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“Time to build afresh”: The Nigerian centre using art to reposition Igbo history and culture - Minority Africa
Samuel Ajala
June 17, 2022
Image description: Guests on a tour of the Mmụọ Exhibition that opened at the Centre in August 2021. One of them is staring at a painting. They are wearing a green shirt, grey hat, has on spectacles and is also in a nose mask. Behind them is another person in a dress just above the knee and made out of the Ankara fabric captured with their back towards the camera and also observing a painting.
Enugu, Nigeria (Minority Africa) — On January 21, 2022, Ruth Norbert made her way to the Centre for Memories (CFM), a museum dedicated to preserving Igbo history and culture.
Hailing from Okrika in Rivers State in the South-South part of Nigeria, Norbert has a deep connection with South Eastern people, especially Imo State on her mother’s side of the family.
“I have roots in Imo State and I have always loved Igbo culture,” she says. “Reading Chinua Achebe’s books Things Fall Apart,  Arrow of God, and paying attention to dances, songs, folklore, gods and learning a little bit about them, Igbo culture made me feel connected. Not just a vague one from family but a familiar one.”
The 21-year-old who is completing a mandatory one year post university service to Nigeria in Enugu State tells Minority Africa that her visit to the Centre will always be among her fondest recollections of her stay in the Coal City. As someone who’s always had a love for history and the arts, she says that reading about the Centre piqued her interest.
“It wasn’t without a little bit of apprehension, though, I was a tad afraid it wouldn’t live up to the picture I’d drawn in my head,” she notes and then adds smiling, “I’m glad to say it exceeded my expectations by a mile and more.”
The Centre for Memories was founded in 2017 by a group of individuals – Nkiru Okparaeke, Ndidi Okonkwo Nwuneli, Nkem Nweke, Jude Ilo, and Patrick Okigbo III – burdened with the desire to build an Igbo historical centre, which would act as a repository of Igbo culture, history, and excellence.
John Utazi, a Programme Officer, Strategic Engagement and Communications at the Centre for Memories describes it as a notable venture.
He says, “Because there is something the Igbos say, ‘Onye na-amaghị ebe mmiri bidoro mawa ya agaghị ama ebe ọ kwụsịrị ịma ya.’ What it means is that if you don’t know where the rain starts beating you from, you wouldn’t know where the rain stopped beating you.”
With headquarters based in Enugu State in southeastern Nigeria, the centre serves to document and preserve the collective memories, identity, history, and traditions of Ndigbo in Nigeria.
“We were shown an art gallery of Igbo masquerades called the Mmụọ [Spirit] and of course, our guide didn’t hesitate to explain each type of Mmụọ and also threw a couple of stories in there now and again. Never [had] I felt so in touch with my roots,” Norbert narrates.
“The second part of the showcase which we were privy to was the ‘Ọzọemena’ display. It had old articles and news stories about the Nigerian Civil War, as well as relics. We were guided through different periods of the war, each story backed by facts.”
Since its inception, the centre has established itself in Nigeria as a leading hub for Igbo cultural and artistic excellence and has gradually gained an international reputation.
The centre has had over nine exhibitions, some of which have focused on the icons of the Igbo people and has been visited by over a thousand people, spanning diverse nationalities and cultures.
Many scholars have expressed fear of the eroding culture and language of the Igbo people, arguing that if caution is not taken in the next few decades, people might forget about Igbo history.
The United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organisation (UNESCO) predicted in 2012 that “half of the 7000 plus languages spoken today will disappear by the end of the century.”
Among that number is the Igbo language which is foreseen to become extinct by 2025 if nothing is done to check its fast declining use. For the founders of the centre, statistics like this speak to the relevance of the work.
“It is actually important that an organisation like Centre for Memories is set up to help us preserve and document our memories and to help us promote our culture so that people can be more aware of their culture and history so they won’t lose track of the fact that this is who they are and where they are from,”  says Utazi of the development which he describes as ‘worrying.”
“I’ll always be grateful I was given an insider look at people blessed with such rich culture and history,” Nobert recounts. “It opened my eyes to the roots of problems the country faces today, and also, I felt inspired to think of solutions. At the end of our visit to the Centre for Memories, I was glad I’d [gone] .”
Ogbonna Samuel, 27, is one of the people who have been connected with their roots to the Igbo culture through the Centre.
“It’s broken down our story in bits,” he says. “Somehow it has made me intentional about being Igbo, about my self-worth, about my value because value helps shape the society, it shapes everybody.”
Nigeria’s Biafra war was fought between the Nigerian government and the Republic of Biafra, a separatist state that declared independence from Nigeria in 1967.
The war, which lasted until 1970, had devastating consequences for the country, including death, displacement of people, and the destruction of public infrastructure and physical and social capital. It led to the death of over one million Igbos.
After the secessionist forces surrendered, Biafra was reincorporated into Nigeria, and it has since continued to be part of the country.
However, recently, there have been growing secessionist agitations and insecurity in the southeastern part of Nigeria.  The sit-at-home order declared by the Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB) to protest the re-arrest of their leader, Nnamdi Kanu, culminated in incidents such as the burning of police stations, clashes between security operatives and gunmen, that have become the new normal for residents of the region.
The Centre for Memories uses artistic works, exhibitions, and documentaries to empower and educate people to preserve Igbo history and culture and to prevent what they describe as another escalation of the war.
One of the centre’s exhibitions, “Ọzọemena”, which was opened during the 50th anniversary of the Nigeria-Biafra war has helped Ndigbos reflect on what has happened in the past for them as Biafrans and how much they have to learn from it.
“That way, we know that we don’t want this to happen again. So, we’re not forgetting what has happened to us in the past, and we have to find a new approach,” Utazi says. “We’re not going to go through old methods that left us almost in ruins.”
It is a viewpoint that is echoed by Iheanyi Igboko, Executive Director of the Centre for Memories, who has been a founding member since 2017.
”It’s not just about us telling the story; they get to see innovations of the past, the newspapers and then come out with the knowledge that this shouldn’t happen again. It’s time to build again. It’s time to build afresh,” Igboko says.
For Ebere Okoye, who lives and works in Enugu, the centre has helped her think about the association and Igbo people as an ethnic nation. The brand manager, who joined the centre in 2017, says its programmes have been quite impactful, especially when it comes to preserving the history and the culture of Ndigbo.
“I do not have any sympathy for the secessionist movement but coming to the centre for memories actually solidified my opinion about how their agitation is just not important for Ndi Igbo at the moment,” she says. “So, with the resources I have access to at the Centre for Memories, I’m able to get more details into our history as a people and the things that have affected us as a people. And that’s basically what I think the Centre for Memories has done for a lot of other young people, I believe. “
Till date, Norbert recollects her visit to the centre fondly, as a journey through history where she learned rather new things.
“It was a perfect blend of the arts and history. I have always had an issue with the account of the civil war because it didn’t cover enough minority areas,” she says. “I wanted to hear the version of the story from the horse’s mouth, so I felt like that would be a good place to start.”
She adds, “It made me realize that there is a part of history we are yet to cover; there are places that went through a lot during the civil war and we have no idea because we didn’t really keep account.”
Edited by PK Cross, Uzoma Ihejirika, and Caleb Okereke.
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Samuel Ajala is a graduate of History and International Studies from Federal University of Oye-Ekiti. He is a data journalist with Dataphyte covering climate change, energy transition, education, and WASH in Nigeria. He has an interest in using solution journalism to tell Nigerian stories uniquely.

author: Samuel Ajala


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Transgender women sentenced to prison for “attempted homosexuality” - Minority Africa
minorityafrica.co
May 19, 2021
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Editorial.

