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From taboo to truth: The influence of African queer positive films in challenging stereotypes - Minority Africa
Opeyemi Rasak-Oyadiran
October 21, 2023
In a scene from Ìfé, a 2020 movie about two Nigerian lesbian lovers overseen by LGBTQ rights advocates and filmmakers, Pamela Adie (producer) and Uyaiedu Ikpe-Etim (director), Ìfé (Uzoamaka Aniunoh) says to Adaora (Cindy Amadi) as they both lay and hold each other in bed, “We are lesbians, this is the perfect time”.
The quote is memorable for different reasons; a quippy reference to how fast the progression of lesbian relationships are said to be, but it is also a testament to the urgency of their emotions that, at the same time, acknowledges the reality of being two queer Nigerian women in love.
On January 7, 2014, Goodluck Ebele Jonathan, former president of Nigeria, passed the Same Sex Marriage (Prohibition) Act, which criminalised homosexual relationships and marriages with a 14-year imprisonment penalty. The act also prohibited the meetings of gay clubs, societies, and organizations. Other African nations, which at that time had also stringently criminalized same-sex relationships include Gambia, Kenya, Malawi, and Mauritania, amongst others.
While queer people and queer relationships were already actively discriminated against in Nigeria, with homosexuality taught as deviant behaviour in most schools, churches, and mosques, the passing of the SSMPA introduced a much more aggressive wave of acts of violence against queer people, including femme presenting men and masc presenting women who ‘seemed queer’, without confirmation of their sexuality.
People suspected of being homosexual are still today exposed to verbal and physical harassment from homophobic members of the public. Many queer people seeking partners on the internet get kitoed by homophobes, who disguise themselves to be queer online, in order to assault, rob, blackmail, or even kill queer people.
This is not a situation peculiar to Nigeria alone. Across Africa, stories of closeted queer people being forcibly outed, assaulted, and harassed, permeate the news. With the constant othering of queer people, the majority of African society has gotten comfortable with the dehumanisation of people in homosexual relationships, a reality that mainstream African cinema mirrors all too well.
The portrayal of LGBTQ+ characters in African cinema is often one-dimensional, stereotypical, and portrayed as taboo. Many of these characters and their relationships are created with little to no nuance, their primary function – furthering a plot that usually ends with reinforcing ideas of queerness being synonymous with evil, immorality, or some other kind of dysfunctional behaviour, an open and shut lesson on the consequences of deviating from heterosexuality.
Examples of this abound in early Nollywood titles like Men in Love, Emotional Crack, Ajegbodo, and Girls Cot, where queer characters are written as morally bankrupt, homewreckers, and rapists who eventually come to a tragic end.
Films can be an impactful medium for telling stories and bringing public awareness to social and political issues in a way that can be used to initiate conversations leading to mindset shifts and social change.
In recent years, African cinema has seen notable gains in addressing social issues that were once considered taboo, including LGBTQ+ rights. Several African filmmakers are now producing queer-positive films, highlighting the oppression and violence faced by LGBTQ+ people on the continent. These new African queer-positive films are challenging these negative stereotypes, and they bring us one step closer to a world in which people of all genders and sexual orientations are accepted and equal.
Rafiki, directed by Kenyan filmmaker Wanuri Kahiu, is a 2018 film about two queer women, Kena (Samantha Mugatsia) and Ziki (Sheila Munyiva), who fall in love despite societal expectations that “Good Kenyan girls become good Kenyan wives,” and legal restrictions against same-sex relationships in Kenya.
It is important to note that not only was Rafiki banned in Kenya because it contravened the law by positively portraying “an illegal relationship,” but also because the Kenya Film Classification Board (KFCB) directed Kahiu to change the ending of the movie as it was too light and hopeful, a directive that was refused. Rafiki went on to be nominated for the Un Certain Regard and screened at the 71st Cannes Film Festival in France, becoming the first Kenyan film to be screened at the festival.
South African movie The Wound (Inxeba) directed by John Trengrove examined queerness and toxic masculinity in the South African context. The film’s release was met with violent protests in South Africa after an unsuccessful attempt to have it banned by those who felt it infringed on cultural practices. The film premiered at the 67th Berlin International Film Festival in 2017, opened the Tel Aviv International LGBT Film Festival in 2017, was selected as the South African entry for the Best Foreign Language Film at the 90th Academy Awards and has gone on to win many international awards.
In Babatunde Apalowo’s debut feature film, All the Colours of the World Are Between Black and White, two Nigerian queer men struggle with their desires as their friendship gets deeper and their connection, more intimate. The movie went on to win the Teddy Award for Best Feature Film at the Berlin International Film Festival.
These are just a few examples of queer-positive African films that have gained recognition and international critical acclaim in recent years, even though a common factor that all the aforementioned movies share is the pushback and low reception from the mainstream audience in their home countries. These films are however significant because they influence social perceptions on LGBTQ+ issues, shifting negative attitudes and opinions in a more positive direction. Through their storytelling, these films resonate with and amplify the voices of those who have been silenced by long-held stereotypes and prejudices. They create awareness of the struggles that the LGBTQ+ community faces in Africa and also celebrate queer culture, highlighting the beauty and diversity of human sexuality.
The art of filmmaking holds a significant place in society, offering new possibilities for social change. In the 1993 American film Philadelphia, Tom Hanks stars as Andrew Beckett, a young lawyer who keeps his HIV status a secret after his diagnosis, and later brings an unlawful dismissal action against his workplace when he gets wrongfully terminated following a reveal of his condition. The film played a key role in raising awareness about the stigma and discrimination faced by people living with HIV/AIDS at that time, and it helped to alter the public’s perception and attitude towards the disease and the LGBTQ+ community as a whole.
According to Pamela Adie, Nigerian LGBT rights activist, filmmaker and writer of Ìfé, visual storytelling has more power than its other mediums. “Film not only has the power to show us the reality that we are living in, it can also give us a future to imagine.” She believes that where there is more visibility and representation of Nigerian queer people, it emboldens queer people to live more authentically and for others to question their biases.
When the nuanced lives and narratives of people in the LGBTQ community are portrayed on screen in multidimensional ways, filmmakers and their films get to significantly sway the queer conversation, influence pop culture and even have an impact on future laws and policies. By depicting queer characters in a positive light that displays not just their sexuality, but their humanity as well, the cause and struggle for the advancement of LGBTQ+ rights gains more traction, and expands the room for dialogue and the exploration of queer issues that are often overlooked or even silenced. All of these create hope and make space for a reimagined and more inclusive society.
In the 2022 study documents for The Initiative for Equal Rights (TIERS) social perception survey to understand how the Nigerian public views lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender persons and their rights, there was a 34% level of acceptance of a family member who is LGBTQ+ from participants across the 36 states in Nigeria, including the Federal Capacity Territory. This reflects a positive shift and growth from the 30% level of acceptance that was recorded in 2019. There has also been a significant decline in the support of the SSMPA from 77% in 2015 when the law was first passed to 48% in a 2022 poll.
Despite the opposition and censorship that they have to repeatedly face, queer-positive films are still and will remain an important part of the wave of the social discourse driving the change in society. Instead of perpetuating the typical conversation around queerness that solely and negatively revolves around the sexual relationships of queer people, they offer the necessary counter-narrative that every person deserves respect, dignity, and love, regardless of their sexual orientation or gender identity.
Edited/Reviewed by Banjoko Samuel, Caleb Okereke, and Uzoma Ihejirika
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created: October 21, 2023


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From the Mbororo ethnic group to Cameroon’s national television - Minority Africa
minorityafrica.co
October 29, 2022
Raihanatu Sali is the first ever Mbororo news anchor on Cameroon’s national television, where she is dispelling stereotypes about the indigenous community. The Mbororo are mostly known to be nomadic pastoralists making up less than 2 million of Cameroon’s 25 million population.
Shot by Erwin Ayota for Minority Africa. Edited by Jamie Intwari.
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source: news-minorityafrica

