events in schools where many boys did not report back after the government opened the learning intuitions following the March 2020 closure prompted by Covid-19. According to statistics from the National Gender and Equality Commission (NGEC), many believe the boy child has been neglected. Social media users agreed with the stance of the Second Lady and argued that girl empowerment programs have led to the neglect of the boy child. 

Girl empowerment was started with an effort to combat patriarchy. Girl empowerment refers to accepting women’s viewpoints, seeking them, and raising the status of women and girls through education, awareness, literacy, and training. Girl’s empowerment equips and allows girls to make life-determining decisions through the different societal problems; they may have the opportunity to redefine gender roles and other such roles, which enable them to have more freedom to pursue desired goals For decades, girls have been denied opportunities such as education and employment because of their gender. It was deemed necessary by various nations to ensure girls all over the world could access the same fundamental rights as everyone else. Additionally, girl empowerment in Kenya has been trying to combat issues such as teenage pregnancies, period poverty, child marriage, and female genital mutilation (FGM). According to Menstrual Hygiene Day, 65% of Kenyan women and girls cannot afford essential sanitary pads.

Consequently, girls often rely on men in their lives for period products. Some girls engage in transactional sex to secure sanitary products, perpetuating a patriarchal cycle of reliance and exploitation. Kenya ditched the pink tax on menstrual products in 2004. Former President Uhuru Kenyatta signed into law in 2017 that shifts the burden of covering the cost of periods from families and girls to the government; the pandemic heavily disrupted this program, and the logistics of free sanitary towels were never discussed in detail. 

Boy empowerment programs seem to provide an alternative definition of masculinity, some trying to ensure that men can speak openly about their emotions and have access to mentors. However, despite the majority of suicide victims being men, this does not seem to concern many boy-child activists; many have qualms about men lacking courage and being “sidelined by women” and women occupying roles that were traditionally meant for men. Many of the people who have been at the forefront of advocating for boy child empowerment programs cite that more girls have sat for the Kenya Certificate of Secondary Education than boys. The Ministry of Education shows that in 2019 and 2020, more females than males sat for the Kenya Certificate of Secondary Education examination in Kiambu. In 2019, 15,997 girls took the exam against 14,903 boys. In 2020, the numbers stood at 16,952 and 16,037, respectively. While this argument may be valid, it lacks nuance and analysis. A quick look at Kenya’s census data shows that the sex ratio in Kenya in 2021 is 98.77 males per 100 females. This means that the number of girls registering to sit for national examinations will tend to be higher than that of boys assuming all other factors remain constant. 

Additionally, ‘boy-child activists’ have argued that the lack of empowerment of the boy-child has led to a prevalence of single mothers and unmarried women as women cannot find equally empowered men. This sentiment has a lot of sexist undertones to it. Incompetent men do not exist because of the empowerment of the girl child; they exist because of the patriarchy. The portrayal of single mothers as a bad thing is disgusting. I believe that as long as a parent can emotionally, physically, and financially provide for their child, it should not matter whether the child has one parental figure or ten. The disdain for single mothers is rooted in patriarchal gender norms. Many of these so-called boy child activists cannot grasp the idea of women being able to financially and emotionally provide for their children. The NGEC argues that the kind of upbringing the boys are getting is a contributing factor. NGEC says, “In a family where the father is often absent from home or is alcoholic, boys lack role models and parental guidance, affecting their development and behavior.” This upbringing that boys receive has nothing to do with girl empowerment but the patriarchy. When one comes from a position of privilege, equality feels like an injustice, and the reaction of boy child activists proves this. It is an active call to ensure we have traditional gender roles. 

Let us call a spade a spade. These self-proclaimed boy activists are not interested in the boy-child’s wellbeing but in restoring the patriarchy. The challenges they pinpointed are all due to the patriarchy or socioeconomic status. Boys are not denied employment or education opportunities because of their gender but because of socioeconomic status. If you truly wanted to address the boy child’s challenges, you would realize that you are not fighting against girl empowerment but the patriarchy. Boys do not express their emotions because we as a society have taught them that is a sign of weakness and they need to be providers. This is rooted in the patriarchy. Boy child activism is an active rebrand of the patriarchy. Take a minute to understand the problems that the boy child is facing instead of playing blame games. We all have a role to play in achieving true gender equality.