source: news-minorityafrica

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


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Tuning into queerness: How I found my identity with music - Minority Africa
Rex Opara
September 14, 2023
I have never really thought of myself as a queer artist. As a matter of fact, I had a lot to learn about my queerness as much as I had to about music. I started out writing parody songs in boarding school as a means of distracting myself from the trauma of being called a big mouth or a big head or a homo by other students. Other students except Eric. He was a good guy and we’d listen to countdown radio shows together and have impromptu jam sessions. It wasn’t until I created the persona Raldie Young and later dropped out of my first university degree program that I slowly started using music as my journal for documenting my feelings and experiences with the world around me.
I did not have a lot of queer musicians to look up to as a kid. My dad had records of Elton John and Wham! but I never learned about their identities as queer people until several years later as a teenager entering young adulthood in an Internet Age.
I would later discover the masterpiece The ArchAndroid (2010) by African-American musician Janelle Monáe. Their identity as queer and non-binary wasn’t public knowledge at the time, but they stole my attention with this concept album and its parent series subtitled Metropolis. In this series, they take up the persona of a human-looking android named Cindi Mayweather, performing songs about love, oppression, and freedom. In interviews promoting the series of albums, they have described the android as a metaphor for “the other” as it applies to black people, women and/or queer people. Through my younger sister, I was also introduced to the man that is Frank Ocean. It was refreshing to see a black queer male artist challenging the norms of Black masculinity and homophobia in hip-hop with an album like channel ORANGE.
Just as much as I had a love for music by artists in other countries, I was also interested in the music made by Nigerian artists. Over time, however, I found myself getting very sceptical about the Nigerian music industry, particularly because of how a culture of toxicity and homophobia has shaped our society in general. Even before the increasing awareness of homophobic laws in the continent, the works and identities of queer artists have often been concealed, which would explain why I didn’t know much about the existence of Area Scatter – a trans feminine music artist from Eastern Nigeria of the 1970s – not without stumbling on that short video of her playing the thumb piano at a king’s palace.
It could also explain why, up until a few years ago, I was unaware of Brenda Fassie’s identity as a lesbian – and she gave a young Nigerian boy like me the earworm we know as “Vuli Ndlela.” I still have images of some of her music videos stuck in my memory.
I wouldn’t have known representation without encountering people who had similar experiences to mine, or at the very least, acknowledged my very own experience.
This one time I played the demo version of my unreleased debut album for a well-known Nigerian rapper who now calls himself “The Guy,” his response was short and simple: “Leave this country.” My music is often described as “not Nigerian” by listeners who give me their attention. Depending on who you ask, it could be a compliment or the opposite. Regardless, I can’t help but see the irony in being dismissed as “not Nigerian” by a society that also consumes “un-Nigerian” content.
I remember when one of my aunts called me to talk about my profile on the OneBeat Virtual Music Fellowship website. She was particularly curious about the fact that I described myself as queer. I remember explaining to her that it has multiple meanings that perfectly describe me. Within the context of living in Lagos and spending some time in the Eastern part of Nigeria as a product of divorced parents – an Igbo father and an Ibibio mother – while having a condition known as Attention Deficit Hypersensitivity Disorder (ADHD), amidst other issues plaguing the country like tribalism, sexism, poor physical and mental healthcare, and limited access to information and basic social amenities, there is very little room for any Nigerian to function, especially a Nigerian like me.
It is more than just a coincidence that some of the stories I tell in my songs are relatable to diverse audiences: queers and non-queers alike.
I wrote the songs “Talk True” and “UNCOOL” based on my complicated relationship with my father which has been impacted by societal expectations and norms. My recurring struggle with body dysmorphia from my boarding school years into adulthood would later inspire the song “0700-MCM-CASPER.” Did I mention that out of all the songs in my mixtape Songs From My Bedroom, my openly heterosexual cousin says that “ArkAngel” is his favourite? A love song from a human-alien hybrid to his one-time boyfriend?
Intersectionality has always been just as important in art as it is to social discourse, considering that art in itself is an extension of the artist. As a music lover, it helps to unveil the multiple layers that make up a person’s identity. Take, for instance, the title song of Temmie Ovwasa’s album E Be Like Say Dem Swear For Me. The song talks about the struggles that come with being born into a broken system and its impact on our mental, social and economic well-being. This is something that a lot of Nigerians can relate to: queer or not. The rest of the songs on this album explicitly talk about queer love, sex, and the persistent struggles of fitting into a society with an extremely problematic foundation.
I had the opportunity to collaborate with Yéla (an underground artist that I was a huge fan of) in his sophomore album Existence Resistance and one of the songs titled “Spectrum” uses the metaphor of colour to address prejudice as it affects various demographics including those based on race and sexuality.
Works like these help to re-emphasize the common struggles we have as a human race in modern times while acknowledging my very own existence.
Although my approach to presenting queerness in my work is not so overt, I have had the opportunity to listen to the works of other African music artists in favour of the LGBTQ+ community in Nigeria and across Africa.
Ghanaian trans music artist Angel Maxine released the song “Wo Fie” in collaboration with fellow Ghanaian artists Wanlov the Kubolor and Sister Deborah in support of the #KillTheBill campaign against the homophobic laws to be passed in Ghana including but not limited to the criminalisation of LGBTQ+ advocacy. This song was released in 2021 and quickly gained popularity among the West African LGBTQ community on social media.
In the song “Hypocrite,” Nigerian musician, lawyer and human rights activist Falz addresses the hypocrisy in Nigerian society while asking fellow Nigerians who they are to “judge the homosexual.”
So far, I have found strength in a small community of open-minded music lovers who encourage me to keep making the music that I want to make. In the process of trying to build an audience for my music, I discovered that I gained the interest of a small number of queer people in Nigeria. It occurred to me over time that a lot of queers find escape in the arts and fashion, just like I do. With the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, I was able to gain access to queer spaces via virtual pride events. This was how I got contacted by Lucid Lemons and later on by QueerCity Media to perform at the maiden edition of Glow Up Pride.
In 2021, I was invited to perform an opening sequence for an Electronic Dance Music festival in Lagos called Sweat It Out. This festival has always maintained a zero-discrimination policy, making it a safe space for queer folks.
Another highlight of my career would be my recent performance at another QueerCity Media event: the 2023 Pride In Lagos opening party. I would later share clips of this performance on TikTok. A lot of queer users were both surprised to find out that there was a queer event happening in Lagos and sad that they never got a chance to attend the event, indicating that there is a need for queer-friendly spaces that offer entertainment and leisure.
In a future where the rights and safety of queer people are ensured by state actors and citizens, queer artists would be further encouraged to make music that is honest to their lived experiences, adding to the diversity of the African experience while embracing our commonalities as a continent.
This can be made possible by repealing laws that threaten the security of LGBTQ+ lives in Africa and enforcing anti-discrimination measures in favour of queer people. In combination with socio-economic reforms that benefit the common good of the diverse citizenry, this would cause a ripple effect, creating a more favourable environment for openly queer artists to thrive.
To further nurture queer talents among us, it would also be vital to provide mentorship programs, artist residencies and grants to fund music projects by queer artists. TIERs Nigeria recently launched the Media Advocacy Project, a mentorship program aimed at empowering LGBTQ+ creatives in Nigeria that I was also fortunate to participate in. OneBeat Music Fellowship, although not catering to exclusively queer artists, has also assisted not just me, but Umlilo: a trans musician and AI enthusiast from Johannesburg, South Africa. Similarly, the Prince Claus Fund offers grants for artistic projects by creatives of various nationalities and identities. I have also been honoured to take part in the Goethe Talents Program, which provides collaborative and networking opportunities for artists. Thanks to them, I was inspired to make the music project BAHN.
Maybe I’m a queer artist or maybe I’m just an artist who happens to be queer. It shouldn’t have to matter what I identify as because humanity has proven to be fluid and complex. However, I shouldn’t be silenced or shamed on account of what I identify as either. Sometime in the future, a young kid should be able to listen to my work and that of other amazing souls. While listening, they can either find solace in the fact that they’re not alone in being who they are or they can just listen for pure entertainment.
Edited by Caleb Okereke and Banjoko Samuel.
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Rex Opara Jr., known professionally as Raldie Young, is a Nigerian music producer, composer, performer, content creator, and visual artist. His versatile music journey spans genres from neo-soul to avant-garde fusion. Notable projects include "Songs From My Bedroom" and "BAHN," while his contributions extend to collaborations, campaigns, and performances, earning acclaim through the 2021 OneBeat Virtual Music Fellowship and Goethe Talents 2022 Scholarship. He also serves as an illustrator for Minority Africa.

created: September 14, 2023

author: Rex Opara


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Uganda annuls sections of its Anti-Pornography Act - Minority Africa
minorityafrica.co
August 24, 2021
Passed in 2014, the controversial law which primarily targeted women criminalized any activity deemed pornographic, from wearing short skirts to writing risque songs.
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Editorial.