created: October 29, 2022

license: Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/


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Ghanian lawmakers propose draconian anti-LGBTQ+ bill - Minority Africa
minorityafrica.co
July 26, 2021
The bill proposes up to 10 years in jail for LGBTQ+ people as well as groups and individuals who advocate for their rights, express sympathy, or offer social or medical support.
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“Happy Ending”: Why this Nigerian indie film focuses on male rape - Minority Africa
Samuel Banjoko
October 14, 2022
A friend casually mentioning the harassment massage therapists face led Godwin Harrison to start working on the script of Happy Ending in 2020. The movie set out to tell a story of how power dynamics and sexualization, despite professionalism, lead to harassment for massage therapists. But Happy Ending does more than that; it touches on another often avoided subject: male rape.
“I wanted to tell a story mostly on the ills massage therapists face,” Harrison says. “They go for a session, and the next thing, the client already has this mentality that they have to give him or her a happy ending. That was the initial concept. But when I started writing the script in 2021,  [it] took me on a journey which led me to male rape.”
A 28-year-old filmmaker, who is based in Nigeria’s capital city, Abuja, Harrison sees films as advocacy. “While I was still in the [regular] film industry, I noticed that there were certain stories that most producers didn’t want to take up because they believed it would not yield profits,” he says. “I tried to pitch my idea to people about stories we’ve never heard, like LGBTQ stories, that are not common on-screen, but I received several rejections.”
But rejection didn’t stop Harrison. In 2019, he gathered his team and founded Hug Media Concepts to tell stories that are not visible to society. Since then, they have released five films exploring various topics, from female circumcision to sexual identity to finding love as a queer person and hookup culture. The latest of which is Happy Ending.
“Happy Ending is a story of two rape survivors (a gay man and a heterosexual woman) who bond after realizing they shared something in common. However, fate plays a trick on them “when their perpetrator walks back into their lives,” says 24-years-old Alice Ishaya, a Theatre Art student who plays one of the lead roles in the film.
“Happy Ending  [addresses] the trauma rape survivors go through, irrespective of gender and sexual orientation.”
The film follows  the lives  of Tena Zandin (played by Prince Barnabas) and Ladi (played by Alice Ishaya), two massage therapists who were sexually abused by Yuri (played by Darego Ekine) and their experience finding justice.
“Happy Ending talks about male rape in our society and society’s veil of silence on male rape victims,” Harrison says. “It is the story of a young man who in his modeling days was drugged and gang-raped by his sponsor.  This is actually inspired by a true life story that happened in Awka in 2018.”
The story Harrison talks about is of a friend whose experience Harrison believes drove him to suicide. Harrison’s friend, who was a runway model in Anambra State in southeastern Nigeria, had been raped by a gay man whose advances he had rejected. The boy had found it difficult to open up to anyone, which led him to commit suicide.
A 2020 research by The Conversation showed that over 90% of reported rape victims in two major Nigerian newspapers were women. While not a conclusive picture of rape in Nigeria, the research is evidence that there are very few reported cases of male rape in Nigeria. Happy Ending explores why.
“The story is not new to me because I am already in an industry where what happened in the movie is happening right now,” says Darego, who models alongside acting. “When I started modeling, I had a near experience of being touched to hit a runway. It happened. I had one or two friends that had to do stuff to get on a runway, but nothing came out of it.”
Darego also explains why he thinks harassment is so common. “Being beautiful attracts a lot of things; lust and pleasure. I don’t blame the beautifully bodied and faced ones, they didn’t create themselves, but it happens. I’ve been harassed several times by [women] and [men]. I know how to handle such cases – of being harassed. Being good-looking is not your fault, but men would always want to have a taste of it.”
While Darego has come to understand getting harassed is not the victims’ fault, most victims do not get to understand this and cannot open up for various reasons. Darego believes rejection and stigmatization play a significant role in why victims stay silent.
“There are two things in place – rejection and stigmatization,” he says. “Most people don’t want to feel pitied, even if the victim isn’t rejected after coming out about molestation or rape. If you come to my show, I’d want to give you a slot to get on the runway, but when you come up on stage, people would start looking with pity, ‘Aww, she got raped’ [or] ‘He got molested.’ Getting pitied and having to answer questions like, ‘Someone that just got raped to come and wear my clothes?’
“Even though people are learning to protect and sympathize with victims, [they] may want to sympathize with you all the time and encourage you to pull your craft, but they won’t want to stop talking about how you were raped. They won’t want to stop talking about how you were victimized. Even when you’re having a good time with your friends, they might bring it up. They won’t stop bringing it up, and for how long? It’ll cause you to start judging yourself, rejecting yourself, which can lead to depression, drug use, and suicide.”
For male victims, getting raped and sexually harassed comes with more than being rejected and stigmatized. They rarely get support or sympathy. Instead, their masculinity is questioned, along with the belief that men can’t be raped. It is a belief so prevalent in Nigerian society that up until 2020, the Nigerian constitution did not recognize men as victims of rape. Despite the new legislation, most male victims are still unwilling to speak out or seek justice.
Prince Barnabas, who is also a masseuse, has been sexually abused. “If you as a guy come out to say, ’I was raped,’ the first question you’d get asked is who raped you,” he says. “If you say a lady raped you, the way people would react is like, ’She raped you? It’s not possible.’ People feel like, as a guy, there’s no way you wouldn’t be in charge; you’re supposed to be in control, so how on earth did you get raped? It takes people with a bold mindset to come out and stand on their ground regardless of what has happened to tell their stories still.”
Giving more insight into the lead characters, Darego says, “It’s a movie that I feel will dig out a lot of things. I play Yuri, where I have to keep my business moving; I could share the bed with anybody as long as it brings money and keeps my business going. So I will not let someone come into my business and be all righteous and bring my business down.
Tena Zandin is struggling to make a living and gets molested, and even when he shouts about his victimization, he is not seen or heard.
“The same thing happens to Ladi, and it gets to a point where she gets used to being raped and sexually [assaulted] because even if she says a thing about it, it will not move a muscle. It’s just the unprivileged that were shouting and talking on her behalf, but the privileged would see it as she just wants attention, and for the male victim, they’ll see it as someone that just wants to be seen.”
In Nigeria, despite laws and increasing awareness of sexual harassment, victims rarely ever get justice. A report by the National Agency for the Prohibition of Trafficking in Persons (NAPTIP) shows that between 2019  and 2020, there were only 32 rape convictions despite over 700 reported cases.
With Happy Ending set to have its first private screening at the OUT Film Festival in Kenya between November  17, 2022 and November 19, 2022, Alice hopes ”more rape victims would be healed from their trauma and possibly voice out and that there would be more visibility to rape survivors be it male or female, queer or straight.”
Edited/Reviewed by Caleb Okereke, Cassandra Roxburgh, and Uzoma Ihejirika.
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Samuel Banjoko is a Supporting Editor at Minority Africa. He is a Nigerian writer based in Ibadan, Nigeria who enjoys writing about art and culture.

created: October 14, 2022

author: Samuel Banjoko


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Hijabi Discrimination In Nigeria Makes Navigating The Workplace Difficult for Muslim Women - Minority Africa
Opeyemi Rasak-Oyadiran
November 24, 2022
“Do you always wear that?”
“That thing on your head is not professional.”
“Your hair must smell so much under all of that.”
“Do you think that makes you better than everyone else?”
“You can remove it while you are at the office, your father/husband won’t know.”
Every Muslim woman who wears a hijab, headscarf, or any form of clothing that covers her hair has at some point or the other had to deal with passive-aggressive comments about their headwear. Often, the comments veer into being incredibly cruel and unsavoury. Workplaces are meant to be free from personal biases and prejudice, but many Muslim women have been stripped of access to jobs or economic opportunities based on their visible dedication to their faith.
The image of a Muslim woman, especially a woman of colour in a hijab, sometimes referred to as ‘hijabis’ is viewed through the lens of oppression. Harmful stereotypes and lack of proper representation in many media strongly influence the oppression of hijabis.
Professional hijabi Muslim women are wrongfully perceived as subservient and devoid of full agency over their life and career. In Nigeria, where women are already a minority, a Muslim woman who devoutly wears her hijab faces double scrutiny and significant discrimination. Hijabis in professional spaces have confessed to the feeling of either being patronized, heavily scrutinized or a sense of erasure.
Monsuroh, a lawyer in Lagos, Nigeria says that being overlooked or underestimated is a feeling she has sadly gotten used to. “When I was job-hunting, the interview stage always made me anxious,” she says. “Once I walked in and the interviewer(s) saw my hijab and long dress, I could feel the energy in the room change. A prospective employer once asked me if my husband would not interfere if the nature of my job got too demanding. When I answered in the negative, he chuckled and said he didn’t want any ‘alhaji’ to appear and cause a scene in the office. All the personal questions he asked insinuated that he believed that I had very little to no agency over my affairs.”
There is a clear issue of hijabi women being perceived as liabilities in professional spaces. The hijab, which is meant to signify devoutness to Islam, is now seen as a waving flag for passiveness and weakness. A 2016 report on women and equality highlighted that Muslim women face triple penalties in the labour market. They were discriminated against for being women, for being ethnic women and for being Muslim women. Of all three, the penalty for being a Muslim woman seems to be the costliest.
Aisha, an executive in an entertainment and media company, had to retire her headscarf when she got to the interview stage for a competitive role at her dream agency. “I knew the minute that I got the invite email that I would take my scarf off,” she says. “I won’t be dishonest and claim that it was a difficult decision because I actually don’t cover my hair all the time, I just have a scarf on my head or draped casually on my shoulders or neck out of habit. And I knew for sure that presenting myself like that, for that kind of role in that agency, would put me at a disadvantage and I probably wouldn’t have gotten the job. They would have simply assumed that my activeness and dedication to my job would be limited.”
Interrogating the basis of these biases and prejudices can be tricky. Despite the rise and evolution of feminism in Nigeria and how it has helped many Nigerian women—and a sprinkle of men—demand a more inclusive treatment of women, Nigerian households are still mostly patriarchal.
The major issue, it seems, lies in many non-Muslims’ beliefs about what the hijab represents and the decisions that lead women to wear it. For Muslim women, the hijab serves to protect their bodies upon puberty from the lustful gaze of the outside world. “A useful distinction I like to make to people is that my hijab is meant to shield my body, not hide it,” says Khadijah, who has worn the hijab since she graduated from secondary school and resumed university. “My mom has worn her hijab all my life, and while it was expected that I would wear it when my body began to visibly change, no one tried to force me. I decided to start covering up after I gained admission to the university; it was a new phase of my life so it made sense to start a new journey as a new version of myself.”
However, not every Muslim woman who wears the hijab had Khadijah’s experience or her capacity to make her choices. Muibah, who no longer wears the hijab, says that she doesn’t remember a time when she was allowed to leave the house without her hair covered. “While I understand why the hijab is important, I hated that I had no choice in it,” she says. “I stopped covering my hair as soon as I moved out of my parent’s house and to a new city. I might still wear it again, but I honestly don’t know.”
It is important to remember that, while many hijabis don the hijab because they are compelled to by authority figures in their homes or communities, many other women do so voluntarily as a physical manifestation of their faith. Denying or limiting opportunities to qualified hijabis based on how they are perceived because of their hijabs is therefore an islamophobic act against the person and an infraction of their fundamental human rights.
Another overlooked pattern of hijabis being treated differently in workplaces is a form of benevolent islamophobia where visibly Muslim women believe that they were offered opportunities to fulfil some sort of diversity quota, and not as an acknowledgement of their capabilities or successful experience in their fields. Ayooluwa, a journalist, shares that she cannot complain about her hijab being a hindrance to her career. However, she often worries if the many speaking engagements and successes that her work has garnered are only because she strikes an unusual image.
“It’s hard to explain but there’s a particular sort of attention that I’m paid by people that unsettles me,” she says. “I’ve spoken in spaces and worked in some environments where the shock and amusement at the brilliance of my work is too apparent, it feels insulting. It makes me wonder if the celebration of my career so far is really because my work is so outstanding, or [if] it is because the community is so fascinated that a young hijabi woman like myself [have]undertaken the kind of projects that I have and succeeded at them.”
Hijabis, regardless of how similar they may look on the outside, are not homogenous and each has their own sense of identity outside of their faith. It is therefore not only disingenuous to treat all women who cover their hair the same, but it is also harmful when this pattern manifests itself as a preconceived bias and leads to hijabis being treated dismissively in professional spaces
People who find themselves in the position to offer employment or other economic opportunities or benefits are encouraged to be more culturally aware and inclusive in their vetting processes, as opposed to wrongfully dismissing candidates because of what they assume their hijab represents.
Edited by Cassandra Roxburgh and Uzoma Ihejirika
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.