Tales of Printech Avenue

I am listening to Selima’s performance for graduation. I must say this performance blew me away. She has always been a talented singer and songwriter(I am waiting for her to release her songs on streaming platforms, but for now, we will listen to her glorious voice on Instagram). I think the song blew me away because this was the last time I would listen to her performance in the auditorium as a student. Now I am in Nairobi, Kenya. It is cold but not as awful as Johannesburg, South Africa. It has been exactly two weeks since I graduated from the African Leadership Academy (ALA). I graduated from the academy’s two-year pre-university program geared toward developing the next generation of African Leaders. Graduation left a bittersweet feeling in my mouth. I was excited to see my friends and peers in their robes as we celebrated our triumph despite the difficulties it took us to get to graduation; however, I could not withstand the pain of saying goodbye. 

One of my favourite books is ‘Turtles All The Way Down’ by John Green. In this book, he says no one ever says goodbye unless they want to see you again. As I bid goodbye to my friends with whom I had spent the last two years, I was uncertain when I would see them again. The uncertainty brought me great anguish and pain on the days leading to graduation. The pain became more evident as I hugged my friends goodbye. We would cling to each other, not wanting to let go because we were uncertain when we would see each other again. My makeup withstood the test of tears, partially surprised that I did not have mascara and eyeliner running down my face as we cried on this supposed happy day, graduation. 

It feels like yesterday that I touched down in OR Tambo Johannesburg, South Africa; excited to go to campus on Printech Avenue, which is 4060 kilometers away from home. I still do not know how my parents agreed to me studying outside the country. To say I am fragile is an understatement. My parents have seen me struggle with my health since 2016. What can I say? I am chronically ill. I told them about this school based in Johannesburg that wanted to create the next generation of African Leaders. I told them that I was not considering a career in politics and wanted to change the healthcare sector in Kenya. I wanted to ensure free and accessible healthcare for Kenyans. I wanted to foster medical research within the continent. Maybe I was the next Thomas Sankara (except for the assassination). My parents saw my passion and my dedication. I remember how nervous I felt while submitting my application. I remember the excitement when I received my admission email. It was not yesterday, but it sure feels that way. 

We were meant to arrive on campus in September of 2020, but we were in the middle of a global pandemic, and numerous travel restrictions were in place; hence we had the infamous virtual term. Everything was online. Here I was, on Zoom calls with strangers every Tuesday. I barely knew these people. How was I to make friends at Printech? If some of the debates on the Whatsapp group chat were a reflection of the people here, did I make the right call? Slowly but surely, I made connections on Whatsapp from Gabarone, Botswana, to Casablanca, Morocco. We made it work during those tumultuous times from one Zoom call to another. 

When ALA says it is a diverse place, they are not lying. Genuinely, the diversity within the school is one to die for. However, diversity is one of the hardest things to live with but the most dangerous to live without. I met people who had a completely different upbringing from me. I met people who stood for everything I stood against, yet I was meant to coexist with them. The first seminal readings proved to be a test of patience as we would spend three days reading and discussing texts. It was all fun and games till there was a controversial reading. It could be one on feminism or religion or apartheid, but things would be said then a conflict would arise. 

I was raised a staunch feminist. I do not think my parents would describe themselves as such, but they taught me my voice deserved to be heard. They taught me that my gender did not define my roles. It led to this warped view of the world that everyone would treat me this way. I was wrong. I had encountered sprinkles of sexism here and there. Some crazy patriarchal ideals here and there, but when you meet this in a boarding school miles away from home from someone from a different country? It makes you realize the gravity of the issue. Printech taught me that I could respectfully disagree with someone. It taught me that because we have all been brought up with different ideals, you must be patient and willing to listen. I learned how to listen to understand and not to listen to respond. Listening to respond is a hobby of every debater but not a valuable skill set at Printech Avenue. Sometimes if it is not an issue about human rights, then agree to disagree, e.g., Kenyans have nonexistent spice tolerance. 