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Uganda: Beauty pageant helping to fight skin cancer among persons with albinism - Minority Africa
Patience Nakiranda
May 24, 2020
At nine years old, Olive Auma was returning home from school in Abim, a district in northern Uganda when she was stopped by five herdsmen who ordered her to take off her clothes and lay down or face dire consequences.
“With no one to call for help, I stood in shock waiting for whatever was to happen when I heard a woman shouting at them to leave me alone or their cows would instantly vanish,” she says.
The men let her be. Yet for how traumatic this incident was, it was not the first time it occurred and it wasn’t the last either.
Growing up in a community ridden with ignorance and superstition, Auma bore the crux of albinism; a crux that comprised multiple rape attempts and what she describes as a never-ending stigma.
She was born in Abim district as the only child with albinism into a family of six and with them as her support system, she learned to grow a thick skin at a very young age.
“It wasn’t easy,” she tells Minority Africa. “But it didn’t mean one had to give up.”
Now at 25, Auma works as a dental assistant in Moroto district and is the current holder of the Miss Albinism Uganda pageantry title, an improvement from the little scared girl surrounded by brutes.
The pageant dubbed “Beauty beyond the Skin” was organised by Source of the Nile Union of Persons with Albinism (SNUPA) in partnership with the Albinism Society of Kenya, with an objective to create awareness for skin cancer among persons with albinism, educate them about their rights, as well as foster capacity development.
For Auma, the contest was a way to inspire others like her.
“I knew I had to carry the responsibility of awareness creation, fighting the myths and misconceptions about persons with albinism,” she says.
Yet in this fight, she is not alone.
Paul Wakibona, a 26-year-old who works as a programme coordinator with the Kiboga Disabled Persons Union is currently Mr. Albinism Uganda. Unlike Auma, Wakibona says he was raised in a supportive community where many loved and cared for him.
“It wasn’t that difficult for me since my family and friends supported me along the way,” he says.
Being crowned Mr. Albinism was a platform for Wakibona to challenge the stigma against persons with albinism.
“I saw it as a chance that I’m going to use to speak and reach different communities with a title because I could be easily recognized,” he says. “People with albinism have the potential to do great things if not discriminated against; there are beautiful things we can do regardless of our skin colour.”
Although the pageant was the first of its kind in Uganda, the organizers say the event attracted contestants from different fields including lawyers, administrators, teachers, health professionals as well as students who had to compete to qualify for the regional pageant, “Mr & Miss Albinism East Africa” that was to take place in Kenya later in November 2018.
“We intended to bring on board persons with albinism, showcase their abilities and get them to appreciate themselves as beautiful people,” Peter Ogik, the chairperson of SNUPA tells Minority Africa.
And it seems to have worked.
“I remember, the image that we left in Nairobi, the image that we brought in East Africa, changed people’s perspectives towards us,” Wakibona says. “They used to look at us like people who can’t do anything, people who are supposed to be, you know, humble, they can’t do anything, they don’t have energy, they can’t smile.”
Albinism is a non-contagious genetically inherited condition that affects 1 in 20,000 persons worldwide. It results from a significant deficit in the production of melanin and is characterised by the partial or complete absence of pigment in the skin, hair, and eyes.
While it occurs globally across all gender, racial and ethnic groups, in Sub Saharan Africa, the condition is four to five times more prevalent than the rest of the world, affecting about 1 in 5000 to 15000 people with specific countries like Tanzania [1 in 1400] and Zimbabwe [1 in 1000] having a much higher tendency.
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.
This is primarily due to the absence of melanin that protects the skin against the harmful effects of the sun in persons with albinism making them more susceptible to ultraviolet radiation thereby increasing the likelihood of having skin cancer.
Henry Manson Ngobi, a dermatologist who closely works and treats persons with albinism in Jinja, Uganda says that most skin cancers appear first as lesions before manifesting into cancer itself and can be treated if detected early.
“When we detect early enough, we can do cryotherapy,” Dr. Ngobi tells Minority Africa. “But when it manifests as cancer, we excise the minor cases and refer the complicated ones to plastic surgeons.”
He, however, adds that skin cancer besides being a problem of its own is coupled with ignorance where sick persons have no knowledge of how and where to access treatment or of the ways to protect their skin from sunburns.
“Before SNUPA came in, they were in villages hiding with no treatment, no sunscreen protection creams, and couldn’t even protect their skins,” he says.
His sentiment on the necessity of pageants like these is echoed by Auma and Ogik.
“If you don’t teach a person with albinism how to take care of their skin, like the need to put on long-sleeved clothes, they will be wiped out,” Auma says with concern in her voice that is reflected in Ogik’s as well.
“I have seen painful deaths of my colleagues dying from [skin] cancer and it scares me,” he says. “Having to watch your skin eaten up by cancer while your heart still beats is unimaginable.”
The pageant organizers succeeded the contest with an awareness campaign themed “Fighting skin cancer,” and targeted at persons with albinism in Uganda.
“Skin cancer affects their quality of life, reduces their life span, increases stigmatization, and to top it all is very expensive to treat.” Dr. Ngobi says.
In several countries in sub-Saharan Africa, misconceptions shrouded in myths and superstition have resulted in serious violations of the human rights of persons with albinism.
They have been subjected to various forms of discrimination, cutting of their body parts, and amputation of limbs due to the belief that they possess magical powers and can be a source of wealth; they are tortured and sometimes even murdered.
Nicholas Opiyo, a human rights lawyer and founder of Chapter Four Uganda, an organization working to influence laws and policies in the interest of human rights, explains that while the constitution of Uganda doesn’t specifically mention persons with albinism, it is understood that the general protection of rights to life includes their protection.
“These legal provisions have not been liberally applied to protect the rights of persons with albinism,” he says in a written comment to Minority Africa. “Mainstream human rights advocacy has relegated the issues of the rights of persons with albinism to the periphery, if not to an unimportant matter.”
Opiyo adds that this is both regrettable and shameful.
“To change this, we ought to start by highlighting the plight of the group, humanising them, and pushing against cultural and social rejection,” he says.
Cultural and social rejection are two things Auma and Wakibona admit they have to fight against every day.
“You can’t hide away from the fact that you’re a person with albinism,” Auma says explaining how she’s been able to combat this rejection. “Within you, you should accept yourself for who you are and never regret it.”
She attributes some of her strength as coming from her Muslim faith, a religion she converted to from Christianity five years ago.
“I love my religion,” she says. “The world sees it as some backward religion because of the wrappings, the decent clothes, and everything one wears but I see that as a way of maintaining a woman’s dignity.”
Since 2010, there have been around 700 attacks and killings of persons with albinism in around twenty-eight countries. However, because the violence often occurs in clandestine rituals in rural areas, many of these cases are never reported, and these culprits are never brought to justice.
For Wakibona, art has been instrumental in changing people’s perceptions of himself.
“I wasn’t good at art at the beginning, but I became passionate about it,” he says. “When I’m doing it, some people come in [and say], ‘I didn’t know you could do that.’ Through this we can communicate, [can become] friends, something of that kind.”
Some activists have criticized and called for the amendment of the current cancer policy championed by the Ugandan government to fight skin cancer because the policy, they say, is discriminatory and does not mention the particular cancers that attack persons with albinism.
They have also decried the absence of dermatologists at government health facilities. Uganda has an estimated number of 20 dermatologists to serve its population of about 44 million and to access skin cancer treatment, an inquiry has to be put in first to the hospital for approval, with only a limited number approved for treatment on a specified day.
“There is only one facility with a few doctors at Mulago hospital where skin cancer treatment can be attained and as such, they are overwhelmed by the number of patients,” Dr. Ngobi says. “Many of them end up dying along the way if not given urgent attention.”
Since winning Mr and Miss Albinism Uganda, Auma and Wakibona have acted as flag bearers championing advocacy campaigns in different communities across the country together with the SNUPA team.
These campaigns provide free cancer screening and treatment for those diagnosed alongside other necessities such as sunscreen lotions, spectacles, long-sleeved clothes, and wide brim hats.
In like manner, sensitization of persons with albinism together with their families and the community at large through continuous health education is done as a way of creating awareness for the condition.
“Getting to love yourself doesn’t come easy [and] one needs a supportive family to always confide in when everyone else is pointing fingers,” Auma says. “This is why sensitising families especially those in which children with albinism live is crucial.”
One of the major achievements of the campaign has been the government’s removal of taxes on sunscreen products but Ogik says, “It still isn’t enough.”
He implores the government to provide free sun-screen lotions because even without taxes, these lotions are still very expensive and cannot be afforded by most of the people who need them.
There have been other wins as well. In some districts, including Isingiro, Mbale, and Buliisa where campaign activities have been held, Ogik says skin cancer cases among persons with albinism have reduced, “to about 70% especially in the Busoga sub-region where the campaign is most active.”
This, he attributes to the frequent skin cancer screening done every quarter of the year.
Additionally, about 200 children have been provided with scholastic material whereas about 80 teachers from various schools have been trained on how to handle children with albinism so as to enhance their learning process.
“When a teacher is aware that a child with albinism is short-sighted, then he knows that the child needs to sit at the front of the class,” he says. “And [the teacher] is supposed to use large prints while writing on the blackboard.”
The campaign through negotiations with some school owners has succeeded in convincing schools to make provision for children living with albinism to have long-sleeved uniforms and wide brim hats for their safety.
In a similar way, they are working closely with various organisations to link persons with albinism to diverse employment opportunities according to their capabilities. As such, many of the contestants of the pageant have been enrolled as professional models in different modeling agencies, including the Malengo Foundation.
Despite the successes of the campaign, a number of challenges slow down the process, one of them being limited knowledge about albinism by persons with albinism themselves.
“It is sad that some of the persons with albinism are not aware of their condition until it is too late,” Wakibona says. “If we are united, people with albinism, we can have a big voice, you understand?”
And although some communities have become more responsive as a result of the awareness of the campaign, there remains a considerable fear of stigma.
“Some people still keep [persons with albinism] indoors due to shame, denying them of a normal life, “Auma says. “This makes them hard to get to.”
Ogik acknowledges these challenges but nonetheless foresees the pageant as a platform that will address issues of persons with albinism across the globe. He wants to ensure more persons with albinism partake in national beauty pageants including Miss Uganda and Miss Tourism, a vision he knows can only be possible with the required financial backing.
“I believe we as persons with albinism are beautiful and worthy of anything we desire,” he says. “I know change cannot be made in one day but then I am confident that there is hope, I believe tomorrow will be better.”
Auma and Wakibona seem to share this belief as well. While Auma dreams of owning an organization working towards the rights of marginalized groups, Wakibona envisions a world where people like him are able to lead a productive life.
With a dreamy gaze as though staring into the desirable future itself, he says, “We still have a long way to go but we’ll get there someday.”
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Patience Mugadu Nakiranda is the Disability Correspondent at Minority Africa.