created: November 24, 2022

author: Opeyemi Rasak-Oyadiran


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Homosexuality predates colonialism. It is homophobia that’s new - Minority Africa
minorityafrica.co
June 17, 2020
We see and acknowledge the support and allyship from some of our white brethren towards gay people on the African continent. We are however sensitive to the ways in which this support can exclude certain things from the conversation.
Many times when white people and former colonial countries refer to homosexuality on the continent, it is often from a lens of casting Africa as “unprogressive,” “close-minded,” further feeding the narrative of whiteness as “evolutionary” without taking into account the era of colonialism and how it in many ways created and bolstered the current homophobia many gay Africans experience.
There is a recasting that is happening of colonialists as “saviors” quick to render a hand to as always “close-minded” and “monolithic” Africa, a recasting that is more than just worrying, also incredibly dangerous. It is important for us to approach every conversation with context and understanding, homophobia in Africa is no different.
Ancient Egypt we know had drawings that depicted same-sex relationships. In South Africa, we know of “mine marriages,” which men working in mines and away from their wives and families entered into with other men. There are so many examples of same-sex relationships pre and during colonial times and we won’t dwell on that in this post.
We want to talk more about colonial structures and how they distorted African perceptions of gender and sexuality.
This article by Marc Epprecht on Jstor reveals how anthropologists on the continent working in the sixteenth century recorded same-sex activity mostly from a derogatory and condescending perspective, and how by the twentieth century, there was nearly no mention by anthropologists of same-sex activity.
A lot because of their own biases, Europeans and Americans by then viewed homosexuality as unnatural and this led to them deliberately hiding and ignoring same-sex relationships on the continent.
The aim has always been for whiteness to protect itself and present itself as devoid of flaws. In this study, Epprecht writes about this when he says, “What kind of civilizing mission was it that abetted ‘unnatural’ and ‘odious’ behaviors in the very people it was supposedly protecting?”
More than just hide though, imported colonial laws criminalized homosexuality, and many of the laws which remain today against homosexuality on the continent are directly colonial laws or advanced from them as precedents.
Homophobic terms in several African countries came first from the vocabulary of English — what this means is that many indigenous African languages did not have homophobic terms as part of their lexicon until the English language.
The goal we must understand by these colonial powers then remains the goal today as well. It is to uphold white superiority. During colonial times, this took form in distancing whiteness from homosexuality, something it believed to be “unnatural,’ by viewing Africans who practiced it as inhumane and describing them as “beastly.”
Now, we must understand that it takes form in the proximity and allyship of whiteness to homosexuality which for all it’s good attempts to then recast Africans as “obstinate,” and “pigheaded” on the subject from the onset which really isn’t the case while presenting white people as having been and perpetually progressionist.
Decolonization is incomplete and exclusionary if it doesn’t include decolonizing the colonial and racist structures that have influenced current African perceptions of gender and sexuality.
Many times people misinterpret the conversation around the legacy of colonialism and homophobia to mean that queer Africans are struggling for acceptance in a society that would rather keep us out: this is not the case, it is in fact the opposite.
The rudimentary goal of conversations like this is awareness. The knowledge that whatever narrative exists today about the existence of homosexuality on the continent as “foreign,” is false, the consciousness of the racism and white superiority that was instrumental in constructing this narrative, and the commitment to a work on decolonization that includes decolonizing gender and sexuality as well.
Our stance is Minority Africa’s Editorial desk which reveals our position as a publication on certain subjects. It is written as a collective. Consider supporting our work with any amount here.
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How Congolese women put an end to generations of economic abuse - Minority Africa
Akilimali Saleh
October 26, 2023
In the Wafuliro culture, to which Joséphine Mahendwa belongs, it is a shame for a woman to go back to her parents’ house; so she resorted to moving from house to house with her three children after her husband’s death 23 years ago at Uvira in eastern Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC).
“My husband’s family chased me out of the house my husband had built for our children and me,” the 50-year-old Mahendwa says. “They took all the land titles, divided the house among themselves, and asked me to go back to my parents.”
Mahendwa is not the only woman to suffer from this predation. Access to land and natural resources is essential to the survival of women in eastern DRC; yet, the culture discriminates against them by denying them the right to acquire plots of land.
“We women haven’t had the right to own a plot of land or a field,” says Ida Mukungilwa, Chief of the Department of Gender in Karongo chiefdom. “We don’t benefit from inheritance and even when we have the money, no village chief agrees to sell us a plot of land.”
“It’s very clear that culture discriminates against women, especially in rural areas where there are no state legal institutions,” explains Gratias Kibanja, a women’s rights activist and lawyer. “In many ethnic groups, culture dictates that a woman can only inherit land from her husband, but she should first inherit from her parents.”
WFP statistics show over 95% of rural women work in agriculture. Women account for 60% of the agricultural workforce and 73% of farmers, producing 80% of the foodstuffs intended for family consumption. “Many [women] had to practice agriculture on other people’s land,” says Rachel Boketa, former Country Director for Women for Women International. “They are working for other people for 2000 Congolese francs (approx. 1US dollar) per day and it’s not guaranteed that they will have that job every day.”
Women for Women International (WfWI) has long recognised that depriving women of their land rights not only marginalises them but can also be seen as a particularly insidious form of gender-based violence.
“Having land property in the name of women prevents children from suffering when the father is dead,” says Boketa. “Having their land protects their independence and their sustainability if any dispute comes in the future.”
As part of the 2021-2022 Project RISE (Resilient, Inclusive, Sustainable Environment), a series of four-hour workshops for community members from several villages in and around Nyangezi, the WfWI organisation worked to empower women in the Nyangezi region of eastern DRC. From lawyers to gender experts to conflict resolution experts, the organisation’s facilitators taught and discussed the contours of Congolese law, equal access to land, and the need to resolve this disparity.
“I found out from a neighbour that there was a training course on women’s access to land and that it was open to everyone,” says Barakomerwa Mwakompanyi, a 51-year-old mother of five.
“That evening, I told my husband and the next day, we joined the others with the intention of learning.”
In this region, owning land means ensuring the independence of the women who work on it.
“In rural areas, families decide to choose boys and not girls to go to school. As a result, girls are not (or maybe less) educated,” says Boketa, explaining the importance of the project. “This leads to] gender-based violence. When men die, [their] family members come and take everything, sometimes even the house they were living in. And they throw the women in the street, even [with] kids.”
But with initiatives like Project RISE, this form of discrimination is reducing. According to the Gender and Environment Resource Center, the partnership between the Innovation and Training for Development and Peace (IFDP) and WfWI “successfully increased understanding of land rights and women’s access to land among men and women in the Nyagenzi community in South Kivu.”
They testified that the project increased the knowledge of 1,418 women of land rights and gender-based violence (GBV) through training and provided the land reflection groups in the community with the knowledge and tools to support women as they exercised their land rights and prevent GBV and land tenure conflict.
By March 2022, 133 women had secured up to 145 customer land titles and 262 women were in the process of claiming their land titles; hundreds of women have received technical, legal and financial support that has helped them to become landowners; and 100 of them now own land in eastern DRC. In total, 2, 859 people have benefited from the project, 173 people have been trained on preventing gender-based violence (GBV) and 66% of participants became more aware and educated about gender-based violence (GBV) because of this project.
Numbers aside, Project RISE is now the first stop for all the women in Nyangezi who own land and want to secure it, as well as women who are working towards owning their land. It not only awarded diplomas to women who have completed the programs and facilitated their access to the Congolese land registry services, but it has also changed the mentality of the community about land ownership, economic rights and empowerment.
In addition, WfWI provides lawyers to accompany women to the state land services to help them apply for land security. Today, many women go through them to buy or reclaim land to support their families, especially through agriculture.
“As the project team carried out community sensitisation activities and the Men’s Engagement Program to raise awareness about topics such as preventing GBV, positive masculinity, and women’s land rights, the number of reported GBV cases declined among project participants,” Gender and Environment Resource reports.
“Men who participated in the training exhibited shifts in behaviour and attitudes toward women and land rights, including male leaders who serve as role models to other community members. One village chief who was initially opposed to registering land in a woman’s name changed his perspective after attending the training, gave land to his wife, and encouraged other men in his village to do the same. By the end of the project, all-male community leaders that participated in the project provided land to their wives.”
In Nyangezi, the current challenge is gaining access to land registry services and reducing administrative costs. Many women, like Joséphine Mahendwa, are hoping the Congolese government would reduce the cost of acquiring legal land documents so it can be easier for them to acquire land. For Mahendwa, this land is for farming.
“It’s a big step forward in this region, where every economic activity has to do with land. Women used to work in lands that did not belong to them; now things are starting to change and we women are more fulfilled,” says Ida Mukungilwa. In addition to her family home, Mukungilwa has already bought another plot of land where she has set up a small manual brick-making factory in the town of Bukavu.
Several Project RISE alumni have become activists, helping women in their communities to emancipate themselves economically and socially as they did. They also encourage men and community leaders to support women in their businesses and investments by facilitating their access to land.
Joséphine Mahendwa reveals that the work WfWI does opened her to the knowledge that women can also own land under the laws of the country.
“I quickly collected some of the money I had and asked my son, who is a pharmacist, to add a little money so I can buy this plot of land,” she says. “Now, it is possible to draw up legal documents and become a landowner.”
Edited/Reviewed by Caleb Okereke and Uzoma Ihejirika
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Akilimali Saleh Chomachoma is a dedicated and ambitious independent journalist who reports from Congo and Central Africa. He produces stories about breaking news, business, politics, justice, environment, specifically climate change, and health.

