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“A big gamble”: Inside a savings group for refugees living with a disability in Uganda - Minority Africa
Alison Lemeri
September 21, 2023
God is Great Association (GIG), is a savings club that unites and services refugees living with a disability in the Omugo refugee settlement by providing them with accessible finance.
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Alison Lemeri Francis is a 2022 Minority Africa Fellow. He is a South Sudanese refugee, journalist and podcast producer in Uganda. He produces a community-centered media podcast for refugees in Omugo refugee settlement. Lemeri has more than 5-years of experience in media work including reporting for print, radio and online media. He’s currently a student of Morris Journalism Academy Australia specializing in freelance journalism and is a graduate in Business Administration from Makerere University Business School. He’s passionate about telling in-depth stories of local grassroots efforts and underreported voices in areas of media, entrepreneurship, education, environment and climate change.

source: news-minorityafrica

created: September 21, 2023

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

author: Alison Lemeri


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“A big gamble”: Inside a savings group for refugees living with a disability in Uganda - Minority Africa
Alison Lemeri
April 17, 2023
New Covid-19 infections and deaths seem rare, but not its associated effects on refugee persons with disabilities in Uganda, who are rewriting local narratives about their status as they build their local financial means.
32-year-old  Guya Martin, one of the refugee Persons with disabilities in Uganda’s Rhino camp refugee settlement, had to prepare for how to overcome the pandemic’s scourge on their livelihood. He and 15 other persons with disability teamed up to form God is Great Association (GIG), a savings club that unites and services refugees living with a  disability in the Omugo refugee settlement.
In January 2022, Uganda reopened schools country-wide, ending a two-year-covid19  lockdown – one of the world’s longest. As the country’s president Yoweri Museveni made this announcement, Guya felt a sense of joy at the thought of his children’s return to school. But it was a joy that didn’t last long. After his initial reaction to the announcement of schools re-opening, he was faced with the reality of the financial cost of taking his children back to school. The lockdown had been hard on him financially, almost taking him back to square one, when he initially arrived in Uganda.
Guya is a South Sudanese refugee living in Omugo Refugee Camp, a settlement in the Northern region. The camp hosts over 40,000 of the almost one million South Sudanese refugees registered in Uganda. He lives there with his wife and six children, four of whom are of school-going age. Guya, who does not have full use of one of his legs, fled South Sudan in 2018, two years after the civil war resumed. Together with his family, he walked for weeks through the deep forest of Equatoria on foot. He arrived in Uganda the following year, terrified, exhausted and empty-handed.
Nonetheless, he managed to rebuild his life. He started by attending trauma healing sessions offered at the settlement.  This helped him to let go of what he lost back home in the conflict and focus on a new future for his family. He soon started a small-scale vegetable and sorghum farming business.
Due to the financial impact of the lockdown, Guya could not afford to buy school uniforms and shoes for his children when they asked. “I was very disappointed because I had nothing,” Guya says. “I was like we left South Sudan because we need[ed] safety and education for our children here, but then we lost everything we had. How could I support them?”
In April 2021, a time when they were under lockdown and could not make much or any money, Guya’s association kept on saving their money. The association put together every extra cent it could spare in a bid to attain self-reliance during one of the most difficult economic periods in recent history.
GIG members are mostly small-scale business owners. They contribute to the fund from the little they make from selling their agricultural produce. The association, which now has 20 members, meets most of the members’ urgent and uncomplicated financial needs without long turnaround times or complicated requirements.
“Before, meeting the school needs of my children had been challenging. Now if I have a very serious issue, I can get a loan and return the money later,” says Guya.
In addition to the time when schools reopened, Guya says the association has already helped him on several occasions. “I have accessed and used our savings money many times. I used the money to help solve some challenges in my family and I also bought a book for my child. Recently, I borrowed 50,000 UGX and paid back 55,000 UGX.”
Members are charged 10% monthly interest on the amount borrowed. Members contribute 6,000 UGX(about two dollars) weekly, which includes 5,000 UGX that goes towards the association’s savings and 1000 UGX towards a social fund. A social fund is limited emergency money borrowed by members without any interest charged. The money has to be returned within a specified period. Members often use it to respond to urgent family needs such as sicknesses. Those who do not pay their loans on time are fined up to 1,000 UGX.
Local savings known as Village Savings and Loans Associations(VSLAs) have become a popular model in developing countries. A study conducted in Uganda, Ghana and Malawi, averaged take-up rates of VSLAs in these countries was 32%. It found that people in the rural parts of these countries prefer VSLAs to formal financial institutions such as banks in accessing immediate finance.
“Without formal financial services such as credit and savings products it can be difficult for the rural poor to afford major expenses, invest in their farms or businesses, and pay for unexpected events like illnesses or funerals,” says the study. However, it noted the risk of theft, fire and loss resulting from bad weather like rains as some setbacks.
At the GIG association, members had saved close to 3 million UGX (almost 860 USD) in the first cycle,  which usually runs for a year.
According to the United Nations Refugee Agency, 4.56%  of 1.4 million refugees in Uganda live with disabilities. Duku Cons, a founding member and secretary of GIG, says refugees living with disabilities face a hard time as they are often labeled as “useless, burdensome, and cursed.” This naïve conclusion, he says, deepens the marginalization of disabled refugees and discourages them from fully participating and contributing to society. They are often not seen by society and their struggles are not considered. He says their association is targeted at refugees living with disabilities to fight back against these beliefs and show they are as capable as anyone else.
Duku, who also lives with leg impairment, says the success of the project has done what they hoped it would do: silence critics and reshape the community’s view on refugees living with disabilities.
Other GIG members agree that the project has been a success because it has made their lives easier, especially since the World Food Programme (WFP) cut food supplies to refugees by 60% in 2022 due to funding shortfalls.
“It is challenging. You find that our food finishes before the end of the month,” says Pasiasi Mari, a 32-year-old visually impaired South Sudanese mother of seven who sells vegetables. She has been in Uganda since 2019.
With the help of the association, she’s now able to make ends meet for her family. At the end of each year, the members divide amongst themselves the profits made from interest and fines charged to members. Some of the profit is used to ensure the sustainability of the project.
“Our savings are really helping us and our children at home. I can now get some essential things like sandals and body lotion for my children in school,” says Pasiasi.
Although the association is growing, even attracting refugees without disabilities, Duku says if they are to give their community the kind of service it deserves, they need support from other organizations. “We need partners to help us. We have no financial training. So far, everything we have accomplished was just a big gamble,” he says.
While waiting for these partnerships, the association remains undeterred in its mission to help refugees living with disabilities in Uganda to rise beyond the harrowing circumstances life has thrown at them.
But then increasing savings at hand means more risks, says Abugo Samuel Elly, a financial expert for Loms Forex in Uganda; he advises that village savings and loans businesses in refugee settlements need to make use of the local banks to keep excess.
“Looking at the security and safety of your money,” Abugo says, “It is important to keep money in the bank because keeping money in the settlement with a specific person or in the family is not 100% safe at any point. Thieves can break into your family at any time and take away your money. …though we have treasurers in saving groups, trust is always very difficult to earn.”
Guya equally shares this worry, fearing more risks like fire and corruption could destroy their savings. As he commits to saving more, his colleagues are working hard to open a bank account in the association’s name, which Abugo believes would entitle the group to many benefits not limited to access to large capital.
“Banks spend millions of money every year to ensure that they keep their customers’ money safe. To some extent, there are some banks that have [a] good reputation. They’ve got some insurance covers,” Abugo says.
With Guya’s association undeterred in their savings, they hope a helping hand to their struggles would help them top the quest for resilience.
Edited and reviewed by Mamaponya Motsai, Cassandra Roxburgh, Caleb Okereke, and Uzoma Ihejirika.
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Alison Lemeri Francis is a 2022 Minority Africa Fellow. He is a South Sudanese refugee, journalist and podcast producer in Uganda. He produces a community-centered media podcast for refugees in Omugo refugee settlement. Lemeri has more than 5-years of experience in media work including reporting for print, radio and online media. He’s currently a student of Morris Journalism Academy Australia specializing in freelance journalism and is a graduate in Business Administration from Makerere University Business School. He’s passionate about telling in-depth stories of local grassroots efforts and underreported voices in areas of media, entrepreneurship, education, environment and climate change.