Printech Avenue was nothing short of character development. If ALA changes its mission, it should be home to character development. Every week I had some new form of character development. One being sometimes things do not go as planned. Before being accepted at ALA, I knew what extracurricular activities I wanted to be part of and what role I would play in each of the said extracurricular activities. Initially, I wanted to be Conference Chairperson of the African Leadership Academy Model African Union then the position of Director General seemed more appealing. From the moment I got accepted, I aligned myself for this role, and lo and behold, when I was given a position I had never declared interest in. The actual character development kicked in when some people I worked with never responded to emails or came for meetings. They redefined inefficiency.  I ended up in consulting agency as my student enterprise. That is too long of a story, but it built character and stories to tell friends over meals and storytime videos for YouTube. The academic rigour also built character. The number of times I left exam rooms laughing because I had written rubbish is ludicrous. My character has much more flavour. 

If I had a shilling for every time I heard the word purpose at ALA, I would not be affected by the rising oil prices. Were you indeed at Printech if you were not asked what your purpose is? I came into ALA knowing my purpose was to change the healthcare sector in Kenya, and I leave ALA with that as part of my purpose. I am passionate about healthcare and care for gender equality, research, and mental health. These have all been incorporated into my purpose. 

One of my friend’s yearbook quotes was ‘Authenticity Above All.’ It’s hard being genuine, but it is harder pretending to be someone you are not. Printech taught me that I needed to be my true self. Being your authentic self does not mean being a bigot or being discriminatory. They are not the same. It means sticking up for what you know is right. It means avoiding doing things to please people. 

Graduation was a reminder of the tales of Printech Avenue.

Epilepsy is not a dirty word

I’ve been touched, touched by the hand of the devil. 

They say it’s a sign of evil. 

Some call me “special” 

Some call me “God’s strongest soldier”

Some call me “resilient”

None of these are true. I’m not strong, nor resilient, nor God’s strongest soldier. 

My brain just has powerful waves. Strong enough to power the African continent. Waves strong enough to make me dissociate, making my muscles relax and contract. Strong enough that I fall and have no recollection of the moment. Strong enough that I lose control. 

But I’m a prisoner of my brain. It might kill me, it might not. Will I be the 1 in 1000? They call it epilepsy. Maybe that’s why they call me special. Maybe that’s why they say I’m strong. Maybe that’s why they say I’m God’s strongest soldier. 

But I’m not special, I’m epileptic. 

Some look at me as though I am cursed.

Scared of my mere muscle contractions.

Scared of my powerful waves.

It’s not a curse.

It’s not witchcraft.

It is epilepsy.

When I say I have epilepsy,

Some run away from me as if I have leprosy,

They fear the word,

As if it was cursed.

Tell me, do people like me make you pray and thank God for your health thinking it could have been worse.

Tell me, does the fear of this curse make you recite a verse?

Blank stare

Head movements whilst on the chair

Muscle contraction whilst playing Solitaire,

Still very aware.

It is epilepsy.

Epilepsy is not a dirty word.

That’s On Menstruation

Life is filled with many firsts. Your first day in school, your first wish, your first love, your first steps. In so many ways, this is what makes life beautiful. I don’t recall my first steps nor my first words, but I believe the person who witnessed these does. Maybe they filmed the moment, which I highly doubt, or they were filled with immense joy. I remember most of my firsts, like my first day in nursery. I had worn a green checked tunic dress; my hair was plaited into neat cornrows and adorned with beads. I remember my mother dropping me; I remember only accepting to leave the car if she came to pick me up. I believe I had my first heartbreak when she did not pick me up and I was informed I would be going home with the school bus. Like any typical four-year-old, I rolled on the floor, crying and refusing to enter the bus, citing my mom was going to pick me up. They had to call her to speak to me, which is when I agreed to go on the school bus. I was an obstinate child; I do not think this persisted into my teen years.

Like many firsts, I still recall my first period. It was mid-November of 2013. I had gone to the school washrooms to pee when I noticed a small bloodstain. I knew what it meant, partly because it was in the Class Six Science textbook. I had started reading for the next academic year and partly because of the teachers who would traumatize us as they would speak of changes during adolescence. They would describe adolescence as this demon that changed who you were. The girls whose hips had widened were often chastised over their school dresses. Adolescence was synonymous with misbehavior extremely high chances of falling off and becoming a teen mom. Adolescence was where one apparently became distant from their dads. I remember one teacher who told us girls usually perform well until Class Six; then they fall off the rail because their attention shifts to boys. I was hoping it was not my period. I thought maybe it was a one-off thing. I wished I had eaten contaminated food, and perhaps it was hookworms may be an infection whereby parasites had found a way into my bladder. I just hoped it was not my period.