author: Patience Nakiranda


text:
Uganda’s anti-gay bill is about everything but protecting children - Minority Africa
Bana Mwesige
March 31, 2023
This article might contain some strong language.
I first heard the term “homosexual” in 2009. I’d undoubtedly heard of it before but hadn’t given it much thought. It was at this time that talk of Uganda’s first anti-homosexuality bill began. When one of the boys in my class branded me a homosexual in such a hissy and mocking tone for being “girly,” I knew something was wrong. In fact, I took it upon myself to discover more about this “homosexuality” thing.
What I discovered was a slew of misinformation, ranging from horror stories of ruptured behinds to gay pampers stories and the occasional HIV/AIDS infection story thrown in to amp up the scare aspect. Because I had no access to better information, I feared and hated myself and gay people for the longest time.
In 2023, proponents of Uganda’s distinct brand of homophobia are still using this misinformation virtually word for word to defend their hatred of gay Ugandans. These discussions and stories were on full show during the late-night debate in Uganda’s parliament that resulted in the passage of the Anti-Homosexuality Bill.
I can honestly say that anuses had never been discussed as extensively in the Ugandan parliament as they were on the night of March 21, 2023. One persistent theme emerged from all of the talks concerning body parts and sexual organs: the protection of children.
Almost every speaker that night brought up the subject of children. They discussed at length on homosexual child sexual abuse and the necessity to safeguard Uganda’s youngsters from homosexuality. Yet, does this legislation truly protect children? Or are Uganda’s youngsters (gay or otherwise) merely pawns in the information battle and chest-thumping of severely flawed politicians?
Let us look at the bill title: “An Act to prohibit any form of sexual relations between persons of the same sex; prohibit the promotion or recognition of sexual relations between persons of the same sex; and for related matters.” Does this title say anything about Uganda’s precious children who are the pretext these politicians were using to bring up the bill?
Not to diminish Ugandans’ sincere views on this topic, I believe that many Ugandans (progressive or conservative) are deeply concerned about child sexual assault. So many elements have contributed to this heightened anxiety, some of which are systematic, while others are orchestrated inorganically by politicians wanting attention.
For starters, consider the Catholic Church’s lack of transparency in the face of hundreds of thousands of child sexual abuse accusations worldwide. Closer to home, in the Buddo case,  which involved a male teacher suspected of preying on his students and was extensively discussed in parliament in the run-up to the passage of the bill, the school administration’s frustrating need to “protect their reputation” by harassing a journalist covering the story was seen as an attempted cover-up and a symbol of an overall broken system. That dysfunctional system has prompted a large number of Ugandans, who have already been subjected to incessant hysteria and misinformation about homosexual people, to accept the new flashy Anti-Homosexuality Bill as a means of addressing the system’s flaws.
Nonetheless, I believe that this is the worst bill for anyone concerned about child sexual abuse. Especially those who show much more concern or are exclusively “concerned” when it involves homosexuals.
For one, child sexual abuse (both homosexual and heterosexual) is already covered explicitly under Section 129 of the Penal Code (Amendment) Act 2007. It has penalties ranging from life imprisonment and extends to execution/death sentence. Yes, this law exists! A quick scan of the new bill shows a much more lenient sentence for abusers and a vague description of what comprises abuse. This is informed by the virulent homophobia and plain incompetence of the bill’s drafters. I would also argue that the bill in its current form makes it much easier for a child sex offender (be it a priest, teacher, head teacher etc) with some institutional backing to get away with abusing children. They could even get off on a technicality or, given their enormous resources, give monetary compensation to the victims. The vagueness of the offense of homosexuality and its conflation with child abuse (whether it is “promotion,” just saying you are gay, or actual sexual abuse by persons in positions of power) leaves it up to the system to determine wrongdoing. A legal system that is almost comically corrupt and was designed to favor the rich and powerful.
Take the previous Anti-Homosexuality Bill passed in 2014, a child in all instances of this bill, is considered a victim and treated as such. In the new version, any child committing the offense of homosexuality is criminalized and liable to a 3-year sentence. And since the text is vague on what exactly entails “child homosexuality”, it essentially eliminates protection for child victims of abuse. Very few victims will be keen to report abuse if it means that there is a chance, even slight, that they will be jailed for 3 years!
I am not advocating for same-gender-loving adults to be imprisoned or murdered, and I also find it absurd that those who are really concerned about child sexual abuse would support this law to feed their hatred and/or fear of gay people. The only aim of this bill is to target adult homosexuals who are living their lives and loving each other. Uganda’s children are just collateral. It was never really about them.
In fact, the numbers prove my point. According to the 2022 Annual Crime Report released by the Ugandan police, 8,960 defilements were reported, of which only 205 secured convictions (there is no mention of which of these are of a homosexual nature since the current law does not distinguish gender or sexual orientation when convicting defilement cases). Further, out of 14,795 persons that were victims of sex-related crimes, 12,816 were female juveniles, 33 were male juveniles and 1,946 were female adults. Making matters worse, only 224 of all sex-related crimes have secured convictions.
Abusers, according to the Annual Crime Report, are often family members and guardians as well as teachers. The data clearly shows two things: One, there was never a serious effort to combat sexual abuse of children given the abysmal conviction rate as well as a large number of backlogged defilement cases. Two, that the existing laws can actually be used to convict child sex abusers. Further still, abuse victims are predominantly female and the abuse done by mostly heterosexual people, given the fact that over 90% of the persons held for sex crimes are male.
So in conclusion, the concern for children whom in any other circumstance (child marriage, defilement, Female genital mutilation), politicians could care less, is mostly performative.  In fact, a lot of Ugandans, even the homophobes are starting to catch on. But, will it be too late for the kids… and the gays too?
Edited and Reviewed by Caleb Okereke and Uzoma Ihejirika.
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.