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A board game for refugee children in Uganda is bridging the education gap - Minority Africa
PK Merge
July 25, 2021
Kyangwali, Uganda— As one approaches the classes at COBURWAS Nursery and Primary school in Uganda’s Kyangwali Refugee Settlement, the noise coming from within the rooms can be quite distracting.
Yet in this school, the noise is normal and even productive.
It is a result of a learning activity incorporated in the timetable. After every lesson, the pupils at COBURWAS engage in a game that is designed to tutor them but also allow them to have fun at the same time.
The game, known as the 5 STA-Z  game, was created by Joel Baraka, a 23-year-old Congolese who was a former refugee in Uganda. It is meant to improve the quality of education offered in the refugee settlement while creating an exciting experience for the learners.
“Many in the refugee camp look forward to starting school to be able to play in a safe space,” Baraka says. “Playtime is not common in the camp because of space, so I started this game that added playtime to learning for these children.”
Schools across Uganda have been in and out of session since last year as a measure to reduce the spread of COVID- 19. The country’s Ministry of Education and Sports (MoES) developed a national response plan to ensure continuity of schooling during the pandemic and learning was moved from classrooms to the television and online space.
While many learners have adopted this norm, it has further widened the education gap for refugee school-going children who have little or no access to these forms of learning.
For Baraka, the closure of schools reaffirmed the importance of the 5 STA-Z game to children’s learning and since November 2020, the settlement has received over 300 copies of the games, allowing children to remain at par with their classwork even as they stay home.
“When the pandemic hit last year, together with a colleague of mine, Anson Liow, we started a Go Fund Me campaign page where we were able to raise USD 12,000 in four weeks,” Baraka says. “Schools closing last year was an eye-opener for me; I realized that this game could help children in a big way.”
Born in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), Joel Baraka moved to Uganda with his family in 1997, months after he was born, to live in Kyangwali.
He remembers how much he looked forward to starting school and how disappointed he was that the classroom sessions were far from the fun he had dreamt about – an experience he is aware isn’t just peculiar to him.
Uganda is one of the largest refugee-hosting nations in the world and it is home to over a million refugees. Children constitute around 60% of that number.
While refugee children in Uganda enjoy the same legal, physical, and social protection systems as the host population as well as using the same social services including universal primary and secondary education, the quality of education in the settlements is still lacking.
Characterized by congestion, many of the schools in refugee settlements lack resources including teachers, textbooks, and libraries.
“Children in the camp are always dealing with many issues like hunger because food is usually in shortage so learning can be challenging,” Baraka says with concern. “This game helps because they can still learn in a playful way and for a moment forget some of those challenges.”
This is equally the case in Kyangwali. The settlement has been in operation since the early 1960s and is home to approximately 42,262 individuals including refugees and asylum seekers.
Out of the nine public primary schools in the settlement, five of them currently use the 5 STA-Z game, which is being given out for free with the support of good-hearted donors.
Yet it is not restricted to pupils in refugee settlements.
The project, My Home Stars, is working with three other schools outside the settlement in Fort Portal and Kasese and Baraka hopes that the game will someday be available to all primary school-going children in the country.
The 5 STA-Z game comes with a die, board, and cards with questions and answers in the four core subjects of the primary school level in Uganda’s curriculum. It is played in groups of five pupils. When a player rolls a die, they have to answer the question on the card correctly or else forfeit the move.
“It summarizes the content meant to be learned for a particular year on cards,” says Ferdinant Ayikobua, who is a teacher at COBURWAS. “As the learners play, they become more familiar with what they are learning in class.”
The game board has green points and red points. The green points are known as chance points and represent opportunities. Here, when the learner answers a question correctly, they earn bonus points.
At the red points, which are referred to as the danger points, even when the learner answers the question correctly, they lose a point if the score is an odd number or divide the points if the score is an even number.
“We use the game to teach children that in life they can be presented with opportunities and one has to be prepared and focused to benefit from these opportunities,” says Eric Ogwang, the coordinator of the game in Kyangwali.
“Children also understand that sometimes you can do things correctly and not be rewarded and that’s okay too. They have to be able to move on and search for other opportunities,” he adds.
The use of games to consolidate knowledge is not new to the field of education and many experts have highlighted the importance of this.
Aarti Dadheech, an educationalist serving as an Assistant Professor in the Department of Computer Science and Engineering, JIET Group of Institutions in India, explains that learning is not just rote memorization.
Students won’t be able to gain any information and skills out of a dull learning process, Dadheech writes in a post on The Knowledge Review.
Growing up in a settlement might have opened Baraka’s eyes to the problem of dull learning but the idea of the 5 STA-Z game was inspired during his Advanced levels at the African Leadership Academy in South Africa – an education he is thankful to have, and a quality he wants to pass across to other children.
“I know that the opportunities I have been presented with in life have been because of education,” says Baraka, who is currently studying civil engineering at the University of Wisconsin–Madison in the USA.
He joined the university through the King-Morgridge Scholar program, a competitive international scholarship program that supports exceptionally driven incoming students dedicated to poverty alleviation in their home countries.
In 2017, Baraka was given a Queen’s Young Leaders Award for the practical ways he is addressing the challenges facing young refugees. He was recently among the top 10 winners of the OZY Genius Award presented to outstanding undergraduate students across the United States.
Through this recognition, Baraka and his team got funding from OZY as well as Chevrolet and the funds will be used to produce more copies of the game.
Nonetheless, with all the good it is doing, the 5 STA-Z game cannot solve all the challenges children in refugee settlements face in their pursuit of education.
Because the project depends on well-wishers, Baraka is unable to avail his game to all children who need it, at least not at this point.
There is also the cost of producing the game as well. Using manufacturers in Uganda, he reveals, has been expensive.
“We have been paying $25 to produce one game with local producers for a job we would pay $9 in China,” he says.
He hopes to continue producing locally in Uganda as a way to support the economy as he continues to find ways to decrease production costs.
The game is content-intensive, a factor that perhaps accounts for the high costs of production, but fund shortages have nonetheless caused delays in availing the game to learners.
Baraka says he and his team plan on purchasing two machines by the end of this year to lower those costs, adding that, “One machine will produce the content while the other produces the packaging for the game.”
Despite the hurdles from creation to production costs, Baraka feels the process has been valuable.
“It is so amazing watching the children playing the game. It makes the journey worthwhile,” he says, laughing heartily.
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Journalist at large.