I went home, and I did not mention this incident to anyone. I whispered a silent prayer that my periods would not come back. My prayers were unheard. My mother got wind of this as I had stained my baby pink towel. My mother was gentle and reassuring. She gave me a pack of ‘Always’ pads and showed me how to use them. My period was extremely irregular initially – of course, I panicked when I saw my period after two weeks. My mom explained to me that periods could be irregular for the first two years. Despite the support I received from my mom, I felt as though this was something that I ought to be ashamed of.

I was amongst the early bloomers, something I was highly embarrassed about. I still remember science classes in Class Six when we discussed menstruation. There were giggles here and there as our science teacher mentioned changes during puberty. I remember girls being scolded in shorts showed their ‘physique,’ so the wrapper skirt became our best friends. We had various euphemisms for periods. No one dared use the word period. The few bold ones would whisper it to their friends. The common euphemisms were “Aunty Flo is visiting” or “It is the blue moon”. A skill that I perfected during this time was hiding pads. Pads had this loud and annoying sound that could signal that you have started your period to the entire school. Moreover, you did not want your male counterparts to see the pad wrappers. You could also not leave class with your entire school bag to change your pad. We learned how to sneak pads in and out of class. We learned how to give pads to our friends without anyone else noticing.

I have had the misfortune of my period leaking onto my clothes. In a school where the patriarchy had many in a chokehold, and we did not know any better, we would be disgusted. We would wrap our sweaters around our waists. We would whisper to a trusted teacher who would be of help. We would often be told that not everyone must know that we were on our periods. These were words that would be told to 11 to 14-year-olds. Truly, the devil works hard, but the patriarchy works harder. We were taught to be embarrassed about a natural process we had no control over. Menstruation was synonymous with sexual maturity. Teachers prophesied how girls would begin to underperform and take over the boys.

It took a lot of effort to unlearn these harmful ideologies that were indoctrinated into me. I realized periods are nothing to be ashamed about. I have no issue saying I have cramps. I am no longer afraid to walk with sanitary towels with my hand. When my next period comes, I will not use euphemisms for it. I will not apologize if I stain my clothing. I will not apologize for my weird cravings. There is nothing to be sorry about and there is nothing to be embarrassed about. That is on period (get it?)

A not-so-normal time

As I write this, it is currently 10:04 pm East African Time; I am sipping warm white tea, Kericho Gold specifically. The ratio of the tea leaves to sugar to milk is perfection. Making chai is truly an art. Despite it being about 20 degrees Celsius, I have decided to enjoy this warm drink. Never in my life did I think I would be complaining that 20 degrees Celsius is too hot. Having been away from Kisumu for almost six months in Johannesburg, I have no idea how I lived in this weather. Today is the first day of 2022, and I am cautiously optimistic about 2022. New Year and New Year’s Eve are my favorite holidays. I get to spend time with family. I tend to reflect on the previous year and make plans/wishes for the coming year. However, I did not do any of that. I did not light any fireworks to celebrate the new year. I did not spend it with family. I was in my room in the dark as I waited for the clock to strike at 11:59 pm. We celebrated New Year’s in a not-so-normal way but in all honesty, what has been normal about the last two years? 

I was one of the many people who had been excited about 2020. My 2019 had been horrendous. 2020 promised me new beginnings, happiness, and success. January and February of 2020 had been so kind to me. I am not romanticizing those two months in any form or shape. I did have a few bad moments but January and February had been so kind to me. I was ecstatic about March; I was meant to travel to New York. Flights had been booked, visas had been secured, and so had accommodation. I was excited to meet my fellow Three Dot Dash Global Teen Leaders. I kept on listening to ‘Empire State Building’ by Alicia Keys and Jay Z. I loved the song when I was younger, and I was finally going to New York; I was going to see Times Square. I spoke little about the trip to others, fearing I would jinx it. 