author: Bana Mwesige


text:
Uganda’s “role model” men are working to end violence against women - Minority Africa
Dan Ayebare
December 8, 2023
Five years ago, Harriet Okello, 37, a resident of Kuru-Otit village, Omoro District in Northern Uganda, and a mother of five left home and divorced her husband Richard Okello, citing physical and alcoholism-related violence.
It was the third time that she had returned to her parents in just a space of less than twelve months. The physical violence and psychological torture from her husband seemed not to end.
“He would come back in the middle of the night drunk and beat up everyone for no apparent reason. This would happen every day until I took a stand,” she recounts.
In an attempt to reconcile and salvage their marriage, Richard Okello assembled a team of men from his family and clan. However, these efforts were futile. Harriet’s parents insisted on tangible proof of transformation before they could release their daughter again.
“Even my parents were tired of my repeated trips to their house. They were tired of my husband’s repeated apologies,” she adds.
At that point, they had sired three children who according to her were the reason she was enduring.
“The thought of leaving my children behind or them being parented by another woman was worrisome,” Harriet says. “I have seen children suffer at the hands of their step-mothers and I didn’t want to imagine the same happening to my children.”
Northern Uganda has long been plagued by widespread gender-based violence, with the remnants of the Lord’s Resistance Army conflict leaving lasting scars on the social and psychological fabric of the region.
A 2021 National Survey on Violence in Uganda conducted by the Uganda Bureau of Statistics (UBOS) revealed that 95% of respondents from the Northern region had at least experienced physical or sexual violence from a partner or a non-partner, just like Harriet Okello.
The same report indicated that only 17.4% of sexual and gender-based violence survivors reported to ‘service authorities’ like the police as compared to 41.1% who trusted local leaders.
The three times that Harriet left were an example of the several times that she was battered and made to spend the night outside. She narrates that many times she was threatened into silence hence fearing to report.
The police, according to Milly Okao, the women representative on the local council haven’t helped in apprehending most of the culprits. She says that even when the survivors report, they are always advised to go back home and try to patch up things.
“Many survivors have lost trust in the police. The family unit always pushes for reconciliation, even when it is clear that the right thing to do is to apprehend the culprit,” she argues.
While on the journey to repair his broken  marriage, Richard Okello desperately approached Francis Owaka, 54, one of the men who is part of a movement that is working to bring an end to gender-based violence in their communities, to help ‘fix it’ for him. He volunteered to head a delegation that ensured that Okello and his wife were reunited.
Owaka is one of the 240 men spread across the four districts of Omoro, Gulu Nwoya and Amuru who are voluntarily working to bring an end to gender-based violence. This initiative was pioneered in 2011, exactly four years after the Lord’s Resistance Army insurgency ended.
Mobilised and trained by the Gulu District-based not-for-profit Gulu Women Economic Development and Globalization (GWED-G), these men work as change leaders in areas of human rights, sexual reproductive health/rights, and women empowerment, among others as a multi-sectoral approach to end GBV.
“We were working with women groups and empowering them with seeds and domestic animals, in a bid to recover from the war,” says Geoffrey Oyat, the GBV prevention manager at GWED-G. “On follow-up, we were told by most women that the men were wasting away everything. The women were working alone!”
The fight against GBV has dominantly been spearheaded by women across the divide. The men have largely taken a back seat and have generally been profiled as the majority perpetrators.
“Just like their title, these men act as role models to other men in their communities, call out perpetrators, and offer counseling to the couples and families around them,” Oyat adds.
Each role model man (locally known as laco makwiri in the Luo dialect) is attached to ten households within his neighbourhood, where he makes regular visits to the assigned homesteads and forms a community-level accountability structure that keeps families, especially men in check.
They are entrusted with the vital task of supervising, mentoring, and sensitising households on the devastating consequences of gender-based violence. The communities select their own role model men based on their exemplary character and integrity.
“Families are getting united again. Even the number of women who go to antenatal check-ups with their husbands has increased,” Oyat says. “In the past, men in this region would never care about what a woman is going through during pregnancy.”
Patriarchal norms grant men of this region greater control over land and land-related decisions, leaving women with limited access and vulnerability to economic dependence on men.
Ownership and inheritance practices also favor patrilineal lines, restricting women’s rights to inherit or own land independently hence making them economically reliant on male family members/spouses and susceptible to gender-based violence.
“As men drink away at a local joint, their women cultivate crops on land that they have no control over. When the harvesting time comes, the men dictate on how to manage the produce and often sell it to return to the bar,” explains Miria Akello, the local council women representative of Kuru-Otit village.
Akello argues that though the role model men have been vital in reducing GBV in her village, it is still not scaled out enough to completely stamp out the vice. Francis Owaka says that there are only four role model men that are ideally assigned to only 40 households, in a village of over 1,000 households.
“We can’t be everywhere. We can’t be in every bedroom. We can only address what we can see and what is reported to us. Fighting this vice needs wide sensitisation and a general cultural norms shift,” Owaka aptly comments.
According to Akello, even among the men they are working with, they still see cases of GBV, “and that’s why we exist to continuously work with the men.” He acknowledges that their approach is just one piece of a larger puzzle.
On the warm Saturday afternoon that we visit, we find Okello peeling sweet potatoes for lunch, as his wife Oyat helps with the laundry. In a typical traditional homestead setup, it is unheard of for men to take part in domestic chores.
Harriet Akello admits that it is still a work in progress for her husband as he “occasionally relapses into stints of anger,” echoing Akello’s points on the concerns with the approach.
“It is not that he is perfect. It is not that all of a sudden, he has totally become a faultless man. But the signs are positive,” she says.
“My husband is now reformed. It is just hard to imagine that he no longer joins other men in the trading centre at the bar. He is fully involved and he lets me make some of the family decisions,” Harriet Okello says.
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Dan Ayebare is a journalist with Solutions Now Africa, a newsroom focused on covering solutions across Africa.