author: PK Merge


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“A delay mechanism”: Liberian women question three-year ban on FGM - Minority Africa
Dounard Bondo
June 5, 2022
Image description: An illustration showing a red sign that reads “BANNED” in capital letters next to a hut painted white and with a grey roof. The background is green.
Monrovia, Liberia (Minority Africa) — In 1990, 17-year-old Kuo* was living with her aunt in western Liberia when was sent to the Sande bush schools to be cut.
“My aunt said she was taking me to school, I didn’t know it was the bush school where I would go through a painful experience,” she says. “It was like I fell in an ambush, it was painful.”
Until a recent suspension, these schools, originating from the Mande-speaking peoples, were still operational.
The secluded bush schools are organised by the Sande society, a secret women’s initiation society in Liberia and other African countries such as Sierra Leone, Côte d’Ivoire, and Guinea. Girls are kept in these schools for a period, which in some cases could be up to a year.
The girls are taught lessons aimed at preparing them for marriage and womanhood. Female genital mutilation (FGM) is then performed as a rite of passage into womanhood with the cutting itself carried out by the leaders of the Sande societies called Zoes.
“When I came out of the bush school and saw my friends still in school, I would bend my head to hide my face,” Kuo says. “It really hurt me; I don’t want any of my children and relatives to be part of it.”
In late February, Chief Zanzan Karwor, chairman of the National Traditional Council of Liberia, announced a three-year suspension of the practice of female genital mutilation in Liberia.
The three-year ban began with immediate effect and comes amidst campaigns by human rights groups for a total ban of the practice.
According to 2020 United Nations data, 44 percent of Liberian girls and women aged 15-49 years have undergone female genital mutilation, which usually consists of the partial or total removal of the external female genitalia.
In Liberia, the practice is usually done with crude tools and no anaesthetic , and could lead to death, health problems or psychological trauma. It is an encounter Kuo describes as “an evil and painful experience where pain doesn’t end.”
Lakshmi Moore, a Liberian feminist believes the short-term bans do not address or respond holistically to the issues relating to what causes FGM and its effects on girls and women.
“It’s a delay mechanism which means that initiation is merely deferred and in some areas, acts can continue without strong and clear actions to ensure it’s eliminated like enforcement procedures,” Moore says.
“It means even more harm whenever girls who for instance have advanced in school get recalled back to undergo initiation, so it’s [not] progress,” she adds.
Nelly Cooper, the Director of West Point Women for Health & Development Organisation (WPDHDO) calls into question the long-term  efficacy of a three-year  ban.
“If implemented properly the ban should stop the practice of FGM for the three years. However there is a need for a permanent ban afterwards,” she says.
This ban comes after two previous short-term bans in the country with 2020 United States Human Rights reports on Liberia stating that several human rights organizations reported bush school activities and FGM continued during the period of the previous bans, bolstering concerns as to the effectiveness of the implementation of the ban.
“While the suspension is welcome, it is not as enforceable because it can’t stop the practice totally during this period,” says Mackins Pajibo, a Program Officer at Women Solidarity Incorporated. “We still have records and complaints of it still being carried out in some areas.”
Liberia is one of three countries in West Africa with no laws expressly criminalising FGM. In absence of such laws, current laws on kidnapping, felonious restraint, and endangering lives have been used to try cases.
“While Liberia has attempted to prosecute forced FGM and death resulting from the practice with its existing laws, the biggest barrier is the lack of witness protection for victims and witnesses,” notes Asenath Mwithigah, the Global Lead on Equality Now’s End Harmful Practices program.
In 2015, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf – Liberia and Africa’s first female president – publicly spoke against the practice. However, it wasn’t until 2018, on her last day in office that she signed an executive order that banned the practice.
In 2016, the Liberian legislature removed a provision in a domestic violence bill that sought to criminalize the practice, stating that FGM was a cultural matter. As a result, presidents seeking to ban the practice have been forced to issue executive orders, which are only valid for a year in Liberia.
Current president George Weah also issued an executive order in 2019 that banned the practice for a year. This ban was effected with a declaration from traditional leaders to suspend FGM. Weah’s ban on FGM ended in June 2020, and the current ban is set to run for three years.
The reluctance of the legislature in criminalising or permanently banning the practice is tied to the political power and influence of these traditional societies, according to Gloria Yancy, the Program Coordinator at ActionAid Liberia.
“The government has not banned FGM because it is deeply rooted into the tradition of which lawmakers who are predominantly male are a part of,” she says, adding that the practice is also deeply tied to politics in Liberia.
“Most politicians use [the] support of practitioners of FGM as a means of getting more votes from electorates during elections, thereby encouraging and promoting the practice.”
The extent of the power of traditional societies is re-echoed by Mwithigah. “The Zoes are so powerful that membership is necessary for social, economic, or political influence in villages in around two-thirds of the country,” she says.
“Non-members can be kidnapped and forced to undergo FGM for discussing Sande issues, breaking Sande law, or passing close to the Sande bush schools.”
The prevalence of FGM is equally tied to the fact that it is supported by and forms part of the traditional Poro (male) and Sande (female) societies.
And within these societies, not everyone is pleased with even a three-year ban. Some traditional chiefs have argued against it saying that their livelihoods are tied to the operation of these traditional schools as women and girls who go to the Sande bush schools pay to attend.
Yet for women like Kuo, these choices have consequences.
“I regret going to the bush school, and I have seen no benefits from FGM. At a certain age, my sexual desires just went away from me,” she says.
In a 2021 interview, the gender minister stated that the government was implementing a pilot project to provide new skills, training and resources to traditional priests that operate the bush schools so that they can make a living after leaving the practice.
The project includes the building of vocational and heritage centres that teach new skills to Zoes, including climate-smart agriculture, business development, literacy, catering, and soapmaking, amongst others.
In recent years there has been a move to better regulate bush schools. The government and traditional council currently issue licences to Zoes to allow them to organise bush schools.
For many women, girls and anti-FGM campaigners, the recent ban is a good step in the right direction. However, many like Kuo continue to support and hope for a permanent ban.
“This three-year ban has not happened before. God will do something; maybe the time will come and they will ban for five or six years and hopefully one day it will finally be banned totally,” Kuo states.
Lakshmi Moore believes a permanent ban should incorporate the government addressing issues relating to prevention and having in place clear and strong policies to ensure closures.
“Some of this should include improving access to quality education and sexual & reproductive health and rights for girls in those counties; redirecting economic livelihood support to practitioners who rely on this for their livelihood – also helps to prevent them doing it illegally,” she says. “Social protection mechanisms for rural communities and more engagement and awareness with communities to support girls.”
While she awaits a total ban, Kuo, who is now a mother of two girls, has decided that none of her children will go to the bush school.
“When my daughter got older, family members asked me when I would send her to the bush school. I told them I wouldn’t send my child to a bush school,” she says. “I am using all my money to send my children to school. I told my daughters not to ever go; it’s just pain with no benefits.”
*Kuo’s name has been changed to protect her identity.
Edited 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.
Dounard Bondo is a writer and journalist based in Liberia. With bylines in BBC, Quartz and many others, his writing usually covers politics, policy, Law and entertainment.
Journalist at large.

author: Dounard Bondo


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“Queer is not a genre,” A Nollywood film about two women in love is challenging stereotypes - Minority Africa
Ope Adetayo
July 11, 2020
Lagos, Nigeria (Minority Africa) — Pamela Adie is not new to the struggle of ensuring proper representation of queer people and social acceptance. Pending in the Nigerian court of appeal is a suit that challenges the Corporate Affairs Commission’s refusal to register Lesbian Equality and Empowerment Initiative (LEEI), an NGO she set up for lesbians in Nigeria.
Today, Adie, 36, remains an LGBTQ+ rights activist and is the executive director of Equality Hub.
She has worked on several groundbreaking projects in the past including her biographical documentary, Under The Rainbow which screened at the residence of the British Deputy High Commission in Lagos, Nigeria and has just recently produced a short film, Ìfẹ̀, that follows the story of two women who fall in love over a three-day date.
“Representation in films is key in terms of accelerating social acceptance for the LGBT community,” Adie tells Minority Africa. “If you look at history, what you see is that when they portray us, we are portrayed as people to be ridiculed or people to sometimes be killed… the stories are usually negative, we rarely find positive stories.”
Ìfẹ̀ is directed by Uyaiedu Ikpe-Etim, 31, a Radio, Television, and Film Studies graduate of Eastern Mediterranean University in North Cyprus.
Ikpe-Etim was the best graduating student in her class and with Ìfẹ̀ as her directorial debut, she explains that she wants to challenge the ugly norms of homophobia that have become ingrained in Nollywood over time.
“Stories can be used to paint a group of people however you want to paint them,” she says. “What I did in Ìfẹ̀ is to paint LGBT people in a different light, representing queer people as normal people who are here and live normal lives like everyone else.’’
Ìfẹ̀ would not be the first film to address queer representation in Nigeria. It is coming after Hell or High Water, a movie about a gay pastor who eventually accepts his sexuality amidst stiff opposition from the public, but Ìfẹ̀ would nonetheless be the first Nigerian film to center women who are lesbian or bisexual.
“This story needs to be told also because as a lesbian or bisexual woman, you are doubly silenced, first as a woman and second as queer,” Adie says.
“It is not an unusual story; it is just a story of an underrepresented and misrepresented subject in Nollywood,’’ Uzoamaka Aniunoh, one of the two-cast members, tells Minority Africa.
Aniunoh holds a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing from the University of Birmingham and has appeared in the Pan-African TV series, MTV Shuga. She hopes Nigerians question the prevalent homophobic sentiments.
“When people watch, I expect that they will question why they feel the things that they feel and why they are against something so beautiful and human,’’ Aniunoh says.
Despite the seminal place Ìfẹ̀ will hold in Nollywood, its creators will not allow it to be termed a “queer’’ movie. Recognizing the power of language to redefine people’s experiences and confine to a tag, Ikpe-Etim opines, “Queer is not a genre.”
The ultimate goal of the team behind Ìfẹ̀ is not to create a separate space for movies that portray queer people’s experience but to make the inclusion of queer people seamless and a part of the system.
“When you watch a movie with heterosexual people, do you call it a heterosexual movie?” Aniunoh asks. “When you watch a movie, for example, and the characters do not engage in sex, do you say, ‘Oh, this is an asexual film?’’’
Yet for all its norm-breaking, Ìfẹ̀ would not be aired on Nigerian television. It would only be available on select channels provided by the Equality Hub. Its creators deem it a movie for those who need it and who want to watch themselves represented on-screen with accurate depictions that do not make queer people props.
They describe it as not geared towards the consumerism of the Nigerian movie industry and instead as a work of passion put together by a group of people who are tired of being on the sidelines, and of leaving their identity and its interpretation in the hands of outsiders who do not fully understand them or are willfully bound to a pact of non-acceptance of their humanity.
On this note, Aniunoh remarks, “From the beginning of time, we have watched heterosexual love on TV; this is reminiscent of when we didn’t see black people on TV. Now there are queer people around and we are here to show queer love.’’
The landscape of identities, however, remains narrow; and Ìfẹ̀, its creators know, will bolster queer representation in Nigeria at a cost.
The Director of the National Film and Video Censors Board in Nigeria has criticized the movie, promising to “track down those involved in it” because “the laws of the land prohibits certain things,” but Adie says they had no intention of taking the film to the board in the first place.
When asked how she feels about her directorial debut not being aired in every Nigerian household or being watched in cinemas across the country, Ikpe-Etim says, “What I am focused on is the joy the movie is going to bring to the LGBT community in Nigeria, not the public perception of a lesbian love-themed movie or any possible backlash.’’
Adie, on the other hand, is partly motivated that visibility will reduce homophobic norms in Nigeria because of the dropping statistic of the non-acceptance rate of queer people in Nigeria.
A 2019 Social Perception Survey on LGBTQ+ Rights in Nigeria showed a gradual increase in acceptance of LGBTQ+ persons. The results revealed that 60% of Nigerians will not accept a family member who is LGBTQ+, significant progress from the 83% who said they would not in 2017.
According to Adie, “The lack of stories like this gives the impression that we do not exist in Nigeria.”
Nigeria’s Same-Sex Marriage Prohibition Act prohibits marriage between persons of the same sex and organizations comprising gay people in Nigeria. There are however no laws criminalizing making films with gay characters.
“This [movie] is not about same-sex marriage or what they call gay organization,” Adie says. “The law does not criminalize being an LGBT person. Another thing is that the law does not criminalize making films about queer people.”
As one of the two actors in the movie, Aniunoh remains undaunted in the face of possible scrutiny.
“I am okay with being under the scrutiny… I am okay with being judged. This story is something that needs to be said, [homophobia] is something that needs to be tackled.’’
Ìfẹ̀ is among the first of the many required steps towards a proper representation of queer people in Nollywood and its creators know this.
“Queer lives have been intellectualized that you don’t even see lower-class people in Nigeria who are queer,” Ikpe-Etim says. “We need ordinary queer people to feature more and as filmmakers, we should do more on that.”
“When conversations about queer people come up, people only think about them sexually and this is a notion that must be changed.’’
For all the challenges in its path, Ìfẹ̀ will go a long way to staking a claim for LGBTQ+ persons in Nollywood.
“I don’t think Nollywood was conceived with us in mind because we have been waiting for mainstream Nollywood to make a film about us and that has not happened yet,” Adie tells Minority Africa. “We need access to resources and connection to tell these stories ourselves.”
Aniunoh, convinced of both the struggles and the symbolic importance of movies like Ìfẹ̀, paints a vivid analogy of the situation:
“When you are not invited to a table, you bring your own chair and if you are not allowed to sit at the table, you build your own table and invite your people.”
The teaser for Ìfẹ̀ is live on the 15th of July. To watch this and keep up with updates on the movie, visit its dedicated website.
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Ope Adetayo is an editorial intern at Minority Africa. He is a writing fellow at African Liberty. His work has appeared in Aljazeera, Humangle, Africaisacountry, The Stockholm Review of Literature, The Guardian NG, and elsewhere.