I had heard about Covid-19. The disease originated from Wuhan, China. This was not the first coronavirus we would be dealing with. We survived the SARS (Severe Acquired Respiratory Syndrome) outbreak of 2003. We had survived MERS (Middle East Respiratory Syndrome). I knew the deaths and infections from Covid-19 would be less than SARS. I was wrong. Maybe I was misguided or I was trying to be optimistic. I thought World War 3 would ruin 2020 before Covid-19. I was wrong. 

I remember the day Kenya reported the first case of Covid-19. I was from an exam. A friend informed me. I pulled out my laptop and checked the news. I went home hoping for the best. The president made an address that evening and after that my life has not been the same. 

Two weeks. We thought it would be two weeks only. In this short time, I joined Tiktok, made Dalgona coffee, and of course started doing Chloe Ting workouts. Two weeks became two months, and two months has now become two years. I never got to go to New York. I did not move to South Africa until 2021. I did not celebrate my eighteenth birthday. I always thought I would have a grand eighteenth birthday party. I had spent eons curating the perfect Pinterest board. I would often daydream about my birthday party, I thought of venues to host the party and the dress I would wear. I even had an invite list. Instead, I spent my birthday in my room eating pancakes. This is definitely not what the coming-of-age movies promised me. They promised me an out-of-the-world experience. They promised me an emotional goodbye to my classmates. I never got to say goodbye. 

Time was of the essence. Zoom, Microsoft Teams, and Skype quickly became our best friends. I saw my screen time rocket from 3 hours a day to a staggering 10 hours a day. Instagram calls soon replaced coffee dates. I saw people lose their jobs. I saw people struggle to provide for their families. I saw people hooked onto ventilators. I saw people lose their lives to Covid-19. I saw suicide rates increase. I saw my mental health depreciate. 

By June 2020, my mental health was hanging by a thread. I was not doing well in isolation. I cried during the night. My insomnia got worse. I struggled to get out of bed as I had no motivation. From my room, I could hear the sound of CNN from the sitting room. I could hear the depressing statistics of the pandemic. At 4 pm, I would listen to the Health CS of Kenya announce the statistics. I hoped for a miracle amidst all of this, but there was none in sight. I went for therapy; I knew I needed it. I would do everything in my power to ensure I do not catch the virus. I would wear my trusty N95 or KN95. I would soak my hands in sanitizer. That was what I had to do to go for therapy. 

By the end of 2020, I did not want to see another Zoom invite. We had hopes 2021 would miraculously take away our problems, especially after the vaccine announcement. I could not wait to be eligible for the vaccine. 2021 came, it was very similar to 2020, except I was now schooling and living in South Africa, and most of my classes were in-person except for Chemistry. Online Chemistry is not for the weak, trust me. The first time I got to leave campus was exciting. After three long months on campus, we essentially lived in a bubble. I had gone to see a historical site, Maropeng Caves. The pandemic had taken away my generation’s ability to truly live. 

 I am grateful that the school did shield me from some of the realities of the pandemic because the students did not leave campus, we were able to have in-person classes. We were able to have some school events following the school’s and South Africa’s Covid-19 protocol. We wore masks and practiced social distancing. This pandemic has taught me how to appreciate seeing someone’s face without a mask. I do not know if there is an adjective for that feeling. Black surgical masks became a fav because I could wear them with any outfit. Masks have become a fashion piece; they come in different colors and various texts. I will invest in a lovely black silk or satin mask (of course, I would double mask). I will wear my satin masks on days I wear fancy dresses. In 2021, I got fully vaccinated and did several PCR tests. I still hate the feeling of a swab in my nose. I don’t think I will ever get used to that.

As I look back at the last two years, I cannot help but feel grief. It is as though I lost something that I know I will never recover. I believe we all share this feeling of grief and loss. This pandemic took away something from everyone; for some, it is loved ones; for some, it is a source of income; for some, it is their youth. I do not think I want to return back to normal. Normal was gruesome. Normal was exploitative of people. Normal was a bigot. Normal did not allow us to criticize our society and change it. I also do not want to live in this pandemic. In 2022 I want it to get better; I want us to recover from the loss of the last two years. I want us to find joy. I want us to truly live.

