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“I was struggling to speak”: Nigerians who stutter on navigating the education system - Minority Africa
Yusuf Adua
May 2, 2024
In February 2024, Abdulqudus Jimoh (27), who had just gained direct entry into the 200-level archaeology department at the Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria, was to give a presentation tied to his grades in data collection and handling in archaeology.
He had to prepare for two things. In addition to what he and the other students learned during the practical, he had to repeatedly practise how he would speak and not stammer when it was his turn to present.
“I was struggling to speak. I understood what I wanted to say but couldn’t get it out. Sincerely, I felt pain, discouraged, disappointed, and embarrassed,” he says, recounting how his presentation went.
That was not the first time Jimoh’s speech difficulty would let him down academically; he had been mocked throughout his Higher Diploma programme at the same university.  Before getting admitted for an undergraduate degree, he was scared to put his heart back into the ring, he tells Minority Africa.
“Stammering is not only impeding my studies; it is halting my leadership roles as a student because I know I have all the leadership qualities except this,” he says.
Unlike other students who can communicate easily, Jimoh says when he forces a word from his mouth, he feels a sharp and searing pain in his chest. So, he doesn’t talk, ask, or answer questions in class, which he feels strongly affects his academic life.
While stammering isn’t an issue for him with some of his coursemates and close friends, he adds that they don’t always let him finish or want to pay attention to him when he talks, making group projects and collaboration difficult for him.
Facing challenges with presentation is also something Omosalewa Akanbi-Neander experienced. “I prefer exams to come in written form,” he says. “Every exam done in oral or presentation format, I falter. My project defence did not go as I wished because I stammered. I might know 80% of what I want to discuss, but I can only share 40% because I stammer.”
Until getting to King’s College in Lagos, Akanbi-Neander never envisioned that his speech difficulty would become pressing.
“I can’t remember at what point my stammering became an issue,” he says. “But getting to secondary school, if I wanted to get down from a bus stop on my way to and from school, I would have started practising how I would say it three bus stops before.” Even though he tried, he missed his bus stop so many times.
Akanbi-Neander initially wanted to study law and become a lawyer like his father, but he had to accept that a career as a lawyer would be challenging.
“A stammerer may find it challenging to defend his client speaking in the courtroom. I had to tweak my ambition, he says.
Still, studying Political Science between 2007 and 2011 at Redeemer’s University in Ede, Osun State, was equally challenging.
In separate interviews, Jimoh and Akanbi-Neander admitted that stammering comes with a sense of grief as students because the country’s educational system has no space for anyone who will take at least two minutes more to say a word than their contemporaries.
They are among over 600,000 adults in Nigeria who experience some level of difficulty, including rapid eye blinks, tremors of the lips or jaw, facial tics, head jerks, and clenched fists when speaking. Despite being aware they exhibit these traits, people with speech difficulty have little or no control over these involuntary actions.
Like thousands of others, the duo’s speech difficulty worsens when they are exhausted, tired, or stressed out—physical conditions that are impossible not to happen in higher institutions. They struggle with their academic lives almost daily because of the emphasis on speech and peer-to-peer interaction. While they like to interact as they explain to Minority Africa, they can’t keep up with oral interactions and struggle to make a successful presentation, a critical evaluation model in their institutions.
Most courses have at least a group work or personal assignment in a semester that requires presentation and public speaking and can make up between 10-30 per cent of their grade.
The problems people with speech difficulty face do not only reoccur at the secondary or undergraduate level; they are also a pressing challenge at the postgraduate level, as stammering does not only affect students while making presentations; reading can become impossible regardless of one’s level of education.
Babajide Ajayi (37) narrates to Minority Africa that during a class on managerial economics, while taking his master’s degree in business administration, the lecturer asked them to read a note aloud one after the other before he explained the lesson’s content.
“On a regular day, I can read smoothly, but it becomes an issue when I realise I stammer,” he says. “As a stammerer, I find it difficult to enunciate words that begin with consonants. I was relearning how to pronounce the first word, which was a consonant, when the professor concluded that I was dumb.”
Even though he had rehearsed before his turn, the lecturer assumed he couldn’t and decided to read Ajayi’s portion himself.