created: October 26, 2023

author: Akilimali Saleh


text:
I donated my egg in Nigeria. Here’s what I found out - Minority Africa
Ebimoboere Ibinabo Dan-Asisah
July 17, 2022
I was not pondering motherhood on the afternoon of Friday, November 6, 2020; I was pondering the heat. The other storey buildings around my Lagos home made the flow of air impossible. The security personnel downstairs were playing loud music and arguing goodnaturedly in a language that switched between Arabic and Hausa. I was annoyed as I scrolled  through Facebook and WhatsApp, loading statuses and ignoring messages. Then I saw an interesting status update that piqued my interest. “Egg Donors wanted, the pay is reasonable,” it read.
Until that point, I never knew egg donation happened in Nigeria and so, naturally, I had questions. What did it entail? How much was a reasonable payment? How did anyone become an egg donor? There was only one way to get answers so I responded to the status. David* wouldn’t tell me much except drop the number of the woman  I was to text. I don’t like texting anyone I’m not familiar with, so already we were crossing invisible boundaries I had set for myself but I was curious. I gave in and sent a text.
I got your number from David’s status about egg donors?
I waited for a response for about thirty minutes and dropped my phone to face other tasks. She responded two hours later. By then I was already questioning whether or not this was something I would do. I found nothing online that told me exactly what the egg donation process would be like, the drugs I’d take, and how my eggs would be extracted. Most of the information I found online were fertility clinics in places outside  Africa extolling the virtues of egg donors. When I typed in How much does an egg donor make? Google said, “$5000 – $10000 per cycle.”
I knew there was no way Nigerian hospitals were paying that much.  The woman—who turned out to be a former donor seeking new donors for a cut—asked for my name, genotype, blood group and a picture of me. I sent the details. My curiosity had won me over and I decided to go through with it. I’m not sure why, only that it felt unfair that nobody else had done so. The woman asked if I was a virgin. I said no, wondering what that had to do with anything. She told me she’d forward my details to the nurse at a clinic and signed off from the conversation. It was only then I remembered she’d never told me her name and I hadn’t asked.
She texted me four days later with more follow-up questions. Was I done with school? Yes, I was. What were my educational qualifications, B. A or B. Sc? I said it was an LLB. How old was I? Twenty-five at the time. Did I know Festac? No, I didn’t. Lagos traffic typically discouraged me from sightseeing. She told me I would be going to a clinic in Festac in four days for an interview with the head nurse. I was hesitant. What did an interview entail? Now that I was going to a clinic,  it dawned on me that I still didn’t know anything about the process. Yet I had been given an address and ordered to show up. The woman encouraged me to ask my friends if they might be interested in donating. As doubt crept up on me, I summoned the courage to air my questions.
What did the process entail exactly? How much was I getting paid? I was on oral birth control at the time – Levofem – that I had stopped taking as soon as I decided to be a donor. Were there going to be any issues? She answered via voice note to say I would be given injections and scanned three times. After the third scan, I would be given 5,000 Naira (around $13.15 at the time) for transport and my eggs would be harvested. The injections were not painful, she insisted. The entire process was mostly painless and stress-free. Heranswers didn’t put my mind at ease. The  fact that I was going to Festac, an unfamiliar place, made me even more uneasy. She assured me that all would be fine. I was to be paid 120,000 Naira ($315.78) but she would take another 10,000 Naira ($26.31) and the nurse – this one functioned as an agent and worked in the clinic – whose candidate I was would take 10,000 Naira ($26.31). That meant I would only be getting a 100,000 Naira net payment, a far cry from $5,000 for sure.
At this point, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to chicken out, but in for a penny as my mother would say, so I went to Festac . I had been warned to dress well and speak well. I was not to tell any lies to the head nurse because she could sniff them out. I did my best to fulfil these requirements. I donned a burgundy jumpsuit that both clung to my curves and was modest. I borrowed my sister’s wig because it was more “professional” than my unstyled Afro. I took a cab so I wouldn’t be sweaty and stressed when I got there.
I had with me two passports, my ID card and a pen. I was told to be there at midday. It was hot, almost the end of the year and no harmattan in sight. Thankfully, Lagos was slowly emptying out so the traffic I feared never showed up. I got to the statuesque-looking hospital. It was situated in a gentrified area and had other similarly elegant houses as neighbours. There was no clear sign it was a clinic aside from the notice on the gate from a health-related government agency. I hesitated at the gate. Was I in the right place? I squared my shoulders and pushed the smaller section of the gate open. It opened; nobody stopped me so I walked in. The compound was medium-sized. There was a  gate that led to another  building and a fence separated the two buildings, which convinced me that they were linked. The buildings were painted a matching beige and they had the antiseptic auras most hospitals do, but they also exuded money.
I tried calling my contact—the former donor—to tell her I was at the hospital but her number was not reachable. I went into the first building and instantly knew I was in the wrong section. This lobby was filled with middle-aged women, some with army escorts and  others dressed in their Sunday best, swaddled in expensive laces and chunky gold accessories. Some of the women sat next to similarly middle-aged men who shot me an appraising look. The air was heavy with perfumes that made my nose runny and my throat itch. I tried once again to reach my contact but her number was still unreachable. The receptionist was nowhere to be found. I panicked. Was my trip here for nothing? I quickly shot off a text to her, telling her I was at the hospital. When she didn’t respond in fifteen minutes, I called again with shaky hands. It rang. I exhaled a sigh of relief so loud that the woman next to me gave me a questioning look.  My contact said she was sending someone over to me.
In a short while, a frowning nurse came looking for me, butchering the pronunciation of my name as she scanned the crowd. When I figured out that she was looking for me, I stood and followed her.
“Don’t you know you’re not supposed to be here?” she asked.
I resisted the urge to point out that there was zero indication of where I was supposed to be, no helpful arrows pointing me in the right direction a la “Egg Donors Please Go This Way.” She wasn’t the only one with a right to be irritated. I followed her until we showed up at the back of the first building. She pointed at the connecting gate and asked me to walk until I found a door on the other side. Then she warned me sternly to always go there until I was told otherwise. I wondered about that.
The women in the first building were the paying customers, the ones who came for treatments and would use our eggs. If I were in their shoes, I would have liked that. I would have liked to have a brief glimpse into what my child might be like, look like or sound like.
I walked to the other side and while trying to find the mysterious door, I wondered briefly if my lack of a birth certificate would be a problem. I had been asked to bring it along but I didn’t have it. I walked a huge circle around the second building  until I found a door. As I pushed the glass doors open, the first thing that hit me was a blast of cool air; the second was the knowledge that I was in the right place. There were girls seated on all the chairs. Some of them even shared seats while they slept and waited for their turns. As I walked in, they made room for me and I sat down.  The curious questions began to trickle in.
Was I here for the donation? Did I know any of the nurses? Which nurse was my sponsor? (I had been told to say a certain nurse was.) Have I ever donated my eggs? Did I know what it took?
I had answers to only a few of these questions as I got to know the girls. They were here for the money and perhaps some had the noble intention of helping women in need of babies. It seemed to always be the secondary motivation though, never the first.
“I’ve done it before. At a hospital in Yaba. They only paid me 70k,” one of the girls said. “I came here before but the nurses bounced me. So I’ve come back with my sister’s ID card just in case she won’t recognize me.”
She was the head nurse and when she walked into the room, you knew that she was in charge. She reminded me of my home economics teacher from secondary school who always wore shoulder-padded suits. With her low-cut hair, broad shoulders and scowling makeup-free face, she gave the impression that she was a strict Christian. The room fell silent without her ever having to speak.
She scanned the room and pointed at two girls. The two girls followed behind the head nurse, who led the way into the other room as other nurses trailed behind them. The girls around me murmured. Why had she singled them out? In less than five minutes, one of the girls emerged from the room. She picked up her bag and left. She had been rejected.
Why? I wasn’t sure. She was dressed more casually than I was but it didn’t seem to be a disqualifying factor. I seemed to be the most dressed up. The girls were called in one after the other. Another girl was rejected. She was 19 years old, so too young to be a donor. Finally, it was my turn.
Another girl and I walked into the room and took our seats. We met a girl sitting already in the room. She was called in before us when the head nurse insisted we be up to three at a time.  We began to fill out the forms before me. One was a three-page form that required details about my name, next of kin, blood group, genotype, body mass index (BMI), and if I had been an egg donor in the past, amongst others. I couldn’t take a picture of the forms as they supervised the entire thing.
One of the questions that stood out for me was “What do you know about egg donation?” My response: “I have very little information on it except the information I gleaned off Google searches and what I was offered.” I remember thinking it was an odd question but the head nurse insisted that the girl and I hurry up as we were wasting too much time filling the forms. I started to feel nervous. I didn’t know my BMI so I left that space blank.
The head nurse frowned as she flipped through the forms. “You even studied Law. I don’t go easy on graduates. I asked what you knew about egg donation,” she said as she rolled her eyes at me. I was confused. Did I not answer the question appropriately?
“I don’t know anything about it [egg donation] besides what I found on google,” I said.
“Is that what I asked? What is egg donation?”
“Well, it’s where a woman donates her eggs for another woman to use for conception.”
“So why didn’t you write that?”
“Because you asked what I knew about egg donation. Not the definition of egg donation which would have been phrased more like ‘What is egg donation?’” I said. The head nurse stared at me with her mouth open as if I had suddenly grown two heads.
I decided to ask the question that had been on my mind since I got to the hospital.
“I take an oral contraceptive, Levofem. I stopped taking it about two days ago and I’m wondering if that would be a problem?”
She frowned. “Why are you taking birth control?”
“Because I want to prevent any possible pregnancies,” I said. I wondered why it wasn’t obvious because she’d asked if my periods were regular and I said they were.
“So why don’t you want to be pregnant?” she asked.
“I don’t feel my partner and I are capable of financially catering to the needs of a child right now,” I said. “It would be ill-advised to have one.”
“My dear, forget that thing. Children are a gift,” she said. “You see these women who come here, they very desperately want that gift more than anything in the world and here you are throwing it away. Let me tell you, just have the children. Money will come from God.”
She continued, “When I first had my baby, my husband and I didn’t have any money but somehow we survived. In fact all these contraceptives can lead to infertility. Do you think the man you’re taking this thing for will want you if later in life you’re incapable of giving birth to children because of these things? Just give birth. Don’t worry.”
It wasn’t  good advice at all. I joked about it with my partner when I got home. I told him we should have children; our strategy to raise them will be the same as free-range chickens: have them, let them roam the streets and hope someone will throw a few seeds of rice in their direction. Months later, I still find myself flummoxed at that conversation.
After the interview and her words of ‘wisdom,’ the head nurse ruled me a viable donor.
“Follow that nurse and go to the lab. They’ll test you to confirm your genotype and make sure you’re healthy,” she said. “After the blood test, you can go. We’ll call you if you’re eligible for the donation.”
I nodded and followed the nurse out with two other girls. The blood test didn’t take as much time as waiting for the interview did. The lab techs were friendly. I was done by 3:40 pm that day. I remember thinking I had a vague dislike for needles and feeling relief that it might be the last time in this process I’d be poked. I was wrong.
I have always questioned my willingness to have children. Growing up, it was never in doubt that my mother wanted children; I simply knew that she did. My mother had her children straightaway  after marriage but even that was not fast enough or good enough for my grandmother.
One of my earliest memories of my grandmother was her, old and disapproving, staring at my baby sister swaddled in her crib with my mother seemingly cowering in a corner. The house was an old building in Port Harcourt that smelled of baby powder, baby soap, methylated spirit and dusting powder. I had just returned from school and three-year-old  me was excited to meet my baby sister. My grandmother was less than enthusiastic and I couldn’t figure out why until she spoke.
“Na girl again?” She sighed. I do not remember if my mother responded at all. I remember looking over at my sister in her crib and wondering, What was wrong with girls?
It took me two decades and some years later to figure out what was wrong with girls. I discovered, to my chagrin, that society believed it was the woman’s duty to bear children of the right sex; that bearing children was how we measured femininity as a society.
There were church programs to help “barren” women bear “fruit of the womb,” prophetic declarations on women spiritually getting pregnant, seminars held and talks moderated on just what to do to achieve that state of fruitfulness. It was something to aspire to and even though it takes two to make a baby, it was still somehow the sole responsibility of the woman.
As I grew older, I pondered on that glorious moment when I would actively want children. Could I even bear children? Did I want to? I had never felt this maternal instinct that my mother claimed came naturally to all women. I might not have had it but I saw a lot of women who did. So what happened when kids were not forthcoming after years and years of marriage? What did one do?
*Names changed to protect identities
This story is the first in a two part series on egg donation in Nigeria. To read the second part, click here.
Edited by PK Cross, Caleb Okereke, and Uzoma Ihejirika.
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Ebimoboere Ibinabo Dan-Asisah is a Nigerian freelance writer and storyteller based in Lagos, Nigeria. She is a graduate of Law and spends her time ghostwriting biographies and other kinds of stories with a clear focus on the difficulties and complexities of everyday living. She
has been telling these stories for eight years.