author: Ope Adetayo


text:
“A routine of constant erasure”: Moroccan identity and the World Cup - Minority Africa
Bianca Carrera
December 14, 2022
For centuries, Morocco has had a difficult time acknowledging its African identity. Reports like Arab Reform Initiative’s “Ending Denial: Anti-Black Racism in Morocco” point to the anti-black and anti-African sentiment that has inundated Moroccan society, resulting in a stronger self-identification with the Arab influence of their heritage that has until recently influenced how the country was geographically perceived.
Although an African country, Morocco has often been considered a Middle Eastern and an Arab country; in fact, some media outlets at the beginning of the World Cup only addressed it as an Arab nation. From “Morocco becomes first Arab country to ever reach quarterfinals” to “Arabs rejoice as one after Morocco’s historic World Cup,” these headlines brought to many non-Arab Moroccans like Hanan Midan, a Moroccan-Amazigh activist, a feeling of hopelessness before what she dubbed, “A routine of constant erasure.”
While the debate over Moroccan identity has often been the source of fights and disagreements, it seems like the point that activists like Hanan are making has started to be acknowledged. With the advancement of the Moroccan team through the World Cup’s stages, the press has increasingly been acknowledging the Africanness of the country, and Moroccans themselves are starting to feel proud of being African too.
As Hanan argues, the mainstream narrative that had been built around the Moroccan team during the World Cup at the beginning was one that erased the true nature of the country and its people: which is that Moroccans don’t only have Arab ancestry. Leaving little room for controversy, the preamble of the Moroccan constitution establishes that Morocco is a country whose “unity was forged by the convergence of its Arab-Islamic, Berber [Amazigh] and Saharan-Hassanic [saharo-hassanie] components.”.
In fact, the indigenous peoples of Morocco are the Amazigh, those who occupied large areas in North Africa and the Sahel until the Arabs started to expand from the Arabian Peninsula around the 7th century. With their arrival, the indigenous Amazigh population of certain lands decreased; although studies suggest that Tunisians, Algerians, and Moroccans are still “close to Berbers, suggesting little genetic contribution of Arabs who populated the area in 7th to 8th century AD.”
Genetics aside, the current Moroccan population already shows a diverse society, far from a unitary Arab character. The Indigenous Working Group for Indigenous Affairs (IWGIA) suggests that, although official data positions the percentage of Tamazight speakers as 30% of the population, local groups affirm the real figures to be found around 65%.
If all seems to point at the fact that Morocco is far from being an only-Arab country, and that it is rather an African country with Amazigh, Arab and other influences, the current configuration of Morocco’s national team accentuates this phenomenon.
Many of the members of the national Moroccan team come from predominantly Amazigh areas and are of Amazigh origin. Players Hakim Ziyech, Sofyan Amrabat, Selim Amallah and Munir El Kajoui, as well as the president of the Moroccan football federation Fouzi Lekjaa, are originally from the Moroccan Rif. Player Ahmed Sabiri, in contrast, comes from the town of Goulmima, which was historically inhabited by the Amazigh tribes of the Atlas Mountains.
Walid Regragui, the trainer of the Moroccan national team, was one of the first people to publicly defend the diverse nature of his team and country. When asked whether he thought the team represented the ensemble of the Arab world by a journalist, he responded: “First of all we defend Morocco and Moroccans, and just after that we are inevitably also Africans, and that is our priority, just like Senegal or Ghana.”.
If history, demography and the words of the Moroccan trainer himself make us see the pointlessness of not addressing Morocco as primarily an African country — not only in the narratives around the World Cup but in general as well — why is it still so difficult for some to reconcile this identity?
From the Moroccan Amazigh city of Al-Hoceima, in the Rif mountains, Yasmine Messaoudi believes she has an answer and it has to do with Morocco’s colonial history, which made many reject their African roots in a pursuit to look more Western:  “There’s a certain sentiment of anti-blackness and anti-Africanness that exists throughout the ‘Arab world’ and worldwide,” she argues. “Calling us an Arab country is denying us of our African roots, in a type of second colonialism. […]The break gets even deeper if you add Amazigh identity to the mix.”
When asked about how the invisibilization of the African and Amazigh character of her country made her feel, being herself of Amazigh origin, Yasmine claimed that it was “As if someone has only accepted a part of us and is denying the rest. As if we were a cake and the Arab world is only looking to taste the topping while the real thing is the whole cake itself, which is also African and Amazigh.”
Hanan Midan is a part of the active Amazigh diaspora calling for the recognition of its people through social media. As she asserts, the phenomenon of African and Amazigh invisibilization is something “we have been fighting for decades and decades.” She goes as far as claiming that the ‘Arab’ label has taken credit for most “things North Africans do, for the simple fact of speaking ‘Arabic’ and being majority Muslims” and that, as a Moroccan, she feels “as if without the label ‘Arab’ we were nothing.”
The World Cup has helped shed light on the multi-cultural influences of the Moroccan nation. As Morocco has been progressing through the last stages of the competition, their excellent strides have united not only the Muslim and Arab world that identifies with the country but also the whole African continent.
Media worldwide is now talking about how this is primarily a win for Africa; the players of the Moroccan team themselves, like Yassine Bounou, are also making sure to include the hashtag #Africa in their posts.
This is particularly important in a place like Morocco where, as Yasmine explains, alienation and denial towards their African identity as well as towards Amazigh and black people being at the backbone of the country’s history, are still present amongst some sectors of society. Where for years, black people – directly associated with ‘immigrants’ – were addressed as ‘Afrki’(Africans), as if they were different from the average Moroccan citizen that, ethnically and geographically speaking, would also be an African.
Therefore, rather than this being an intent to spark divisions, what this narrative highlights is that Morocco and other regional countries are starting to challenge the internal racism they once had, in addition to embracing the diversity that makes them special. As Yasmine puts it, “That is the beauty of being a Moroccan, the mixed identities which create an entirely new kind of pride.”
Edited by Shameer Ramdin, Uzoma Ihejirika, and Caleb Okereke.
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Bianca Carrera is freelance writer and analyst specializing in Middle Eastern and North African politics, as well as in environmental matters, at Sciences Po Paris. She has written for Al Jazeera English, The New Arab, Oxfam Intermon, elDiario.es, and others. Based in between Spain, France and Morocco.