“There are barriers and stigma. Even when stammering has no physical imprint, most of us are ashamed, especially in the presence of strangers,” Akanbi-Neander adds. His time as an undergraduate was bittersweet. He came out as the second-best student in his class and believes he could have topped the class if he did not stammer.
He explains that instead of the Nigerian society absorbing stammerers and their speech difficulties, they associate it with non-intelligence, lies, or a bad habit from childhood.
“Some people even say that because we stammer, we are lying. So there is a cultural connotation to stammering that affects us as students,” he says.
As Jimoh returns to Ahmadu Bello University, getting used to speaking at a slow pace has worked well for him. “I have accepted my fate, so I don’t speak too fast. My slow speech has given me enough respite to blend into the system. There is a difference between speaking slowly and stammering.”
Akanbi-Neander now runs his own business after endlessly searching for a job. He attributes the failure partly to stammering because it limited his choices and how prospective employers rate him and his presentations. He no longer cares what people say and has been speaking at his own pace, even when people find his words uninteresting.
“For me, I stammer it out. I don’t mind and I try to pass my message,” he says. “I have been confident and I ensure that I am knowledgeable beyond average. When people know I have something upstairs, they will be eager to listen to me even if it takes longer than others.”
He doesn’t overthink it; he takes care of every other part of his life except the only one he certainly can’t control—stammering—which is hereditary, as it is with all the sources that Minority Africa interviewed.
While Ajayi’s educational pursuits have revolved around speech and vocals (he obtained a bachelor’s degree in mass communication, majoring in advertising and has also explored public relations, business administration, accounting, and music), just like Akanbi-Neander and Jimoh, he has found personalised ways to navigate his way around tertiary education.
“I have my challenges with presentation. When we were given group assignments, most of my classmates always saw me as a dullard. So, I had to distance myself from broadcasting or anything that has to do with much talking”.
Initially, studying mass communication felt like a punishment for Ajayi. His family wanted him to surmount his stammering. “My sponsors wanted me to go for mass communication, and I am happy I did,” he recounts.
Expectedly, many people think that his brain malfunctions when he speaks, but he closes the gaps via continued academic excellence and breaking new ground. “I remember trying to introduce myself to someone, and he dove off. I felt I should die.”
Stammering has become a motivation for him, helping him reach new heights in his career. He has become an interdisciplinary expert and won the MTN MUSON Music Scholars Programme, a rare achievement for anyone with speech difficulty.
Eunice Akinbode, a speech therapist pursuing her graduate study in speech therapy and audiology at the University of Ibadan, agrees that learning in a Nigerian university is tricky and thinks that it’s high time the country’s educational stakeholders considered the struggles of stammerers.
“From lecturers to colleagues, every pillar of tertiary education is supposed to accommodate stammerers and their speech difficulties as opposed to them finding adaptable ways on their own,” she says. “But we don’t have that here.”
Akinbode submits that living in denial of stammerers and parents of children with stammering deepens the problem. “When you were covering this story, many would have asked why you thought this was a big deal. Stammering is greatly overlooked.” While putting this piece together, Minority Africa spoke with fifteen students from across Nigeria who stammer. Ten of them see stammering as a personal woe and nothing too serious.
She says that the Nigerian system has made it impossible for lecturers to go out of their way to carry students along. “Even the seemingly regular students hardly have the chance to thrive; how about people with special needs such as stammering? There’s no support for student stammerers in tertiary institutions whatsoever.
“As speech therapists, what we do for stammerers is that we use some techniques, including pacing, speech moderation, and control breathing, to work on their speech output. It’s only permissible for us to work on their psychology. A real-time educational fix is pretty difficult to find.”
Despite the struggles of stammerers not being acknowledged, students who stammer have found functional ways on their own, and these ways are working for them.
Edited by Banjoko Samuel and Uzoma Ihejirika.
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.

author: Yusuf Adua


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“I wish it were this easy for everyone out there”: How digital platforms are reshaping rental experiences in Tanzania - Minority Africa
Mweha Msemo
August 30, 2023
When Shukuru Zambwe moved from Sikonge, Tabora, in mid-western Tanzania, to Dar es Salaam, the country’s most populous city, in 2014, he faced the challenge of finding his own place to live. He had arranged to stay with his relatives for at least a week, hoping it would suffice until he found a rental house.