author: Ebimoboere Ibinabo Dan-Asisah


text:
“I endured in silence”: Deaf women in Uganda and their struggle with abusive relationships - Minority Africa
Susan Ananda Mujjawa
February 21, 2024
As they navigate through marriage, Sarah and Betty, two Ugandan women who are deaf, share their experiences on the challenges of communication, cultural expectations and the negative perceptions from society.
According to a report by the Uganda Bureau of Statistics, 2018, 47% of people with disabilities are more likely to experience violence compared to 39% of people without disabilities. The report further states that 36% of female children between five to 17 years with disabilities experienced physical or sexual violence and 58% of female adults experienced physical or sexual violence.
When I was thirteen years old I lost my hearing due to a case of mumps. The complications and mishandled treatment, I lost my ability to hear.
After meeting and falling in love with Geoffrey*, a man who was also deaf, in 2019, we got married in a ceremony in Kampala filled with hope and anticipation for our future together.
After our wedding I wholeheartedly embraced change by moving to Western Uganda to support Geoffreys job. Although our initial months as newlyweds were joyful, we faced challenges relying solely on Geoffreys income. The pressure increased when we discovered that we were expecting a baby girl.
Gradually the man I loved transformed before my eyes. His actions became colored with disdain. He became violent with me. At night his touch felt forceful than loving leaving me feeling more isolated than before. Our marriage was supposed to be a haven. Instead it became a battlefield where my cries for help went unheard.
Armed with a masters degree in Special needs education, I made a decision to find a job in 2022 determined to improve our situation and pave the way for better times ahead. Fortunately, my efforts paid off. I landed a position at a government institute affiliated with the Ministry of Health.
Instead of feeling proud of my accomplishments, they triggered insecurities in Geoffrey. He spiraled out of control, succumbing to the allure of gambling and trading our possessions for chances at wealth.
Desperate for solutions I turned to counseling. The counselor assigned to me struggled with sign language, which dashed my hopes for understanding and progress. The thought of hiring an interpreter weighed heavily on me—both the risk of exposure and the associated costs seemed overwhelming.
I endured in silence, silently bearing the burden of violence and oppression that remains unseen and unheard by those around us.
Unable to tolerate the abuse I confided in my mother about the dark reality of my home life. Geoffrey had transformed into someone, a stranger fueled by anger and recklessness—slowly dismantling the family that I tirelessly supported.
In December 2023 I found myself standing at a crossroads.
Leaving behind my marriage with Geoffrey was a decision, driven by the need to prioritize mine and my daughters safety. Despite the pain in my heart I gathered our belongings and left the home we once shared. A home, from the last time I heard, he now shares with another woman who is also deaf.
I was born deaf. I thought that by marrying a man who could hear, my life would become smoother and more harmonious. However, I soon realized that this union came with its challenges. My husband’s temper often flared up whenever we hit a hurdle in our ways of communicating.
Throughout our marriage, my attempts to express myself through sign language often ended in frustration. This frustration created a divide between us.
One particular memory stands out. One evening, I inquired about the money we had got after a bountiful harvest. Instead of offering a straightforward explanation, my husband erupted in anger—a tempest fueled by his frustration with our disjointed communication.
When we got married, I held onto the hope that his ability to hear would bridge the gap between my world of silence and his realm of sound fostering a partnership built on understanding.
Looking back, this incident taught me lessons. It shattered the misconception that having someone who can hear automatically guarantees a connection between minds. Now with an understanding I embrace a viewpoint; communication is not solely dependent on hearing or speaking but also on the genuine willingness to understand and be understood and to appreciate the profound significance of unspoken interactions as much as verbal communication.
*Names changed to protect identity.
Edited/Reviewed by: Patricia Kisesi and Caleb Okereke.
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.