created: December 8, 2023

author: Dan Ayebare


text:
Unseeing as a tool of oppression - Minority Africa
minorityafrica.co
November 17, 2019
Even as a publication, we too have been struck by the reinvented millennial practice of unseeing. At its rudiments referring to an instance in which someone so badly wants to forget and/or to deny a reality they have already experienced.
Unseeing howbeit useful and contextual in instances of trauma has taken a new meaning on Twitter threads and it is simply denying the existence of an occurrence that is retrograde to your belief, in hope that stripping an event or a person of being in that moment would mean that they never were or that it never happened.
We believe everyone needs to have the ability to unsee, it is what keeps us sane in this otherwise crazy world but we are also aware of the likelihood of unseeing to metamorphose into a technique of oppression used to blot out minority persons and communities from the grand space of conversation.
To unsee is deeper than just unlooking, while the latter functions on a premise of acknowledgment, unseeing, however, requires that you not only look away but that you forget.
And how tempting the prospect to forget a group that has been an object of collective discrimination, how easy it is to look away, to unsee a person and strip them of continuity.
This tool has made it easy for trans women in Uganda to be forgotten, to be excluded from the halls of policymaking, for persons living with albinism to be seen only for their body parts, and for refugees to be perceived only as predators on the economy or not to be looked at at all.
Unseeing doesn’t deny the existence of a thing, it, nonetheless, aims to forget it, to keep it out of memory. And we know from history that exemption is in itself oppression.
With Minority Africa, we want to make it harder for you to look away from African minority communities and persons, we are creating a digital publication that is designed solely to cater to the demographic that is not the majority. Through an approach that is data-driven, we bring you multimedia solutions content focusing on these groups on our digital platforms.
And we do not just stop there, we take this to your communities, to your schools and to your spaces of comfort. Not anymore will you unsee us, not anymore will you look away, for it is indeed impossible to exempt us when we become the gatekeepers.
The minorities missing from the data
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Editorial.

created: November 17, 2019


text:
“Very few people use it”: Africa’s bumpy road to Sign Language adoption - Minority Africa
cyril zenda
October 12, 2023
For 29-year-old Tapiwa Chishaka who was born deaf, his days follow the same routine. From sunrise to sunset, he walks from one bus to another on the highway, sharing laminated copies of a letter stating the bearer is deaf and therefore seeking any form of help.
He is often met with different reactions– from sympathetic to cold, and sometimes even harsh – by the bus crews and passengers. But at the end of the day, he gets something to take home.
In April 2020, Chishaka could no longer go out and could not understand why. The COVID-19 lockdown had begun, and in the ensuing panic and confusion, neither his mother nor community members could explain that the whole country had been put under a total lockdown to control the spread of the deadly virus.
“As much as my ‘signing’ is very poor, the real problem was less about how to tell him than what actually to tell him, I also did not understand what was happening,” Shorai, Chishaka’s mother, says. “He could tell that something unusual was happening, but he could not understand, and I could not explain it. Had he been to school, his life could have been much easier.”
A 48-year-old widow, Shorai, a roadside vendor, raised her son in Epworth, a shanty town on the outskirts of Harare, Zimbabwe, where no special schools for the deaf and hard of hearing exist. As such, Chishaka cannot read or write, even the all-important letter he carries around.
Chishaka is one of the about 300,000 Zimbabweans who exist on the margins because they are either deaf or hard of hearing. Of these, only 73,000 can effectively communicate with sign language.
The World Federation of the Deaf (WFD) set September as Deaf Awareness Month, with September 23 as the International Day of Sign Languages. This year’s celebration was done under the theme, “A world where deaf people everywhere can sign anywhere!” as the world highlighted the unity generated by sign languages.
Sign language is mostly used by deaf people, who themselves are a minority of many national populations. Most deaf people live largely in conditions of both physical and social isolation. Of the more than 70 million deaf people worldwide, a 2021 report by the World Health Organisation (WHO) says about 40 million are found in Africa.
This year’s celebration was marked shortly after South Africa made sign language the country’s 12th official language, becoming the fourth country in Africa to do so, after Kenya, Uganda and Zimbabwe.
Still, Chishaka, a citizen of Zimbabwe that has long included sign language as one of its 16 official languages since 2013, remains in the dark about key information like the COVID-19 outbreak. For people like him in other African countries where there is no legal recognition of sign language, access to such key information is harder.
“Sign language is not available to people who are deaf and hard of hearing due to stigmatisation and lack of proper implementation of policies that enforce the operationalisation of Zimbabwean Sign language in all sectors,” says Barbra Nyangairi, the executive director of Deaf Zimbabwe Trust.
The Trust faces a lot of challenges in ensuring the widespread use of sign language in the country, among which are the lack of deaf role models who use the language, lack of political will, absence of deaf people in decision-making positions, general ignorance, and resistance due to cultural beliefs.
It is the same in other parts of the continent. Of the 2.7 million deaf people in Kenya,  only very few are conversant in sign language, the country’s third official language, after English and Swahili.
Eunice Mboya, the programmes director for Kenya National Association of the Deaf (KNAD) said community members, especially at the village level, have not embraced sign language.
“More often than not, you will find even families of deaf children don’t know sign language. This therefore deprives [deaf people] from accessing information at the community level,” Mboya tells Minority Africa.
She said the recognition of sign language as an official language gives the deaf community an equal communication ground, thus demystifying the assumption of the superiority of spoken language over sign language.
“The challenge Kenya is currently facing is implementing the constitutional provision on matters of Sign language,” Mboya adds. “Whereas the Constitution stipulates access to information for deaf people, many important documents are still inaccessible, and none has been translated to sign language, including the Constitution and the People with Disability Act. This therefore limits access to these important documents by deaf people.”
The executive director of Ghana National Association of the Deaf (GNAD), Juventus Duorinaah, tells Minority Africa that while sign language is widely available, only a few people use it.
“Despite people knowing that a language called sign language, like other Ghanaian languages, exists, it is used by people with various degrees of hearing impairment, very few percentages of the hearing populace use it,” he says. “This includes Sign language interpreters, parents and families of deaf children, teachers of the deaf and some close friends.”
Even in South Africa, the most progressive country in terms of including deaf people– with 43 schools and one tertiary institution available to serve its 4 million deaf population – only 600,000 can use sign language.
Theodorus du Plessis, a Professor Emeritus in the Department of South African Sign Language and Deaf Studies at the University of the Free State (UFS) explained that international experts give three reasons why the officialisation of countries’ national Sign languages is significant.
The first is that it can help to ensure that deaf people have access to education, employment, and other services in their “own language.” The second one is that it can promote the use of sign languages in general and also help to preserve the languages, and lastly, it can raise awareness about deaf culture and the contributions of the deaf, professor du Plessis explains.
“All three reasons also bring us to the important issue of inclusivity,” said Professor du Plessis, who described the development as “a bold step.” “Education, in particular, plays an important role in this. To date, the Schools Act has been enforced in such a way that South African Sign Language (SASL) has mainly been taught in deaf schools as a home language, while the law stipulates that it applies to all public schools.
“More importantly, a curriculum must now be developed so that the language can also be taught as a first and second additional language in all schools. Such a thing would give inclusivity an enormous jolt.”
Most African education systems lack skilled and fluent sign language teachers and learning resources. This affects the teaching and learning of deaf learners. Most deaf learners go to school without establishing any language as their home language. This implies they do not have a way of dealing with sign language barriers during the teaching and learning process.
For the ideal of having “A world where deaf people everywhere can sign anywhere!” come true, experts say one hurdle has to be overcome, which is the plethora of sign languages. There are more than 300 sign languages in the world, with about 45 of them being found in Africa alone. This has resulted in cases where the deaf are unable to effectively communicate even between themselves. This has led some researchers to suggest that there be some form of “standardisation” of the sign languages.
Duorinaah reveals that in Ghana, the language that is commonly used is Ghana Sign Language (GhSL), but there are various other localised versions resulting in difficulties in understanding. There are about 500,000 deaf people in the West African nation.
“In Ghana, sign language is not a single language. There are few varieties,” he says. “For example, there is the Sign language used by a small community of deaf people at Adamorobe in the Eastern region of Ghana, popularly known as Adamorobe Sign language (AdaSL).”
“Research has also shown that another form of Sign language is used by a small community in the Western region, which is different from the GhSL. There is a high level of difficulty in understanding either language. Also, some vocabularies for the general GhSL vary considerably from place to place,” he explains.
“For example, the sign for a local food, “kenkey”, in the South differs from that of the Northern region. However, with its features similar to American Sign Language (ASL), users of GhSL do not have many difficulties as it’s rather widespread in the country.”
However, the World Federation of the Deaf is opposed to any attempts to “standardise” sign languages pointing out that this may have negative effects on some of the languages.
“In the spirit of the CRPD (United Nations Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities), Sign languages should be promoted in the form that they are used by deaf Communities around the world,” the federation pointed out. “Often, language standardisation takes the form of deciding on one single word or one sign for a concept and as a result, the natural variation of the language is ignored.”
Mboya opines there is a need for common guidelines, especially on sign language training and interpretation.
“There is also a need for African countries to borrow a leaf from other countries that have recognised sign language since no country is an island of its own,” he says.“Another problem is with sign language interpretation services. We currently don’t have any regulations guiding on training, qualifications or licensing. This therefore gives leeway for mushrooming sign language training institutions and poor quality interpreters.”
Edited/Reviewed by Banjoko Samuel, Uzoma Ihejirika, and Caleb Okereke
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.