Yaka’s Daughter

“Your daughter is aggressive. I believe if she toned down, she would make a better leader.”

These were the words uttered to my parents during the parent-teacher conference. This statement haunted me for years.

Aggressive. 

A word that haunts me to date. This has been a word that has been used to describe me for so long, it feels like my middle name. Considering I was twelve, I did not quite understand why my teacher would constantly describe me like this yet when my male counterparts spoke out, they were described as assertive. They would be told they would be the next president of Kenya, yet, when I would speak my mind, I was a problem. I needed to be more soft-spoken. More gentle. More lady-like.  

My true self could not exist in school. 

I remember walking along the pavement on Al-Imran Plaza in Kisumu’s CBD. The front of my t-shirt was written ‘AGA KHAN PRIMARY SCHOOL’ and the back of my t-shirt was written ‘ROSE’ which was the house I was in. A loud and indelicate whistle summoned my attention. I paced faster. “Mrembo, uko na rasa poa (Beautiful, you have nice buttocks). There were in a crowd. It triggered the primal flight reaction or something of the sort; a massive dose of adrenaline shot up my body, my heartbeat accelerated and fear took over. I had just started puberty and the gaze of men old enough to be my father made me uncomfortable. My body would recoil. I would be so revolted. I was not meant to complain about these instances as apparently, this was men appreciating my beauty. 

Do not walk alone in public.

It is 9 PM, the news is airing. 

“Female Moi University student hacked to death by boyfriend.”

The silence in the living room is deafening. To distract myself, I picked up my phone and scrolled through Twitter. The nation is devastated but not devastated enough to blame the boyfriend. Somehow it was her fault. It was her fault for having a boyfriend. It was her fault that she was hacked to death. Women in Kenya face the risk of femicide, was I next? Was I a walking statistic? 

I always felt my brothers had much more freedom than me. They were allowed to walk outside alone. They could go to their friends’ houses alone. I, on the other hand, had to go with someone even if it was my friend who lived five minutes away. I was livid. Why could I not leave the house alone? Even when jogging someone had to go with me? I had a conversation with one of my brothers. I told him I thought our parents mistrusted me and that it was not fair that they had much more freedom. Contrary to my belief, my parents actually trusted me.

“You know it’s because you are a girl,” he said. I stared at him intensely waiting for him to expound on his point. “The world is dangerous so our parents are just trying to protect you.”

This is when it all clicked. 

I am female.

As a woman, I know the world was not designed for me. My own existence challenges the patriarchy.  I did try to tone down but my mother did not recognize the stranger who slept in her house. She told me stories of how her grandmother would protect her from boys who would want to beat her up because she was first in class. She told me stories of always being the only woman in her department. How somehow they assumed she would not be competent at work because she desired to be with her children more. She raised five children, attended swimming galas, and then a class after. She would spend an hour or two with her spreadsheets ensuring everything is near perfection. She would tuck me in bed and cuddle me to sleep. Yaka does not know of gender norms. She does not ascribe to them and neither do her children. She taught us to be inquisitive, to speak our minds, to be confident, to be leaders. She created the patriarchy’s worst nightmare.  Hence I am Assertive, not aggressive. I am Passionate, not emotional. I am Yaka’s Daughter.

I am from

I am from crystal glass teacups reserved for visitors,

From Kericho Gold and Supa Loaf,

I am from the wide cooled veranda

(Protected using white grills cleaned with Jik religiously every Saturday to prevent a burglar from entering or worse the hyper child hurting herself )

I am from the osuga  in the backyard garden,

It has an astringent taste, cooked using ghee and milk. It has a gooey feel.

I am from nyama choma on Sunday evenings,

I am from Aunty Dee and Uncle Jumbo 

From Mama Marvin and Daddy,

I am from the deras on weekends and Ramogi FM every evening,

I am from “ Kung’ dhogi nyathina”  to “Michelle utaumia.”

I am from “Nyasaye ruoth” during funerals,

I am from Nairobi and Kano,

From beef samosas only made when mom is on leave and nyoyo on Sunday afternoons,

From dad and his obsession with trees, spending every weekend in touch with nature, 

The beautiful coast side of Dar Es Salaam that mom spent her early childhood,

From Eddie’s love for milk which he takes more than water,

From leatherbound moments captured before I was born and our childhood, portraying the numerous lives we have lived. 