created: December 14, 2022

author: Bianca Carrera


text:
A story of me: Being queer in North Sudan - Minority Africa
Zee Hamid
July 7, 2023
TW: This article contains descriptions of sexual and physical violence.
When I started university in 2018, I lived in a dorm with my older sister. Things were pretty quiet and fine until I started dressing comfortably – not wearing a hijab or long clothes that covered my body – and talking back to every homophobic comment my sister or her friends made. I started speaking publicly, joining the resistance committee, writing articles about feminism, and raising awareness about queer rights on social media.
I was trying to advocate for basic human rights since our country was going through a revolution; demanding justice, rights, and democracy. I hadn’t confirmed anything about my sexuality then, but it was almost clear to the public that I am queer.
Towards the end of 2021, my sister outed me to a hateful society, and my life changed. I was treated like a monster, told I was a shame and they couldn’t feel safe around someone like me, and I made them feel sick. I felt lonely and scared.
But this was just the beginning. Politically, academically, and economically, every aspect of my life was affected. I was bullied online, harassed on the streets, and threatened with rape and death on multiple occasions. Once, I was stoned in the street.
All this was done by the same people I protested with. Same people who marched against a dictatorship that cost them their freedom. My fellow members of the resistance committee started threatening to expel me and cancel my role as a writer for the committee. My family threatened to cut me off financially, and they did. I was homeless for a year, running from my family’s grip.
The more I wrote or spoke up, the more violent people got. My family and society made my life a living hell. I was in danger with no protection as society was made to oppress and kill people like me; I was sentenced to suffer death because I was different.
To the people who I was a part of their not-so-inclusive revolution because I wouldn’t be heard or free to speak up without being labeled and excluded for my orientation, my fight against the system will never be recognized. And to the government, my existence was simply a crime because I was queer. I was stuck between a revolution that might never guarantee my rights and a system that is designed to dehumanize me.
People started writing fake news and sharing private information about me that could get the police to arrest me. As a member of the resistance committee and a woman who appears publicly to be “passing queer agenda,” I could have easily been arrested on many felonies. I was harassed by policemen many times and had even been arrested because they didn’t like how I looked.
I remember one of them pulling me over, asking to exchange numbers, and telling me he wouldn’t let me go until I went out with him for coffee. If I refused, I would end up in jail that night because he could charge me with anything based on how I looked and what I was wearing.
They knew my activism background, and I knew I was always their perfect victim with no basic rights to protect myself, so I had to pay a lot to survive. Surviving without knowing what would become of me. I am already a criminal in this country for being queer, which makes it harder to be a political activist.
On January 31, 2022, I got shot at by the military forces during a protest. A guy who fought alongside me against military cops rushed me to the hospital and harassed me while I was drugged in the hospital.
Months later, on November 8, I was arrested during another protest. I wore a mask and covered my hair to avoid being recognized. When the police caught me and saw who I was, they were ecstatic. They called me “the prize” and took me to a small alley.
One of the cops pointed his gun at me and asked if I thought I was brave before removing my face mask and opening a tear gas canister. He used my mask and goggles to protect himself and watched as I choked. He made me kneel on the ground and put my hands down while he walked on my fingers. I could feel my nails breaking as he pulled me by my hair and rubbed my face against the ground.
I was terrified when he started taking off his pants, saying they weren’t going to kill me as they did my friends. He laughed, saying, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to rape you; I’ll save you for later when we are alone,” as he peed on me.
Afterwards, I was taken somewhere in their car with a bag over my head. They harassed me and touched me inappropriately throughout the ride. When we finally got there, they beat the shit out of me.
It was the longest night of my life, but what broke me wasn’t the physical pain or humiliation – it was the realization that these cops were above the law. They could do whatever they wanted to me, and nobody would hold them accountable.
Still, I kept being an activist. I kept writing and coping even though this society that is backed by an oppressive system broke me. I, in turn, broke the shackles of my family, the chains of this society, and the heteronormative reality.
Despite all of the threats I have faced as a queer activist in Sudan, I have managed to stay resilient by finding ways to cope with my double life and connecting with other activists who are fighting for our rights. The revolution has also given us hope that one day we will be able to live freely without fear of persecution or discrimination.
I found ways to stay connected with the queer community without being seen. I started attending underground meetings and events that were organized by other queer activists in the country. These meetings gave me a sense of community and solidarity, keeping me going during difficult times. Finding a community and knowing that I’m not alone in my struggles has been an incredibly empowering experience for me.
The queer community in Sudan is small, but we’ve managed to cope together in many ways and embrace our double life. We keep organizing small movements, events, and even drag nights. Though it is very hard to stay resilient, these events are our only way of not feeling alone.
The revolution in Sudan has been an incredible source of hope for many activists like myself. It has given us the courage to speak out against oppression and fight for our rights as queer people. The revolution has also brought attention to our cause, which has allowed us to gain more visibility and support from the international community.
Though we don’t always have the same agenda, those privileged enough sometimes use their privileges to pass the queer agenda. Through art, journalism, social media, and sometimes politics, from where they stand, we are all saying we are here, and we will be free.
Edited by Samuel Banjoko and Uzoma Ihejirika
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.

author: Zee Hamid


text:
‘A vicious cycle’: Aid, homophobia, and belonging, through the eyes of three gay men in Uganda - Minority Africa
Mari Goossen
September 19, 2021
In May this year, the parliament of Uganda passed another controversial bill that criminalized same-sex relationships and sex work.
The bill which stipulates a five-year jail term for anyone guilty of same-sex acts is further sending many members of Uganda’s marginalized queer community into hiding.
For pride month in June, we met up with three gay men in Uganda who even though confronted with bills like this and often violent homophobia continue to live proudly.
This photo essay was produced in partnership with Anthony Atiko, Josh Tigarson, and originally appeared in a condensed form on our social media platform.
I think I always knew I was gay. I remember a day back in primary school, we had Physical Education, and the teacher asked us to make a big circle while holding each other’s hands. The person next to me was a boy and I was scared, I didn’t want to hold him. Later I understood that I was afraid because I liked boys.
In high school, I tried my best to fit in. I had girlfriends, and I even believed I was in love with them.
It was only in 2019 that I really came to terms with my sexuality. I made a Facebook account and I started seeing other people who were out. I met some friends who started educating me about the LGBTQ+ community.
Later that year, I had my first experience with a guy. We started chatting online, after a while he started coming to my house. My mom thought we were just guy friends hanging out, she had no idea about the butterflies in my stomach.
A little after that I learned about an LGBTQ+ organization in Kampala, and I joined. That’s where I first met people like myself in real life. Before that, I was always a loner.
It is hard having to hide who you are. Sometimes, when I was talking to one of my straight friends, a feminine gesture would come out of me without realizing it. They would look at me funny and I would laugh or change the subject to get out of it.
Now, I finally had a group of friends to hang out with who understood me. They talked like me and dressed like me. I could finally be myself, I no longer had to hide behind a masculine masquerade.
Unfortunately, not much later the shelter was raided, just when I was there visiting a friend. The police humiliated us and physically abused us. Everything was filmed and broadcasted on national television.
I was one of the headliners, my face was shown everywhere. I lost a lot of friends after that. Most family members didn’t want to talk to me anymore, and I lost my job. I was working in a photography studio at the time; it was my dream. My boss was afraid he would lose customers if he kept me on.
My mom asked me to leave the house, she is a big person in church, so she has a reputation to keep up. We still talk on the phone. I understand her, it wasn’t easy, with everyone in the neighborhood looking at us. She had to protect her family. My sisters accept me the way I am, and that makes me hopeful of the younger generation that follows us.
Growing up in Nansana, Kampala, I had what you could call a regular childhood. My dad was an engineer and my mom owned a saloon. I have 4 siblings, I’m third in line.
Things [at home] changed when my father got sick and passed away. My mom became depressed and lost her salon. She couldn’t take the burden of taking care of the family all by herself.
My dream is to become a famous activist, like Todrick Hall, and help young queer people to empower themselves. Today, you see many gay people coming out on social media and being their selves. I love to see these very feminine guys being so popular on TikTok. Everyone loves them, I want to have a reach like that one day.
I think Pride Month is a time for LGBTQ+ people to celebrate each other and their sexuality. You see these people in western countries coming out in the streets, showing people their full reality. They do it publicly without anyone stopping them.
I think it’s great because if they don’t do it, no one else will do it for them. Unfortunately, here in Uganda it’s not possible. They tried it in 2016, but the police came and arrested people. One day I hope to live somewhere in the United States, settle down with someone and live a peaceful life. Maybe there I can celebrate Pride as it should be.
My comfortable life as I knew it changed in 2019, when the police raided a gay party I [was] attending. The police arrested 127 people, of which 67 were charged. Sadly, I was one of them. I spent 10 days in prison, and the only people I could think of to bail me out were my parents but facing them was even scarier.
My parents are from a village in the Central Region but came to Kampala to pursue their dream as thriving business owners. My dad owns a hardware store and my mom a produce store. So, it was only right that I would go to Business School at Makerere University, one of the best schools in the country. My dream is to be an account manager at a bank. I would invest all the money I make to help people in need.
I had realized that I was gay two years before that. My friend’s cousin was gay, and he had a DVD with gay porn. My friend wanted to watch it for fun, but I was incredibly turned on by it.
My mom came to pick me from prison and took me home. That’s when the harassment started.
My parents were filled with anger and shame. They never even let me explain what happened. It was said on television that we were prostitutes, so that’s what they believed. My family told me again and again that I engaged in satanic acts, which traumatized me and caused sleepless nights.
I wasn’t allowed to interact with my brothers, they said I’d turn them gay as well. They wouldn’t share meals with me or sit at the same table then me, they looked at me as if I was evil.
Before I used to date girls, but I never had sex with them, whenever they tried to touch me, I would make up an excuse. Now I understand why. Although I would think about trying it out [with men] one day, I was afraid.
I had heard stories that if men have intercourse, your opening will become very wide, and you would have to wear pampers.
After my first time, I cried for two days straight. Eventually, I realized I was fine. I started dating guys and had some gay friends, but all of this happened in the shadows.
All I wanted was to be provided for till I would have completed university. But my parents stopped paying the tuition, they said they wouldn’t care for a gay child’s education. I finally ran away from home and started staying with a compassionate friend who helped me get back on my feet.
I knew that I had to make it on my own. I tried to provide for myself for a while, I started operating a mobile money [business], but I could never make enough to pay school fees and survive. My biggest fear is that I will never be able to finish university.
At a certain point, we were staying with four boys at my friend’s place, in a very small room. It was uncomfortable and the neighbors started to complain as well.
I found an older, married man who wanted to take me in as a houseboy. I didn’t like him, but he gave me food and shelter. I would cook and clean for him, and when his wife was away, he demanded sex. Sometimes he brought other men over and then I would have to serve them.
It is hard to find a decent job in Uganda as a gay man because people will start to notice your feminine mannerisms and will start to talk. Right now, I am staying with two friends and we are surviving on the income of one of them who is doing sex work to survive. But at least we have each other and they are my rock.
The hardest thing for me is not talking to my mother. She is my role model, she’s a strong woman and she worked so hard for me to become someone. She had big dreams for me, and I let her down. I just hope with time she will understand, and I can make her proud.
[When] I was 15 I [joined] secondary school in Fort Portal. It was there that I first started realizing that I liked boys. In boarding school, all the boys would shower together and change in front of each other.
I realized that I felt attracted to them and when I would get a [moment alone], I would touch myself while thinking about their naked bodies. Afterwards, I always felt horrible, I thought there was a problem with my brain, that something must be seriously wrong with me.
When I was 17, I got my first phone and created a Facebook account. I don’t know how they do it, but when you are gay and you’re on Facebook, other gays come to you like a moth to a flame.
At that time, I was in Kampala, at another boarding school my father had sent me to. I liked that school; I was very popular. Everyone knew me, boys and girls. It was there that I got my first boyfriend, although we didn’t define the relationship at the time.
He was the one pursuing me. It was all very playful, he would slap my bum when no one was looking, or hug me from behind when I wasn’t paying attention.
One day he asked me if I wanted to take it to the next level. I didn’t know anything at that time, I never actually met another gay person. He said he could teach me everything and he convinced me to go to the bathroom with him. It was all very exciting, but I felt very embarrassed afterwards, I didn’t speak to him for a week.
After a week, things went back to normal, and we would find ways to sneak around and make out with each other. One day we made a plan to skip class and stay behind. When everyone had left, we started kissing, but I guess we were a bit too excited, because we never heard the warden coming.
The next day, they called our parents. My dad was in town and came to pick me up. He didn’t say a word, he’s a very introverted man. The next day he gave me some money for transport and told me to go back to my grandmother in the village.
I didn’t stay long in the village. By the time I arrived there, everyone already knew what I had done. Everyone looked at me sideways and some people harassed me on the streets.
By that time a friend of mine told me about LGBTQ+ shelters in Kampala where you could stay for free. At first, I thought it was a great opportunity, but I learned quickly that life at the shelter is hard. We used to eat one time a day only. I worked in an electronics store for a while, but the money was just about enough to pay for the transport.
Some of the guys came with money and they were eating well. I learned that they were doing sex work. I didn’t see any other option than to start doing that as well to survive.
In March 2020, the shelter got raided. I and 19 others spent 52 days in jail where we were treated worse than animals in a slaughterhouse. When they released us, an NGO helped us pay for three months of rent. After that, I found myself on the streets with nowhere to go.
I couldn’t go back to the shelter because it didn’t feel safe there anymore. I had trauma from what had happened there. No one wanted to hire me, everyone saw the headlines on television. I ended up finding a small room where I stayed with three of the other guys on one mattress on the floor. The little food we could buy came from my income as a sex worker. My friends are my family; I would do everything for them.
My dream is to start my own organization. I want to help queer people to find a job and empower themselves. I don’t think that anyone should live as I did in the shelter. It’s a vicious circle, you become dependent, and you have no more power over your own life. The people on top benefit from you being there because they get funds from Europe and the U.S., yet we never see that money. I hope to change that one day.
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Mari Goossen is a journalist from Belgium.
Anthony Atiko is a freelance photojournalist from Uganda.