created: October 12, 2023

author: cyril zenda


text:
“Wait and have faith”: The quest to end the exploitation of Nigerian migrant workers - Minority Africa
Adebola Makinde
March 23, 2023
On November 4, 2020, at 9:05 a.m., 24-year-old Mary* arrived in Nigeria. That Wednesday morning, on the journey back to her family who had rescued her, Mary was unsure of what lay ahead. When she got to the Lagos airport, the time was already 3:05 PM. Amidst the plethora of emotions expressed through consistent hugs, the words of her aunt stuck with her: “Thank you, This is Lebanon. My sister is back.”
Mary left her parents, husband and her two kids in Ogun State, Nigeria to Lebanon in August 2019. Mary’s pastor had informed her about a $200-per-month domestic worker job in Lebanon. The pastor was made aware of the job by an Egyptian agent whom he knew. As of then, Mary was without a job and was eager to leave the country and live a better life in an assumed healthy atmosphere.
Upon reaching Lebanon, her passport was seized by immigration officers. She had to wait in a room where she and about 80 other Nigerian girls who boarded the same plane with her were hidden. The other girls had also tendered their passports and waited for their employers. Mary had to wait for four hours before her employer, Nisrine Zawahra Daher, came to pick her up. The next year and a few months to come were going to be life-changing for Mary. She knew it but never imagined it to be wrecking.
Mary believed Lebanon was a place like the UK and US she often heard about. She wanted an experience that wasn’t her home country, Nigeria.
“The day I got to Lebanon, I was so happy. It was the first time I boarded a plane but once I had stayed there for a while, it was not easy,” she said. “It’s not because of the money. I just wanted to go and work. I didn’t even know that’s how it would be. I knew they always talked about the UK and USA as good places. I thought since it wasn’t Nigeria, maybe Lebanon would be okay too.”
Mary endured terrible work conditions such as having to wake up early and work till late at night. Most times, she was unable to eat due to the workload. Whenever she got lucky, she was able to eat twice a day. Her typical daily life was without a proper place to sleep. She woke, worked and slept in the kitchen. She also went through physical abuse when she made her first attempt to leave for Nigeria.
In 2020, Mary’s mother called to inform her about her father’s death. As the first child of her parents, tradition meant that she had to travel to Nigeria to observe a rite of passage only she would be able to undertake. Upon polite notice to Nisrine and her husband, they immediately objected, threatening to send her to jail or kill her. She was beaten that day and that led to the seizure of her phone.
“If God said I’d not go back to Nigeria, it’s fine,” she said. “I had to accept fate and put myself in the hands of God because I was already tired. Those people can do and undo. I could not drag her since I had no family there. I had to wait and have faith.”
Mary’s story is not uncommon for domestic workers who seek to work in an environment where their services are legalised. However, this has been tied to the debate on human rights and the view of labour migration laws.
In the Middle East, there’s a system called Kafala which has by practice been made synonymous with slavery. Under the Kafala system, migrant domestic workers who are dominantly women and labourers from Africa and South Asia go to work under the trusteeship of an employer who pays for their upkeep and travel. This system is primarily in seven Arab countries among which Lebanon chiefly operates. Other countries include Bahrain, Kuwait, Qatar, Oman, Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates.
According to 2020 data from the United Nations International Children’s Education Fund (UNICEF), about 70.1 million people take up domestic work, however, due to obscurity in the sector, there may be about 100 million people taking up domestic services.
Despite the sheer size of the informal sector, the rights of informal workers are not being protected. This is especially the case in the Global South where countries are unable to help the constant population of migrants seeking better employment and living conditions in other countries. Many of these workers have to travel illegally, encountering multiple perils during the journey or even arriving at unplanned destinations.
Lebanon’s Kafala system has been rooted in the aftermath of the Lebanese Civil War of 1975 to 1990, which saw the exodus of about a million people. Prior, households were employers of young Lebanese girls who are trusted to work for a certain period while their salaries were collected by their families. To make up for the lost population, entries of domestic workers were made legal by the Ministry of Labour.
In this event, recruiting agencies are licensed and they connect with other agencies in countries where the migrants come from. Employers are required to meet with the migrant workers in the airport where their passports would be entitled to the former. The work contract, instead of being with the concerned parties i.e. the employer and the worker, rather passes through an external agent who serves as a middleman between the domestic worker and the employer. This leaves the second party i.e the domestic worker in sheer vulnerability.
Mary is unsure of the connection between her pastor and the Egyptian agent. She had to pay the latter $600 — an equivalent of her three months’ salary, even after her employer, Nisrine had given the agent a sum of $3200, which included Mary’s visa and other travel upkeep.
There have been reforms by the Lebanese government even though it still leaves a significant gap to question the injustice of migrant domestic workers to date. In 2001, the Lebanese Ministry of Labour ordered that ten recruiting agencies be closed upon violation of labour regulations. In 2012, the Ministry was sponsored by the European Union (EU) to release an information guide on the rights and responsibilities of a domestic worker; how to travel to Lebanon as a migrant domestic worker; how to adapt to the Arabic language and what to do when in trouble.
Upon these and many other steps by the government, not all laws that guide migrant domestic workers are ratified. Some of the conventions that have been signed by the country include the 1949 Universal Declaration of Rights (UDHR) and the International Labour Organisation (ILO) conventions. The ILO hosts several conventions that are beneficial to migrant domestic workers. For example, the Migration for Employment Convention of 1949, the Migration for Employment Recommendation of 1949 and the Migrant Workers Convention of 1975 aren’t ratified by the country.
In Article 7 of the Lebanese Labour Law, domestic workers are excluded from the constitution, denying them access to minimum wage and the right to change employers. Of the estimated 250,000 plus migrant domestic workers, the country’s General Security Intelligence Agency confirmed that at least two domestic workers die in a week as a result of suicide and other forms of unnatural death.
Also, Article 4 of the Labour Law and Decree No. 7993 of 1952 bar domestic workers from forming trade unions. Even if a move to form any trade union whatsoever is made, Article 86 of the Lebanese Labour Code states the need for authorization while this is subject to political affiliation.
This contradicts the ILO convention No. 87, the freedom of association and protection of the right to organise, which states in Article 2 that no prior registration with government officials is needed to form a labour union.
The 2007 National Bureau Statistics of Nigeria estimated domestic workers at 197,900, comprising 98,300 women and 99,600 men — although these numbers are likely underestimated.
Section 91 of the Nigerian Labour Act (1971)  states that a worker is “…any member of the civil service of the Federation, of a State or Local Government or any individual (other than persons occupying executive, administrative, technical or professional positions in any such civil service) who has entered into or works under a contract with an employer, whether the contract is manual labour, clerical work or otherwise, expressed or implied, or in writing, and whether it is a contract personally to execute any work or labour.”
In March 2019, the Nigerian Senate proposed that the National minimum wage be raised from NGN18,000 ($41) to NGN30,000 ($68) whereas, a domestic worker is not a beneficiary of this. The country hasn’t ratified some of ILO’s C189 standards for regulating domestic work including the Labour Regulations (1936), the Labour Act (1990), the Anti-trafficking Policy (2003), the Employee Compensation Act (2010) and the Labour Migration Policy (2013).
This further affects the domestic-worker industry of the country, unusually categorised by the vulnerable ones including women and children. In few cases are men involved in work-related abuses (in the industry). It even affects the youths who are hopeful about the income they can receive from any job — as long as they are protected. Once domestic work regulations are not fixed, it becomes twice harder for migrant domestic workers.