With moments of mom holding my hand to ensure I did not injure myself. 

From moments in Embu, Murang’a, and Nairobi. These keep home in my heart.

The Misinformation of the African child

For most of my life, I did the 8-4-4 curriculum which is Kenya’s national curriculum. It is made up of eight years in primary school, four years in high school, and four years in university, albeit the number of years you spend in university is dependent on how many strikes occur that year, I digress. It was compulsory one took Social Studies & Religious Education, Mathematics, Kiswahili, English, and Science. After eight torturous years, we were subjected to sitting for national examinations which determined which high school you went to and consequently your life trajectory, at least according to my teachers. 

I had a keen interest in Social Studies and Science. I did not exactly enjoy the content we learnt in Social Studies e.g. being able to name the major roads in Africa but I enjoyed the more historical aspect of Social Studies and I also liked my teacher. He was a gem, most of our lessons were spent on questioning whether the Kenyan government was ethical; tribalism which is the discrimination of one based on tribe which has been a pandemic in Kenya since the 1960s. I don’t quite recall the name of the topic, however, I recall the content. We talked about the explorers, the missionaries and traders who came to Africa also known as the colonizers. I liked the fancy names we branded them with. Moreover, a question that came up in exams was who was the first person to see Lake Victoria or Mount Kilimanjaro. At the time, I saw no issues with these questions. 

Every time I recall that I wrote notes on the advantages and disadvantages of colonialism, I feel my body recoil. My ancestors must be quacking. Did the Kapenguria Six fight for freedom for me to say John Speke was the first to discover Lake Victoria? Did my ancestors have fishing as their main economic activity for millennia for me to say John Speke discovered Lake Victoria? (The original name for Lake Victoria was Nam Lolwe) What pains me more is that I actually knew the names of the servants of David Livingstone. The truth of the matter is that colonization was painted as something that Africans needed. One advantage we tend to describe is that it led to the civilization of Africa, we completely disregard the existence of empires in Africa before colonization such as the Kingdom of Kush. I did not study any of these empires within the 8-4-4 curriculum, this is the beginning of the misinformation of the African child. We were taught to view those who collaborated with the British as wise and those who resisted colonialism as daft. We mocked the Majimaji rebellion and those that faced a similar fate. Without my knowledge, Social Studies was able to misinform me but also encourage a colonial mindset.

I have grown up surrounded by people who are in the STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering, and Mathematics) field, and consequently, I too ended up liking science and one thing we have always claimed is that science is objective. I could have bet on my life that science is not biased, the truth is the truth. However, this so-called truth was dispelled as I asked questions. The 8-4-4 system does not encourage those who like questioning and for this reason, I was a pain to have as a student as I would ask numerous whys especially in science. I was fascinated by the human body, how such complex systems worked together to produce a sophisticated result. But how did we discover what is in the human body? How did we discover everything we know? Slavery. Colonialism.Imperialism.  Even my favorite field, psychiatry, is not innocent. The so-called father of psychiatry, Benjamin Rush, developed a diagnostic theory called negritude and the only treatment was to become white. In a blog post, Sofia Akel talks about how tropical medicine came to be. Sir Ronald Ross believed that the success of imperialism depended on the microscope. The history of the sciences we praise to date are not innocent. The truth was hidden from me. 

The curriculum I studied was as white as they could. It was as colonial as it could be. 

Wandia Njoya, an educator, discusses how the curriculum encourages violence and it is in the trenches of colonialism. This is the misinformation of the African child. In the misinformation of the African child, we have taught them that they are the problem if they question authority. We have taught them that physical abuse is necessary to ensure discipline. 

As I started a new chapter in my life, I was introduced to African Studies. This was a blessing as it allowed me to question what was wrong with my curriculum. However, African Studies too has colonial roots. We must acknowledge the truth of African Studies, it has been subjected to perverse uses by those with colonial mindsets. African Studies is simply not to study Africa.  If African Studies does not aim to serve the African people and the diaspora, it is not decolonial.