created: September 19, 2021

author: Mari Goossen


text:
A Wa Nibi: Archiving the Queer Experience of the Past and Present for the Future - Minority Africa
Samuel Banjoko
July 1, 2023
In the last few years, there has been an increase in films, books, and artworks telling the Nigerian queer experience. But despite telling Nigerian stories, they are often unavailable to consume in Nigeria, from films like Ife, which was censored in Nigeria, to bookshops not stocking queer books.
“I curated A Wa Nibi to give a home to queer arts that are often rejected and sent to Western communities where mostly White people consume them,” says Matthew Blaise, curator of A Wa Nibi, an archival project dedicated to preserving the Nigerian queer experience.
Organised by Òbòdò in collaboration with Kampabnagel, A Wa Nibi, which means “we are here in” Yoruba, comes at a time when a new wave of government-endorsed homophobia is spreading across the continent, as queerness is considered un-African.
From censorship in Cameroon to Uganda’s new legislation on LGBTQ+ rights, the misconception that queerness has no history or origin in Africa has been pushed as a fact often used by politicians and homophobes to justify oppression and violence against LGBTQ individuals.
But looking at African history and languages away from the Western ethnocentric Christain views proves this misconception wrong. From Yan Daudu, a Hausa term for “men who act like women,” to Adofuro, a Yoruba word that translates to “someone who has anal sex,” language and history across the continent point to the existence of queer people in various societies. It is language like these A Wa Nibi seeks to document.
“We’re trying to restore the lost and present identities of today. Putting all of that together and giving them the language they deserve because a lot of old materials that may be queer in nature have been given new languages that just take away that queerness from them,” says Blaise.
Talking about queerness in the Yoruba language and how Orishas are non-gendered, Ayodele Olofintuade, a panelist whose recitation of Ifa verses during the exhibition was captivating, says, “Queer behaviours are patterns that defy the norms. They are things we see every day that have been disconnected.”
This disconnect exists due to a lack of documentation, misinterpretation, and suppression of queer history and behaviour and is what A Wa Nibi seeks to address. To achieve this, they organised a focus group discussion, a zine workshop, an exhibition, and a panel discussion, spread over three days, using art and technology to document the existence of queerness, how it’s perceived, and how queer individuals express their experiences through language.
The focused group discussion organised on the first day created a space where LGBTQ persons could talk about how they navigate a homophobic world using queer-coded words, the origins, meaning, and contexts of these words, and words within Nigerin languages that point to their historical existence, without fear but the reassurance that the Nigerian queer reality is documented and protected.
A closed event, the focused group aimed to create a glossary on the language used within the Nigerian queer community.
The exhibition, which was held on the 28th and 30th of April, highlighted the lived realities of contemporary queer Africans through photography and experimental visual art from Sabelo Mlangeni, Rachiel Sadiu, Yagazie Emezi, Daniel Obasi, Va Bene, and more.
The panel discussion on ‘Queer(y)ing the Archive’ featured Rachel Sadiu, Nelson C.J., and Ayodele Olofintuade, who talked about the importance and dangers and navigating the dangers of creating an archive of a marginalised and criminalised group.
“My primary goal is still to write for that younger person, for queer people to feel seen. Still, it makes me uncomfortable when our lives are covered in every single detail. I think it’s important we have moments that aren’t used for content; it makes us feel like subjects all the time.” Nelson C.J. says on the navigating writing about queerness. “Straight people get to water down what these things mean, and sometimes it makes it easier for them to mask and abuse queer people.”
Still, “certain things need to go mainstream to protect the most vulnerable of us,” Olofintuade says.
But as important as documentation is, there are certain complexities to doing it right, and one of the most important is allowing people to decide if and when they want to be documented.
“Allowing people to decide if they want to commit to that level of danger matters. Asking permission and having a relationship (with them) makes it easier for them to approach (me) when they want a picture taken down, especially when their circumstances change or there’s danger.” Sadiu says.
The second day featured a Zine workshop. Zines, which are self-published works that feature original or appropriated text and images, have a history intertwined with minority groups where they have played a crucial role in spreading political and personal messages of people who are often underrepresented in mainstream media.
For instance, in the 1960s, zines such as “We Called a Strike” by Black and Red provided unfiltered personal accounts of what it meant to be Black during the civil rights movement, and in the 1990s, zines by Riot Grrl helped spread the feminist manifesto.
In a relaxed and fun space, the workshop taught participants how to create zines and allowed them to create individual zines that record and share their experiences, goals, and personality.
In a country where queer individuals live on the edge, spaces and projects like these are important in not just documenting queer culture but also ensuring members of the culture can be free. To protect this, the archive was hosted in Germany to avoid censorship and will be separated into publicly and privately available information to protect the community further.
The Germany exhibition for the A Wa Nibi Project took place in Hamburg, Germany, from June 1st to June 3rd, bringing and expanding conversations and art around the Nigerian queer experience to a global audience.
Adebayo Quadry-Adekanbi, one of the hosts of the Nigerain exhibition, says, “We’re not always infallible. So when we use the archives wrongly, get ready to be called out, and when we use the archives rightly, get ready to be celebrated.”
Edited/Reviewed by: Caleb Okereke
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.