Mary’s 21-year-old sister Dorcas* traveled to Burkina Faso with her son for domestic work in April 2019 — four months before Mary’s departure to Lebanon. As for her, she took the advice of her sister-in-law. Till today, the young lady is reportedly dead without confirmation of her corpse while only her son was brought back to Nigeria in 2020, the same year their father passed away.
In shock, Mary’s mother sought the help of her sister, Mary’s aunt, to speak with This is Lebanon, a registered Canada-based organisation formed by Dipendra Uprety and Priya Subedi, former migrant workers in Lebanon on International Workers’ Day  in 2017.
In a few years of Diprenda’s 15 years of service as an honorary representative of the Nepali Consulate, only one of 42 different murder cases of non-Lebanese migrant domestic workers was brought to justice. It is no surprise that contacting the Lebanese Ministry of Labour and even involving the police to rescue migrant domestic workers are a dead-end owing to the existing law. This led the founders to choose Canada as a strategic place of operation while leading numerous cases.
Mary is still clueless as to how she got back to Nigeria. She hasn’t bothered to know enough details about the organisation that intervened in her case. However, the assurance of her rescue started on a Monday morning — two days before she got to her country — when the Nigerian embassy contacted Nisrine to probe her about claims of withdrawing entitled payments to Mary. She couldn’t deny this time but took  This Is Lebanon through the long route.
Left to Mary, she was ready to leave for Nigeria that Monday. After reaching the embassy with Nisrine, Mary’s six months’ outstanding payments were paid to her immediately. Two officials were assigned to follow her to Nisrine’s apartment so she could gather her belongings. Knowing that she couldn’t access a flight the next day, it took her two nights in the embassy before she could board a plane.
This Is Lebanon ensured every denial by Nisrine was recorded and published in compounded and consistent online posts for wider reach until the pressure got fueled. Speaking to Patricia, a member of the team, most of the cases they’ve solved include high numbers of migrant domestic worker victims from Nigeria.
“We’re not so good at keeping track of cases but we’ve marked 229 women as rescued from slavery. It’s probably a lot higher than that,” she said. “Since 2018, 13,736 people have contacted us. The workers are mainly from Nigeria, Ghana, Kenya, Ethiopia, Philippines, Sierra Leone, and Bangladesh.”
In the past, the organisation employed a mechanism such as illustrating defaulting employers with horns and tails on their social media platform. However, they had to refrain from such. It is noted for its usage of social media as its rescue tactic although very little can be done if the industry is not recognised and regulated.
Here to Help Nigeria is a registered charity serving as an intermediary between domestic workers and employers. Since it is based in Nigeria, it has been able to carry out specific non-disclosure agreement (NDA) cases of abuse focused on the citizens of the country.
Growing up, Adedamola Ososanya witnessed several unjust treatments towards domestic workers in her environment. “I have a strong dislike of classism which is something very obvious in Nigeria,” she said. “I would be playing – doing normal childhood things – while these children are working and maltreated for doing the same.”
Adedamola would eventually set out to establish a Here to Help Nigeria with her co-founder, Ololade Ganikale, an experienced advocate against sexual assault, in 2018. This was immediately after she got her first job capable of bootstrapping the NGO to a certain extent.
To date, Here to Help Nigeria has worked on close to ten cases, with some being facades that needed to be thoroughly investigated by government agencies like the National Agency for the Prohibition of Trafficking in Persons (NAPTIP) or other organisations with the right infrastructure. “We’ve seen instances where people report false cases. It turns out that such a person is trying to hustle for money, which is rather unfortunate,” Adedamola said. “One of the worst things you can do is pick up a case when you don’t have the resources to deal with it. Rather, you’ll redirect them to alternative organisations that have the likely resources.”
Here to Help Nigeria has an advocacy platform that amplifies cases embarked on by other organisations particularly Domestic Workers Advocacy Network (DOWAN) and This is Lebanon. It also has a certification program in partnership with Lisa Academy, an organisation that recognises skilled and trained domestic workers and recruitment agencies to ensure adequate accountability and protection of human and work environment rights. This is in its aim to see to the formalisation and regulation of the industry.
Speaking on the need to recognise the informal industry, Adedamola noted that even employers bear the brunt of injustice. “Let’s not pretend as if employees are the only victims. There have been cases where employers bring domestic workers into their house while their (employer) children are poisoned,” he said. “By regulatory measure, a standard is created for who can and should be employed in the industry. We’re able to protect domestic workers’ rights as well as an age requirement for child workers. Abuse has been normalised so we need to get people more sensitised.
“Having this enforced by the police and other relevant authorities are some of the steps that need to take place if we’re going to see any real change.”
On August 14, 2020, the Foreign Minister of Affairs in Nigeria, Godfrey Onyema and the Lebanese Ambassador to Nigeria, Houssam Diab resolved in a meeting to address labour laws and the repatriation of more than 500 Nigerian domestic workers from Lebanon.
According to the minister, labour laws would be looked into while the Lebanese ambassador expressed that Nigerian girls aiming to be domestic workers in Lebanon would be denied visas to lessen the influx of young girls who are abused and left stranded in the destination country.
“As of the 1st of May of [2022], the Lebanese government has stopped issuing visas for domestic workers — ladies coming from Nigeria. This will stop any new cases from arising,” Diab said.
He further explained the process to justify the need for agencies involved in the communication between employers and employees. To his belief, the process has disenabled smuggling and human trafficking.
“90 per cent of these agencies are Nigerian agencies. They are applying through Lebanese agencies through the security general to acquire work visas and permits for these ladies,” he added.
To reveal that not all of the estimated 5000 Nigerians in Lebanon are domestic workers, he mentioned that many of them are making ends meet from other jobs. “The issue of abuse is very few as they can be found on social media. But, we have to be careful because not all of these videos are true and they are affecting the ones that have good jobs.”
Although it is not confirmed that some of these victims have illegally migrated, it is to the public eye that a considerable number of them are abused, which has resulted in death.
In the latest development by the government, a bill sponsored by a member of the Senate, Sani Musa, on September 29 of 2022 was scaled to the second reading. This move was to regulate and formalise the employment of domestic workers, apprentices, interns and other informal sector employees in Nigeria.
According to the lawmaker: “There are still a lot of deficits in the implementation of these (ILO) conventions, one of such areas of concern relates to a decent work deficit.”
As of November 8, 2022, the Federal Republic of Nigeria has ratified two labour-related conventions. Convention No. 187, which addresses the Promotional Framework for Occupational Safety and Health Convention, 2006 and Violence and Harassment Convention, 2019 (No. 190), are the country’s effort to ensure a domestically regulated work environment.
It is a goal to have the industry regulated, but what is the consequence for those operating outside the regulations? Migrant labour regulations are yet to be discussed.
Many Nigerians have dreams to relocate to other countries and even change their nationality due to factors not limited to the economic situation, unemployment and insecurity posed to citizens in the country.
In a 2018 PEW research survey, 45% of adult Nigerians plan to relocate to another country within the next five years, their destination regions being Europe, the Middle East and North America. Meanwhile, the UK government announced its review of the rise in the population of migrant dependents.
Now divorced, Mary is maintaining a single-parent lifestyle in another state. Even after the death of her sister, she is still keen on travelling to another country although, this time, she would always inform people of the hardship in Arab countries.
“I do not want to work as a domestic worker again,” she said. “If I want to travel, God should help me to Canada, UK or US because any Arab country is not easy.”
Edited and Reviewed by Cassandra Roxburgh, Uzoma Ihejrika, PK Cross, and Caleb Okereke.
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.

author: Adebola Makinde