Decolonizing the education system and African Studies means challenging the hierarchy and monopoly of knowledge. I believe the Fallist movement in South Africa was able to challenge the colonial ways of knowing. The protests against the increase of fees and removal of colonial monuments, e.g., Cecil Rhodes, remain a historical moment. Students challenged the status quo; furthermore, they wanted education to be accessible to everyone. Amina Mama suggests that African scholarship is poorly equipped to address the challenges posed by gender, ethnicity, class and other divisions. To decolonize the education system and African Studies, we must address these issues. 

Moreover, we must tackle the history of the sciences. The minute we remove information or twist information to fit a narrative that propagates the colonial agenda. Our education system needs to ensure that students feel empowered and do not feel like second-class students. Additionally, African Studies needs to ensure that as we study Africa in the past, the present, and the future, we should never compare our development to that of Western countries. We do not need an industrial revolution. We must be conscious that we, as a continent, have faced a completely different set of challenges. We need to encourage children to question. They must examine the so-called truth. That is when education will be decolonial. We must stop the misinformation of the African child.

This competition we call life.

It has been three days since I landed in Kenya. I only know this because the Ministry of Health sent me a message to tell me that I need to report if I am experiencing any symptoms. I received this text on a nduthi. A NDUTHI. Trying to ensure my phone is not grabbed on the streets of Nairobi nor being slapped on the tarmac, I decided I will fill the form when I reach my destination. I was meeting with a close high school friend, I had not seen them since 2018. However, that did not mean I had lost touch with them. We called each other, and we talked quite frequently. 

Seeing them elicited so much joy. It felt like the good old days. They were much taller than me, that had always been the case. It was just more evident. I seemed like a dwarf next to them.  They cracked their usual jokes. I must admit we had both changed, we had both grown. We were not the people we were in 2018 and I am glad we were not. As I was chatting with them, I told them that I loathed the question “So what are you doing with life right now?” They also exclaimed that they also hated this question and we had a discussion on why we disliked this question and then they said something that stood out to me.

“People are so over competitive in life.”

They were right. The last person who asked me what I was doing with my life, my schooling plans and all had barely asked me how I was doing. It had been three years since I had talked to them, we were not close even when we were in the same school. I did not have their contact. I had seen a DM request and they had to remind me who they were as scrolling through their page did not ring a bell. They then bolted with the questions of “What are you doing with life? Where are you studying?” I felt a little bit riled up. They were not entitled to this information, they did not even bother to pretend to do the small chit-chat while I must admit I  did enjoy the frankness but they could not bother to make it seem that was not the main reason they were DMing me. This is not the first instance, I know it will be the last. 

Most of us have experienced this, it could be a former schoolmate, a childhood friend or your grandmother’s aunt’s husband’s neighbor. At times, this question is asked with pure intentions but at times, it feels as though people want to know they are doing better than you. A friend of mine told me social media has not brought new issues but rather made them worse or magnified them. Social media has made the competitive nature of life worse. It has made the comparison worse. We want to feel as though we are better off. 

Most people spend hours curating the perfect feed and what message it  sends off. Yes, a picture of my passport with my flight ticket. They must know I have left the country, followed by a picture at a fancy restaurant. They must think I am loaded (even though you are struggling to pay that Fuliza Loan). A picture of my partner and I hugging, we are serving couple goals (yet this is the third time you have caught your partner cheating). All these in the efforts of looking like you have the perfect life, that you have made it in life.

The overcompetitiveness and competitive nature of this so-called race called life kills the joy. Comparison is the thief of joy. Okay, so you are doing economically better than your former schoolmate? What next? You are in a seemingly happier marriage than your childhood friend? What next? A medal? What if you aren’t the happiest nor the richest nor on a yacht in Dubai? It leads to self doubt. It leads to a non-existent self esteem. I know that because I have been there. I spent part of 2019 looking at how my former schoolmates were doing better than me. I felt horrendous about myself and the things I did. I felt as though I was not enough. What if we spent the hours we direct towards stalking our ex-colleagues, ex-friends and ex-partners towards ourselves? Even if they are doing better in life than you, applaud them. Clap until your time comes. Applaud your achievements whether big or small. You have not self harmed in a month? Congratulations. You got that job offer? Congratulations . You got your favourite flavor of cake? Fantastic. Celebrate yourself

Life is not a competition. It was not designed to be one.