author: Samuel Banjoko


text:
Abolish language that predicates whiteness as the default - Minority Africa
minorityafrica.co
July 8, 2020
We’ve seen and are tired of how Black characters are often described in “mainstream” publishing. When writers, storytellers, or brands use words like “coffee,” “chocolate,” “cocoa,” and “caramel” in describing Black characters or selling their products meant for Black people, what they are essentially doing is affixing description on whatever thing exists outside of whiteness.
On the surface, this seems harmless, any storyteller knows that description is a powerful tool to move a story forward yet these descriptions are symptomatic of a bigger problem.
It’s very important that we question the reason as to why a character’s skin tone has to be described in the first place. Do you feel the same compulsion to describing skin when the character is white? Do you resort to food comparisons when you do? And if not, why?
The reason is simple, it is a contorted view of society and humanity that centers whiteness, making it the default and correspondingly not necessary to describe. In this sense, this description of Black characters becomes a way of othering them and further distancing them from the believed norm that is white.
Author, George Yancy describes whiteness as the transcendental norm which means that whiteness goes unmarked and is predicated upon its distance from and negation of Blackness.
Unlike with white supremacy, whiteness as the transcendental norm doesn’t view whiteness as above or superior, it views whiteness as only.
And so when we use descriptions like coffee, caramel, or chocolate, we are additionally establishing whiteness as the transcendental norm, reinforcing that it doesn’t need to be marked or identified or described because it is usual, and strengthening the power dynamic that itself instituted colonialism.
Nonetheless, these descriptions besides othering Black characters also fetishizes them. Repeatedly describing the skin color of an entire race using food items plays right into the narrative of Black bodies as “exotic,” “sexually desirable,” and, “edible.”
It postulates that the Black character and the Black body as a whole exist simply as a commodity, a meal, or consumable. In examining the history of these words, we equally see their close links to slavery and colonialism and they become even more problematic.
The production of chocolate, for instance, was heavily driven by imported slaves from Africa who worked on American cocoa plantations. Coffee too has a history of slave labor which eventually was crucial to its growth and popularity.
As a team of majority storytellers, we recognize the place of description in our storytelling but we are equally quick to see how this description can infer or predicate whiteness as the standard.
We must daily do away with terms that center whiteness, catering to it’s need to be the default and in like manner others everything else.
This post is published as part of our Abolishing Oppressive Language Series. To read more from these series, click here. For comments and feedback, email: language@minorityafrica.org.
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Editorial.


text:
Accountable - Minority Africa
Ope Adetayo


text: Advance Leads - Minority Africa


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African illustrations and their role in minority solutions storytelling - Minority Africa
Sef Adeola
November 19, 2019
There is a group that comes to mind when examining the inception of illustrations in Africa, these are the masquerade garment makers and designers who I believe to be the earliest African illustrators.
Not least because every masquerade carries undercurrents of meaning and significance. From the contours on its face to the ripple designs on the fabric, to its intricate dance steps and finally to its ritual, in all its ramifications, the African Masquerade is illustrating several stories at the same time.
Running with the premise that illustration is the art of summarizing and representing a story with an image, it becomes even more lucid how embedded it is into the very textile of African culture.
Like all things, culture began to change, and although illustrations were previously used to portray the lives of African kings and queens or to appease the ancestors through a festival, it soon metamorphosed into ‘Political Illustrations.’
These types of illustrations employed literary tools like sarcasm and humor and were drawn in an exaggerated art style known as a caricature. These styles of illustrations were commonplace in Nigerian newspapers and these artists were often referred to as Cartoonists.
Until the last decade, it was important for newspapers to have one or two Cartoonists. Here, there was less emphasis on style but more attention at the story and these illustrations employed a lot of dialogue that drove the story forward. In fact, the illustrations couldn’t stand without the dialogue – one significant difference to contemporary illustrations.
The role of the illustrations here was social commentary, partly due to the fact that it was housed in newspapers but mainly due to the political energy brewing in Africa in the 20 century that permeated its art, fashion, film, music, and education.
In contemporary times, illustration has assumed a sort of formlessness, being able to be politically charged yet entertaining at the same time, a return to individual styles, more westernized, a return to realism and a departure from caricature prevalent in the previous century.
They have also become ubiquitous, from Advertising to Manufacturing, Banking to Entertainment and Music. In this era, the role of illustration is so vast and diverse it cannot be pigeon-holed and though this is a god-like quality, it comes at a price like a homogeneity in styles, lack of true innovators, similar color palettes, inconsistency, and low-pay.
But how can this constantly evolving art aid minority storytelling? Having ingrained in their very nature a calling to social commentary, illustrations have a history of advocacy. Minority solutions storytelling is in itself a form of advocacy.
This might be a puzzling train of thought, especially since most people have understood solutions journalism as detailing interventions at the expense of advocacy and holding people accountable.
And so if illustrations have a history of social commentary, how can they be condensed into a solutions perspective?
A quote from David Bornstein who is one of the cofounders of the Solutions Journalism Network best answers this question.
Bornstein said, “Solutions journalism turns out to be a great accountability mechanism. You can hold people accountable for bad performance by showing cases in which someone else is doing better.”
Bornstein’s quote sums whatever point I might have made of illustrations and their role in minority storytelling. When we communicate the interventions of a marginalized group through art to the majority, we are advocating, but not by asking you to focus on the problem but by looking at what’s working and suggesting ways in which we can do better.
As an illustrator with Minority Africa, this then becomes topical for me. I know that the earliest illustrations were commenting, that they have been used through the years as a tool for accountability and I do not think this is a trait that has to be lost even as we delve into solutions journalism, or into minority storytelling.
Illustrations still do have to say something, still do remain a form of social commentary but what my role involves and what Minority Africa looks at is what this color palette is saying. What is this piece of art communicating and how best can I listen?
Sef Adeola is an Illustrator at Minority Africa. Read about our mission here.
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Sef Adeola is an illustrator with Minority Africa.