created: February 21, 2024

author: Susan Ananda Mujjawa


text:
“I feel safer,”: A women only gym in Nigeria is helping women exercise comfortably - Minority Africa
Shade Mary-Ann Olaoye
April 20, 2022
Image description: An abstract of the universal symbol for women holds up a dumbbell in front of a silhouette of an African woman. The art is decorated in blue patterns and bright yellow highlights.
Abuja, Nigeria (Minority Africa) — Bebe Yaro* used to take walks to stay fit and healthy in Abuja, Nigeria’s capital city where she has lived for five years. On multiple occasions, men would catcall her.
“It just makes me feel very unsafe,” she says.
Desperate for a solution, she turned to Twitter, where she put out a call searching for a women-only gym in the city. Her mission was to find a workout spot where she could feel comfortable because she says she doesn’t feel comfortable around men, for the most part.
Her tweet led to her knowing about Pinkinetics, a women-only gym and with only women trainers in Abuja.
“People made recommendations on social media,” Yaro tells Minority Africa. “I was surprised, pleasantly, when I found the gym.”
Pinkinetics is located on the fourth floor of The Capital Hub, one of the most common locations in Abuja. When one walks through the doors, they are greeted with a collection of framed quotes on the wall urging you to stay consistent.
Beyond the waiting area is the workout arena where the transformation happens; it is filled with gym equipment ranging from hula hoops, dumbbells, treadmills, and more.
The gym began in 2016 when its CEO Adulrahman Wasilah realized the need for a safe space for women to exercise. It followed her witnessing a friend’s discomfort at a gym when videos and pictures were taken without her consent.
Spurred by this event, Wasilah set out to create a gym where women could exercise without experiencing harassment.
“It just struck me [that] there are so many of us out there who get uncomfortable when [our] privacy is being invaded,” she says. “There is demand for a secluded [and] private gym for women.”
Her stance is bolstered by numbers. In a survey done by Women’s Health and  Runner’s World, 60% of women said they had been harassed when running, 25% reported being regularly subjected to sexist comments or unwanted sexual advances and 6% said they had felt threatened by harassment while running that they feared for their lives.
“I think because a lot of men do not understand boundaries and how their actions can be harmful” says Yaro. “They are also mostly not open to listening to women when they talk about these issues. It breeds fear.”
A typical workout day at Pinkinetics, which has now grown to over 800 members, is a charged atmosphere of music, sweaty bodies, and the loud voice of the instructor counting down seconds or urging women exercising to push on.
Yet beyond being a place for exercising, Pinkinectics also seeks to be a space where women can be comfortable being themselves.
There are rules and regulations that members are expected to follow, one of several steps to eliminate the practices of body shaming and harassment that are pervasive in mixed-gender gyms.
Mercy Onoja, a 2-week old member and businesswoman says that finding the gym has been helpful to her especially as she is conscious of her body.
“Before I came here I didn’t have much confidence exposing my body but as you can see, I’m wearing a singlet and I don’t care who is calling my hand a Christian mother hand”, she says showing me her arms and her outfit and making reference to a Nigerian term describing fat in the arms.
There is also a no-phone policy that restricts members from taking pictures or making videos that encroach on the privacy of other members.
It is a nice safe space because you know that everything that happens here stays here”, says Louisa Ogwuru who works out at Pinkinetics.
The gym also houses a lounge for kids.
“We found out that many women were inconsistent with their workout schedules because they didn’t know where to keep their kids,” Wasilah explains. “So we created a [lounge], got a nanny and encouraged [mothers] to bring their nannies,” she adds.
Within it, many women such as Maryam Ahmed, a 34-year-old stay-at-home mother have also found community.
“Here you are just yourself and you can relate with other moms,” Ahmed says. “The moment you see a lady coming, her face will tell you that she either just finished cooking or drop off from school. You can tell that everyone is one the same level and there is this connection generally of everyone looking for a space to just destress.”
Quite similarly, Mariam Faruq, a Muslim woman, who has been going to Pinkinectics since 2016 loves it because she does not have to cover her body while exercising.
“For me it’s like a free zone, I’m a Muslim by religion and we normally cover our bodies when we are around men,” she says. “I felt this was a good place for me [because] I get to express myself the way I want.”
But finding women trainers in a field widely dominated by men and navigating the necessity and sensitivity of touch to exercise in a space striving to be free of harassment have been considerations Pinkinetics have had to make.
How vital is physical touch to exercise and can it be ruled out?
“It’s not completely possible to eliminate physical touch when it comes to training especially if it’s personal training, but the clients’ physical contact preferences supersede whatever corrections you want to make,” says Finjite Olali who runs a fitness channel on YouTube.
In the fitness industry, touch is a very big component as it is used by trainers and fitness professionals to improve form, technique, understand body awareness, fix exercise injuries, and more. Hence, it is not out of place for trainers to touch a client.
“If they are not comfortable with being touched, then we figure out a way to correct their form without touching them. While that is more difficult, there is room for adaptability,” Olali tells Minority Africa.
It is a viewpoint that Gloria Oshioluemho who manages Pinkinetics gym notes as well.
“Trainers need to communicate with their clients, let them know you are going to touch them before you touch them and be professional,” Oshioluemho says.
Wasilah adds, “Just because you are in the gym doesn’t mean you have automatically given your consent to be touched. Communication is very key and because you already know that we are professionals, we talk to you professionally so you don’t think we have ulterior motives.”
For Olali, the exclusivity of a women-only gym at the same time doesn’t fully prevent the threats of abuse.
“I’ve been abused by a woman in the gym before,” Olali says. ”I get verbal abuses from women in the gym too, so no, an all-female gym doesn’t eliminate abuse because abuse doesn’t always have to be sexual.”
But to women like Yaro and rightfully so, the chances are definitely reduced.
“I am not worried that anyone will look at me in some type of way or try to grope me,” she says. “If I’m being honest, I feel safer because it is women.”
*Bebe Yaro requested to use a pseudonym to protect her identity.
Edited by Cassandra Roxburgh, PK Cross, Uzoma Ihejirika, and Caleb Okereke.
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Shade Mary-Ann Olaoye is a gender and queer rights reporter whose work has appeared in Sahelien, AZ magazine, The Daily Dot, Media Diversity Institute and elsewhere.

author: Shade Mary-Ann Olaoye


text:
“I felt violated”: The women determined to break the cycle of FGM in Uganda - Minority Africa
Patricia Akankwatsa
August 21, 2023
On a Friday afternoon, in the remote district of Kween, Eastern Uganda, women from various villages are gathered in a compound. As has been custom for the last two years,  they come together to discuss a pressing issue that affects their community – female genital mutilation (FGM). On this day, the atmosphere is both serious and hopeful.
Among them is Annet Chelengat, 38, a mother of six and one of the founder members of Benet Masopo Community group. She is also the host of these gatherings.
Created in 2020, the women, who have all been victims of female genital mutilation, discuss creative ways to fight the practice in the Sebei sub-regions.
“Advocating against FGM with these women has been both healing and empowering. Together, we are breaking the silence and reshaping the narrative of our community,” Chelengat explains.
As the women gather in a circle, they engage in passionate discussions, sharing personal stories, experiences and knowledge. Some of the women recount how they were subjected to FGM as young girls, sharing the physical and emotional scars that have haunted them throughout their lives. Others speak of the ongoing pressures they face from relatives and community members to continue the practice.
“I was just a young girl, innocent and full of wonder when I first heard whispers of the impending ritual,” Chelengat recalls. “The women spoke in hushed tones, and their eyes held a mixture of sadness and acceptance. I was soon to become a part of a tradition that had been passed down through generations, one that I could hardly fathom at such a tender age.”
FGM has been a deeply rooted cultural practice in Kween, as in many other parts of the world, for generations. It is considered a rite of passage, marking the transition from girlhood to womanhood.
“On the day of the ceremony, I was led to a secluded hut, my heart pounding loudly in my ears. The elders performed ancient rituals, and I could hear the distant beat of drums,” Chelengat narrates. “As the moment approached, fear gripped me like a vice. I wanted to run away, to escape this fate, but tradition held me firmly in its grasp. The women surrounding me seemed solemn as if they bore the burden of this ritual too. They held my hands, and as I lay down, the pain began.”
According to Chelengat, the pain was like no other, a pain that sliced through her very being.
“I felt violated, stripped of something sacred, and the tears flowed freely. I wanted to scream, to let the world know of the injustice I was enduring, but I remained silent, as the women who went before me had done,” she continues.
In the days that followed, the physical wounds healed, but the emotional scars ran deep. Like Chelengat, the women who are gathered have all witnessed firsthand the pain, trauma, and long-lasting health complications that result from this harmful practice.
“I couldn’t understand why this tradition existed – why we had to endure such pain to be considered women in our village. It haunted my thoughts, but I felt powerless to change anything,[at the time],” Chelengat says.
Recognising the urgent need to address this issue, the women have taken it upon themselves to organise regular gatherings to openly discuss the impact of FGM on their community. Their goal is to raise awareness, challenge deeply ingrained cultural norms, and work towards the abandonment of FGM. They are determined to create a safer, healthier, and more empowered future for the next generation of girls.
FGM is an internationally recognised violation of the human rights of girls and women and, although globally the prevalence of FGM is declining, according to United Nations Children’s Fund (UNICEF) survey report carried out in 2020, the practice still affects around 200 million women across the world.
Some of the hotspot districts include Kween, Kapchorwa and Bukwo, whose neighbours are Kenya and, among others.
While in some communities, FGM is viewed as a prerequisite for marriage, Chelangat says that some women who undergo FGM continue to endure pain and poor health for the rest of their lives which is often overlooked.
Judith Amonsho, founder of another women’s group fighting FGM, the Jericho Women’s Group located in Kapchorwa, was circumcised in 1976 at the age of 18.
According to Amonsho, in the past, it was popularly believed that when you were a girl, you wouldn’t be allowed to collect cow dung for cementing the house if you were not circumcised and when you got married, one was not as respected as the girls who were circumcised.
“We believed that if you were not circumcised, you would be cursed. You could even cook food and it doesn’t get ready,” Amonsho says.
Together with the Jericho Women’s Group, they are engaged in income-generating initiatives because according to Amonsho,  as much as FGM is culturally rooted, it is also caused by poverty.
“We make crafts for sale. It is also one of my coping mechanisms. I sit here in my wheelchair and make a mat or weave a basket,” Amonsho says.
Today, Amonsho and the other women in Jericho Women’s Group are encouraging young girls around their communities to stay in school and when they come back from school, the girls collect materials to make art crafts to keep busy.
Since starting her advocacy group, Chalenagti has also witnessed great improvement in her area and the neighbouring districts.  The group is mainly focused on sharing information, educating young girls on the dangers of FGM, and sensitisation through the use of craft and drama to fight the practice.
“Most of our girls are now embarked to education and others are in Church. There are those who are doing weaving which wasn’t the case previously,” she notes.
“Back then when FGM was highly practised, parents used to give their girls for cutting in exchange for gifts,” says Kokopu Sarah, one of the other community members. “But through activism, girls now do things like weaving and selling baskets to get money.”
The group has so far taken this initiative to three districts including Kween, Bukwo and Kapchorwa.
Chalengati explains that young people in the affected sub-counties can trust them if they are empowered to spread the message of anti-FGM.
“We want to see this practice fade away, especially in the hotspot areas, but we cannot do much unless the government gives a platform,” she says.
In Uganda, the practice was banned in 2010 by enacting the Prohibition of Female Genital Mutilation Act. Anybody found guilty of the vice faces a sentence of not more than 10 years in prison, among other penalties.
Although FGM prevalence may vary across different regions and ethnic groups within Uganda., statistics from the 2016 Uganda Demographic and Health Survey (UDHS) indicate that the national prevalence of FGM among girls and women aged 15 to 49 years is 0.3%.
Violet Chemutai, another member of the Benet Masopo Community group, says that FGM has been part of their traditions for generations, but it’s time to acknowledge the harm it causes.
“FGM can lead to severe complications, including infections, excessive bleeding, and long-term health issues. When women are going to give birth, they face some challenges. The knives used to circumcise* are not sterilized and there are no medicines used,” she says.
All these efforts have not been without challenges. According to Chalenagti, their journey towards fighting against the practice of FGM in their community has not been easy especially in the beginning due to little support from some members of the community especially the leaders who were mostly women.
But the limited support did not deter them from pushing on with the fight against the “evil practice” which has since affected many young girls in the region.
“I remember we started with five women but now we are more than 100 women in this village. We have many women groups in the other surrounding districts who have joined the cause and we are progressing well so far,” Chalenagti says.
To date, the Benet Masopo Community group boasts more than 100 members. While the group started as a women’s clique, men are also welcome and some have joined.
“Today, I stand here as a survivor, a voice for change, and a symbol of resilience,” Chalenagti says. “The road ahead is still long, but I know that with courage and unity, we can create a future where harmful traditions no longer hold us captive.”
Edited/Reviewed by Uzoma Ihejirika, and PK Cross.
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Patricia Akankwatsa is a seasoned journalist known for her insightful reporting and dedication to uncovering the truth. With a passion for storytelling and a commitment to journalistic integrity, she has carved a name for herself as a prominent figure in the media landscape.

As a journalist at The Independent Magazine, Patricia has covered a wide range of topics, from health and business to culture and social issues. Her thorough research and in-depth interviews have earned her accolades and the trust of her readers.

Beyond her work with The Independent, Patricia actively engages with various communities, seeking to amplify marginalized voices and shed light on underreported stories.
Muhamadi Matovu is a Ugandan journalist and one of the most prolific  journalists in Uganda and the region.

Matovu currently works with Next Media Services as a writer on Nile Post and a reporter on NBS television.

 He is very passionate about human rights, climate change, current affairs and gender issues.

author: Patricia Akankwatsa


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“I have been treated unfairly”: The harmful traditional practice suppressing women in Nigeria - Minority Africa
Nanji Nandang
May 11, 2022
Image description: The image is an illustration featuring a silhouette of a woman’s hand reaching out for a dove against a bright yellow patterned background. Her hand is restrained by a tight blue rope bound to her wrists.
Benue, Nigeria  (Minority Africa) — One Tuesday morning in April 2016, the Easter celebration was around the corner when, at about 3:34 AM, a thunderous knock startled 52-year-old Janet* and her six children. As she struggled with the door bolt, she whispered a prayer to herself, “Lord, not again.”
At the door was Oche*, her 77-year-old husband, who had come home drunk as usual in the company of a strange woman. As soon as he saw Janet, his jaw tightened and his hand curled into a fist. “I told you not to get a job but you are adamant!” he snapped.
Janet was only 17 when she was forced to marry Oche who was 42 in 1987. She had written her Senior Secondary School Certificate Examination (SSCE), the final lap in Nigeria’s basic education system, hoping to be a nurse.
Oche, a civil servant at the time, didn’t allow Janet to learn a skill or further her studies. “Anytime I tried to seek a job, he would threaten me with Aleku, the spirit of justice,” she says.
This prominent traditional practice is prevalent amongst the Idoma people of Benue State, Igala people of Kogi State, and Ekureku people of Cross River State in Nigeria.
The Idoma people believe in Aleku to maintain justice in the land. The Igala people believe in Ibegwu to uphold justice, while the Ekureku people believe in Edu-ekolo to protect the family.
The common feature in this tradition is that the spirit oversees women and keeps a tab on whether they are loyal to their husbands or not.
In 2016, when Janet got a ₦20,000 (around $48) job to cater for her children, Oche demanded she follow him to the village to swear an oath of purity in Aleku shrine. He must have sensed that she had summoned the courage to build herself.
“Since he married me I had not taken the oath,” she says. “[At the village] they will shave my hair and kill a fowl to prove my innocence.”
The patriarchal structure across Nigeria’s ethnic diversities contributes immensely toward perpetuating and promoting violence against women.
“In Owukpa community, where Oche and I come from, they say a wife does not have any right, whatever your husband does is the right thing,” Janet says.
A married woman in Idoma land is not expected to expend her legitimate income on projects such as building for her biological family or spend on other purposes, without the consent of her husband, to avoid the wrath of the gods, says Chief Ekere Oko, the Ochukore One of Ogbadigbo Local Government Area of Benue State.
Chief Oko says Aleku is a spirit of the ancestors of the Idoma people, and every woman that marries an Idoma man automatically binds herself to the tradition through the rituals usually performed as part of traditional marriage rites.
“If a man should cover his wife’s act of infidelity, he will die in her place. A woman is not expected to make any decision or buy anything for herself without the consent of her husband, else she will die,” he explains.
Janet refused to swear the oath and instead sought help from the National Human Rights Commission (NHRC), a body established to deal with all matters relating to the promotion and protection of human rights, and the investigation of alleged human rights violations.
“I have seen how women start shrinking to death the moment they swear the oath,” she says. “Even if the woman is guilty or not, she will die. So when the Human Rights Commission referred me to FIDA, I took [Oche] to court. I told him that I [would] rather get a divorce than have anything to do with his Aleku.”
The International Federation of Women Lawyers (FIDA), a non-governmental organization involved in the promotion, protection and preservation of the rights of women and children, provided pro bono legal service for Janet and the court dissolved her union with Oche in 2017.
Mary Abah Izam, the sole judge of the Plateau State Judiciary who ruled the case, says Aleku is inconsistent with the provisions of the grand norm in the 1999 constitution of Nigeria.
“Section 42 of the constitution outlined nondiscrimination, either by sex, culture and religion, but Aleku custom is discriminatory in nature and has been declared in one of my rulings [Janet’s case] as null and void to the extent of its inconsistency with the constitution,” Izam says.
The judge notes that what rendered Aleku discriminatory is the fact that the man is not expected to swear the same oath as the woman if he is found guilty of committing adultery.
“In [Janet’s case] both parties were alleging adultery against each other, yet the entire community were subjecting only the woman to take the oath to prove her innocence,” she adds.
Unlike Janet, many women have been suffering in silence. Fatima*, a 38-year-old indigene of Nasarawa State, was not able to escape the oath in the Ibegwu shrine.
In 2013, she married 46-year-old Idoko* who is from the Ogugu community in Olamaboro Local Government Area of Kogi State.
“I was forced to go for purification in Ibegwu shrine in 2020 because I took family planning. It was my mother-in-law that lured me to do it,” she reveals.
Fatima thought family planning was the best for the family since they were finding it difficult to provide for their five children.
Immediately after the oath, Fatima stopped taking the oral contraceptive. She was told that her husband would have died because she used his money to purchase it.
“My mother-in-law  said I should have done it without involving my husband so as to prevent Ibegwu from striking him with a mysterious ailment. But she assured me that the rituals have cleansed the family,’’ Fatima recalls.
She however laments the division the oath has brought in her family.
“Even after taking the oath, I can not cook for my husband because he does not trust me. If I cook for him, he might fall ill and die,” Fatima says. “I have been treated unfairly.”
Chief Ogala Daniel of Ogugu in Olamaboro Local Government Area of Kogi State reveals that Ibegwu is a deity that forbids modern practices.
“Ibegwu will kill any man that gives his spouse money for abortion even if it’s because of a health condition,” he says.
In the same vein, Micheal Stephen, the Eval-egbonyi of Ekureku community in Abi Local Government Area of Cross River State, says that Edu-ekolo strikes a man who defends his wife’s infidelity.
Edu-ekolo does not strike men that commit adultery, except the woman he sleeps with is a married woman,” he says. “[Then] it will strike her and strike him too.”
Asked whether Aleku has eradicated adultery in Idoma land, Chief Oko says, “No, it has not stopped, but women know what Aleku can do.”
“The elders will prepare Idoko-Ejuja [a sacrifice of purification] to lift the curse on any woman that admits to adultery and other offenses,” he adds.
While advising women to renounce the custom, Izam emphasizes that harmful traditional practices have been condemned and are now liable to imprisonment or payment of an option of fine under the Violence Against Persons Prohibition Act (VPPA).
“So any man that tries to subject any woman to take such [an] oath, such a woman should sue the man. The VPPA will exonerate her from taking such [an] oath,” she adds.
It’s been five years since Janet took her husband to court. Although the court of law dissolved the union and protected her from taking the ‘Aleku’ oath, it couldn’t heal the traumatic experience of her abusive marriage.
“I have never enjoyed what they call marriage. It was a horrible experience,” she says.
Today, Janet runs her daycare and can provide for herself, her children and her extended family.
The scars on her body and the lines on her face appear to tell a deep story of a lifelong struggle but the light of relief that beams in her eyes now seems to tell the story of her strength.
“My daycare is my pet project and I believe it will grow in my hands,” she says.
Edited by PK Cross, Caleb Okereke, and Uzoma Ihejirika.
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Nanji Nandang is a Nigerian journalist and radio broadcaster with over four years of experience in media broadcasting. She is the host of "Silent Voices," an educative radio show that amplifies the voices of women and girls. She is also an experienced fact-checker and pidgin news presenter.