created: November 19, 2019

author: Sef Adeola


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African spirituality makes space for my divinity and queerness - Minority Africa
Moyomade Aladesuyi
July 24, 2022
When my father died in 2021, one of the most overwhelming things I felt was the loss of a spiritual anchor. My father remains one of my guides into Yoruba spirituality because with him, I could talk about spirituality and faith while decentering the colonial gaze.
Growing up in a Christian household, I assimilated into the Christian culture. I absorbed every doctrine and held on desperately to the hope of heaven and the fear of hell. However, nothing seemed right. Not the way women were constantly dismissed in the church I attended, nor the way I feared to even look powerful or beautiful for fear of ending up in the fiercest part of hell. Even before I knew I was queer, I had been spoon-fed the ills of “lesbianism” since I was a toddler and that meant that I suppressed a lot of my feelings till I was 17 when I finally rejected the church of my birth and embraced pantheism.
Many Africans have similar experiences. Ayodele Olofintuade, a non-binary Nigerian writer and traditionalist, was born and raised in a typical Chrisitan Yoruba home. As a result, many people told them to stay away from Isese spaces – the traditional spiritual practice of the Yoruba people in Nigeria. However, with the slow resurgence of traditional practices, Olofintuade has started to find community and joy within Isese spaces.
Colonialism demonised Isese practices, forcing people to turn to Abrahamic religions. These religions, in turn, ostracised queer people and denied them access to spiritual spaces due to their queerness. Their queerness, they were told, made them unholy and deserving of cruelty. Pre-colonial Nigeria was rooted in traditional spirituality and traditional spirituality differs from region to region, yet it is so easily rooted in similar practices and ways of living.
Olofintuade views Yoruba spirituality as an innate component of identity. They view it as a way of life rather than a religion or spirituality. “It is not some religion that you have to go and find – it is always there in you as a Yoruba person,” says Olofintuade, “it is part of your birth.”
For most traditionalists, Isese is a mode of living. You ground yourself every day in the infiniteness of the universe and the assurance of your place in it as a human being. A critical component of the practice is being initiated into the worship of an Orisha. The Orishas are portrayed as transcending the gender binary as they embody both the feminine and the masculine.
The Orisas are not gendered as they are portrayed in artwork. Osun, even though quite feminine, also possesses very masculine energy. Orisha Oya is famously known to be a woman and a wife of Sango but is also quite masculine in the way they act. Isese practitioners believe Oya wields Sango as an instrument of destruction to balance Oya’s powers for rebirth, as they are the guardian of the portal of death. Orisha Ogun dresses in a stereotypically feminine way by wearing skirts made of palm fronds, and Esu is considered to be an ungendered Orisha.
The subversion of the gender binary is why many queer traditionalists find the Isese practice incredibly empowering and validating. “When I am in Isese spaces, I see how bodies are non-gendered, and our bodies are capable of wielding the power bestowed to us by the Orishas,” says Olofintuade.
Contrary to post-colonial ideations of traditional spirituality, nothing prevents queer people from finding spirituality in traditional spaces. Isese doesn’t have a handbook on practising spirituality or engaging in worship. Instead, the practice focuses on your journey within the context of a close-knit community that supports your journey. Due to the pervasive nature of queerphobia, you are likely to encounter discrimination in traditional spaces, but queerphobia is not the result of the tenets of the Isese practice.
Isese is a freeing experience as it acknowledges the diversity of human identity and affords people respect based on their existence alone. Queer people have often spoken about the reconciliation with their past selves through their spirit selves upon finding their way back to their spirituality. Furthermore, Isese allows queer people to escape the rigid boxes created by capitalist and patriarchal structures. Olofintuade explains that Isese will enable you to rediscover yourself outside of the criticisms of self-hatred made by anti-queer education. “It helps you reconcile with yourselves that have been buried under layers of miseducation and lies,” they say.
Being a pantheist led me to understand and embrace the universe in different cultures and settings outside the one I was brought up in. In my journey, I have the opportunity to see and accept myself in Yoruba traditional spirituality through Isese. Isese guides you through your journey to achieve a higher purpose. It is your journey at the end of the day. The Alawo (diviner/priest) can tell you that you should make appeasement to Esu or that your Ori hates it when you wear a certain colour and that  is just guidance for you. Ultimately, you know best what your Ori wants from you if you are in constant communication with your spiritual aides.
Akwaeke Emezi, an Ogbanje and the author of The Death of Vivek Oji, described coming to terms with their spirituality as taking off masks and “trying to throw away the ones made of poor human skin, empty-eyed rotted things, puppets.”
Isese is a powerful means of empowerment for queer people. Olofintuade views it as a space where they are nurtured and protected by their spirituality. “I am treated like this baby that needs to be protected at every turn,” they say.  Isese acknowledges and affirms that their queerness is one aspect of the vastness of their humanity. Doing so imbues queer identity with unlimited amounts of power – queer people are given the space to exist as their person and enact their will upon the world. “There is nowhere I turn to that I don’t feel powerful or that I own the soil on which I step on,” explains Olofintuade.
This happens to queer people who try to find answers for themselves. They go back to indigenous practices where they are free to be themselves and free from the limitations of the cis heteropatriarchy. Nobody can say “Ifa forbids you to be in a homosexual relationship” or “you cannot be transgendered as a devotee of Oya” because these Orishas already exist outside of our binaries. They embody both the feminine and the masculine and everything in between and beyond. That is also relatable to queerness. As a queer person, my existence is already outside the boxes of a cisgender-heteronormative society and I am constantly pushed to think, live and exist without the blurry lens of society’s failed systems.
In their memoir Dear Senthuran, Emezi explained how they once sought validation of their spirituality and looked for their god-nature in places that were home to local traditions. None of it worked out because their journey was not conventional. Instead, they found the answers in themselves. Being a traditional spiritualist is a personal journey to find god and the divine in places in ourselves.
Spirituality in indigenous practices is intentional in how it empowers people to live authentically. Emezi asks the question in Dear Senthuran, “What would it look like if we took up our own space, all of our space, planets and planets worth of it?”
Yoruba spirituality encourages people to be fully aware of their presence in the universe while acknowledging all the other elements and spirits and Orishas that make up the infiniteness of the universe. Even though indigenous spirituality has been painted in bad light through decades of colonial education, it is still fully operative. It even acts as a place of safety for queer people and people looking to free themselves from patriarchal and capitalist conditioning. You are already walking the earth with so much power and purpose, treading the lines of the divine. So, who can tell you that you cannot be queer? Who dares say you cannot exist?
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Moyomade Aladesuyi is a 21 year old law graduate from Obafemi awolowo university, Nigeria. She is a queer feminist writer and poet. She is a pantheist with special leanings into Yoruba spirituality and is a lover of culture, literature and the arts. Moyomade is an artist and when she is not reading or writing, you can find her doing UX/UI designs on her laptop or designing traditional batik fabrics. She loves telling the stories that are
not being told in the society; stories that are central to her community and hopes to publish her short stories, poetry and novels at some point.

author: Moyomade Aladesuyi


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How football games between persons with albinism and vitiligo are helping fight stigma in Kenya - Minority Africa
Elizabeth Okwach
March 20, 2022
Nairobi, Kenya (Minority Africa) — While pursuing his bachelor’s degree at Moi University in Kenya in 2008, Tom Radido noticed patches on his body.
His family came up with a theory: they concluded he had stepped on ash burned during a traditional rite following the death of twins. To reverse the condition, Radido was given ash to lick, with some smeared on his face. Nothing changed.
It was instead the onset of vitiligo, a skin condition affecting about 0.5 to 2% of the world’s population. It also marked the beginning of a series of discrimination against Radido.
“You go for interviews and from the receptionist, no one wants to look at you twice,” he tells Minority Africa. “There is this interview that I was invited to attend, and I had not stated in my resume that I was disabled. During the interview no one dared to look me in the face, even the CEO, they asked me questions while looking down.”
30-year-old Radido is now one of nearly sixty persons who are part of Royal Patches, a group using soccer to foster the inclusion of persons living with vitiligo in Kenya.
“I feel more confident, and relaxed when I am around [other persons living with vitiligo],” he says. “I am able to express myself freely, I don’t get worried that people are staring at me due to my skin patches.”
One of the teams the group plays games with and against to a large audience is Black Albinism Football Club (BAFC), which is comprised entirely of people living with albinism and similar to Royal Patches is using soccer to create a safe space for persons with albinism while equally combatting widespread discrimination against them.
Black Albinism Football Club  was started by two people living with albinism, one of which is 26-year-old Angie Kite whose experience with discrimination began as a child when her parents neglected her and refused to pay for her education.
“We called it Black Albinism because we are too ‘white’ to be black,” Kite tells Minority Africa. “We are in a black country, but we are ‘white.’”
So far the group, which began in 2018, has organized ten games, has around 30 members, and has participated in a sporting tournament in Tanzania. The matches between BAFC and Royal Patches, which attract dozens of people, have been focal points to create community, says Kite, for both persons living with albinism and persons living with vitiligo.
“The feeling of playing with other people who have a disability is so refreshing and homely. It is just a way of creating awareness in a more not worrying way,” she says.
Kenya has an estimated 9000 persons living with albinism but closely held cultural perceptions mean the condition continues to carry a deep stigma, one that these matches hope to change.
“It is not all about the trophy or funding but our joy is when we reach out to other people,” says Paul Butita who is the co-founder of BAFC and who also plays on the team.
Butita says the team has been registered with the country’s Ministry of Sports, adding that the matches have also motivated other disability-rights groups to form their football teams, such as the Little People Team created by the Short Stature Society of Kenya and which now compete against BAFC in regular tournaments.
He adds, “In fact, they also motivated the stammering society of Kenya to form their own team.”
In March last year, Kenya’s government announced a ban on sporting activities due to Covid-19. The ban was lifted earlier this month and for the first time in over a year, the teams will be able to gather again, an event that Kite, Butita, and Radido all look forward to.
Nonetheless, organizing at this level has not come without hurdles for both teams. BAFC and Royal Patches say they have to compete for pitch slots with major soccer clubs, which forces them to use playgrounds within estates in the city. There’s also limited access to gear and football attire the teams need.
Additionally, Dr Prabha Choksey, an ophthalmologist practicing in Kenya and founder of Dr Choksey Albinism Foundation warns that playing under the sun can have negative effects on persons living with albinism. “They will be more prone to skin cancer,” she says.
In some countries, a majority of persons with albinism die from skin cancer between thirty to forty years, with high prevalence in Africa where exposure to the sun is almost unavoidable.
But BAFC and Royal Patches  are not oblivious to this and the many other challenges that come with a game such as theirs. They seem to be skilled in adaptability.
Covid-19, for example, compelled them to ramp up their online presence as it was the only way they could stay in touch while sporting activities were prohibited.
Also, social media has been a tool for both groups and has connected them with a portion of their audience, such as Patricia Mwangi who plays for Royal Patches and has lived with vitiligo since 2005. Mwangi found the group on Facebook and hasn’t looked back since.
“Here I’ve met people who have a strong zeal and are not afraid to [show] their bodies,” she tells Minority Africa. “They would put on football attire without blinking.”
A patch appeared on Mwangi’s skin in 2005 and got worse in 2009; it was then her world turned upside down.
“My colleagues at work initially started segregating me as they thought vitiligo was contagious,” she says. “I was forced to cover my whole body when going out. It was so frustrating until I joined Royal Patches. Today I don’t care much about the stares I get when on public service vehicles in the central business district.”
She’s also excited to return to in-person games and is optimistic about a future in which she envisions the games being scaled.
“I hope we shall also start participating in international games like the Little People football team for short-statured people,” she says. Commenting generally about the games, she adds, “I found courage, something that I didn’t have since the first patch appeared on my skin.”
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Elizabeth Okwach is a freelance journalist based in Nairobi, Kenya. She writes mostly on culture, women, business, technology, climate among other topics. Her work has appeared in Zonk News, Zenger News, Techub, and OkayAfrica.

author: Elizabeth Okwach