author: Nanji Nandang


text:
“I have competition”: The realities of older sex workers in Kenya - Minority Africa
Elvine Ouma
May 10, 2024
Grace Nyarangi* decided to enter the sex work industry when she was just over 18 years old. In her early years, she managed to support her children, put food on the table, and provide for all their necessities solely through her earnings.
Despite facing significant backlash and stigma from her family and community upon learning about her choice of profession, Nyarangi remained resolute.
“After giving birth and being abandoned by my partner, I struggled to secure employment with no success,” she shares. “That’s when I turned to this line of work.”
However, as she grew older, her income from sex work began to decline. Nyarangi, who today also works at the Africa Sex Workers Alliance (ASWA) based in Kisumu, says that in Kenya, older sex workers are confronting two formidable challenges: technology and ageism. Formed in 2009 in South Africa by members drawn from 35+ countries, the alliance works towards promoting destigmatisation and decriminalisation of sex work.
“Men like younger women or simply younger-looking women. My looks still afford me clients because compared to my agemates, I look younger. But it’s nothing compared to when I was young, I had clients willing to pay the much I asked for, but things have changed now,” Nyarangi says, adding, “I have competition.”
Technological advancements have spurred growth in various sectors but have also posed challenges for others. When the COVID-19 pandemic hit in 2020, the older sex workers were confronted with a new problem stemming from the unavoidable march of progress.
According to Nyarangi, who is over forty now, online sex work saw significant expansion during and after the pandemic, placing older sex workers at a disadvantage. Many lacked the knowledge or skills to leverage technology to broaden their client base.
“Our younger counterparts have adapted to meeting clients online, which offers ease and privacy for clients. The inability to utilise social media to connect with clients has disproportionately affected older sex workers. Many lack access to smartphones, let alone the skills to operate them,” Nyarangi explains.
46-year-old Nancy*, who has worked in the industry for over 12 years, reveals the financial hardships she faces, often struggling to scrape together KES 50 to pay off police officers for business space called “Kiwanja,” which loosely translates as “field” in the coastal regions of Kenya.
Tragically, those who cannot afford the bribe or lack the physical attractiveness to appeal to police officers find themselves locked out of their premises for the day.
“As older women, we are sometimes forced to offer free services in exchange for a business space,” Nancy says.
“Kabla uruhusiwe kufanya biashara, lazima polisi apate kitu ndio akuruhusu kusuburi biashara,” she says, meaning “Before you are allowed to conduct business, you have to bribe the police officer first.” Sometimes, she uses the little money she made to pay off police officers so she doesn’t get arrested.
To attract customers, Nancy admits that she has had to undercut the prices of younger sex workers, which is unfair.
“I’ve even resorted to skin bleaching and other treatments to appear younger, but I still can’t earn as much as I did in my earlier years,” she says. “In my youth, I could make over KES 10,000 (around $74) daily from just one client or more, especially from white clients.”
Providing sex workers with diverse skill sets is something ASWA focuses on. Since its inception in 2010 and registration in 2014, the organisation’s first module centred on building the capacities of sex workers in Africa. In 2022, the ASWA’s donor proposed a curriculum change: a model to monitor the growth and development of sex workers who have been part of the program for eight years.
Currently, ASWA is implementing the second module of the program, the Africa Leadership Sex Workers Academy (ALESWA), which looks at empowering sex workers to be advocates for their rights in international advocacy spaces, addressing challenges that rock the profession, like HIV/AIDS prevention.
However, given the impact the organisation is achieving, its module is still focused on building the leadership skills of younger sex workers, inherently leaving out the older generation of sex workers. More than 500 young sex workers have so far benefitted from the organisation.
At ASWA, Nyarangi and her colleagues have realised the growing vulnerability of older sex workers with the advent of technology. Most of the women have been pushed out of business.
“Our programs primarily cater to younger sex workers, but we realised the older generation is overlooked, and their absence has taken a toll,” Nyarangi states.
Coast Sex Workers Alliance, an umbrella organisation that caters to the needs of sex workers on the Kenyan coast, was forced to move its operations online. The organisation had to tailor its programs for virtual delivery and help curb the spread of the COVID-19 virus.
“Sex workers don’t have a social protection plan; think of something like retirement benefits that could help their children or family members dependent on them,” shares Elizabeth Atieno, a health promoter at the organisation.
According to Atieno, older sex workers have been instrumental and active in the fight for women’s rights, a contribution often unacknowledged, despite facing challenges like the increasing number of younger sex workers, harassment from police officers and client preference for younger sex workers.
She also adds that the growing divide of sex workers based on age predominantly affects their children.
“Regrettably, because of poverty, sex workers’ children join the industry to step into the providing role,” Atieno explains. “In some cases, children have to provide care and financial support to an ailing parent, which negatively impacts their mental health.”
“The lack of a social protection plan among sex workers puts their families through the endless cycle of poverty, and inevitably, their children could suffer the same fate,” she continues.
Atieno further explains that the problem is made worse by the preference of donors to empower younger sex workers while overlooking the old.
Nyarangi agrees and asserts that donors should invest resources in empowering older sex workers with skills that can enable them to care for their families with ease.
“As an organisation, we hope we can create programs that address the needs of both older and younger sex workers,” she says.
Atieno points out that the economic health of older sex workers is already dwindling mainly because of their age and physical appearance. This situation poses a risk to their mental health. Most of these women are the sole breadwinners in their families and are obligated to put food on the table, pay school fees, and provide accommodation.
“Kazi ya condom hailipi!” says Nyarangi, meaning “Using a condom doesn’t pay well.”
Older sex workers prefer to have unprotected sex to earn extra coins, which exposes them to the risk of contracting HIV/AIDS.
“They prefer to sell sex without condoms because they get very little pay, as low as $3, but can negotiate for an extra $2 when they sell sex without condoms,” Atieno says.
“Besides this, due to stigma and violence meted against them, the older generation of sex workers rarely seek medical help after the risk of exposure for various reasons.”
Yet, despite in spite of what the older generation of sex workers has suffered, including the consequences of this criminalised profession in Kenya, prominently, the unresolved murders of most of their colleagues, permanent disabilities and maiming, Nyarangi is still in the industry. aAlthough  However, she deals with just a few repeat clients.
“I fear for the younger girls/ sex workers getting in the industry and aren’t aware of how to spot red flags and safety tips because sex worker killings are on the rise,” Nyarangi says.
Regarding her plans, she says, “Getting married after working in this industry is hard due to stigma. Most women think that they might get a man to provide for them when they retire, but that is close to impossible.”
“But in the meantime, I hope [that one day] sex work is acknowledged as work,” Nyarangi adds with an optimistic smile.
*Names changed to protect identities.
Edited/reviewed by PK Cross, Uzoma Ihejirika, Caleb Okereke
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Elvine is a creative writer and Storyteller passionate about sexual and Reproductive Health Rights and female empowerment. Lately, she's focusing her storytelling on creatively writing about women in all their diversities and intersectionalities.

author: Elvine Ouma