“Since I had been accustomed to personally searching for vacant residences and directly engaging with landlords, I felt uncertain about navigating the new city,” Zambwe, now 43 years old, recalls getting connected with one of the city’s informal housing middlemen, locally known as dalalis.
Zambwe shared his specific housing preferences with the dalali, who assured him of exciting options. This assurance initially thrilled him, as he hoped to avoid a longer stay at his relatives’ small house. But his excitement faded when he spent five days with the middleman, touring different neighbourhoods without finding a suitable house. “Despite promises that each subsequent house would be better, the search proved unsuccessful. And I was paying him almost TZS 20,000 ($8.15) per day as a viewing fee,” he says.
“Viewing fee” is paid by prospective tenants to middlemen for every house they are shown, regardless of whether they accept it or not.
After several more unsuccessful attempts, Zambwe decided to part ways with the dalali in search of a more reliable one. That was after he had spent nine days sleeping on a couch in his relative’s tiny house. To his dismay, he discovered that most middlemen operated similarly. Spending more days with another agent yielded no positive results either.
To avoid further financial loss, Zambwe reluctantly agreed to rent two rooms in a house he didn’t particularly like, buying himself time to continue his search. “The rooms of the house were cramped, the roof was too low and in disrepair, and the ceiling was covered in stains. During the rainy season, the entire neighbourhood would turn into a pond,” he recalls.
Despite having paid six months’ rent upfront, Zambwe eventually relocated to a better house and neighbourhood three months later, giving up the remaining rent. “I wasn’t happy to let all that money go for nothing, but my mental health was way more important to me.”
Zambwe’s experience sheds light on the common challenges faced by Tanzanians dealing with housing middlemen in urban areas.
The housing sector in big cities and towns is witnessing growth, driven by a significant influx of individuals migrating from rural to urban areas. Tanzania’s estimated annual urban population change rate is 5.2%, and it is projected to increase from 19.9 million in 2018 to 35.5 million in 2030. Dar es Salaam, for example, has the highest percentage of migrants from other areas, with 56% of its population originating from elsewhere.
Not only does this population increase further deepens the demand for housing but it also attracts more individuals to venture into the role of middlemen. The sector serves as a source of employment, particularly within the informal sector, which accounts for 62% of Dar es Salaam’s total employment, according to data from the National Bureau of Statistics (NBS). NBS data also reveals that 31% of individuals engaged in informal sector activities in Tanzania cite the inability to find alternative employment opportunities.
Dalalis are crucial in connecting landlords with potential tenants in urban Tanzania. Their constant presence on the ground makes them well-informed about rental markets in their respective geographical areas, offering valuable insights to landlords and prospective tenants. However, these middlemen remain largely unregulated. Most of them operate without registration with government authorities and lack physical office spaces.
The lack of regulations also gives them unchecked control over fees and operations. “Most times, they understand they can’t get you what you’re looking for, but they can’t be honest. They’ll find a way to take you on those fruitless house viewing trips so they can earn something from you, and it’s rarely below TZS10,000 ($4.07) now,” says Dorcas Emmanuel, a 32-year-old Dar es Salaam resident who has dealt with multiple middlemen. “Others could also charge you based on how you are dressed.”
Godlove Mwakibinga, a 40-year-old renter in Dar es Salaam, has also experienced middlemen taking him to already paid-for houses and still demanding viewing fees. “For what? That’s daylight robbery,” he says.
These middlemen are blamed for inflating rental costs beyond the owners’ intentions by focusing solely on high profits. “They decide what they want. They even have the power to raise the rent price if the landlord is not strong,” says Baraka Simbano, a landlord in Kimara Temboni, Dar es Salaam.
“Many people have found themselves renting buildings at a very high cost, even three times the actual cost, because of increasing the dalali‘s commission,” says Zamda Magingi, a landlady in Kiluvya, Dar es Salaam. She highlights how disputes arise when a middleman brings a customer willing to pay more than the original rent and insists on taking a portion of the excess amount for several months. “There are cases where the owner rents a house for TZS100,000 ($40.76) a month, and the broker brings a customer willing to pay TZS150,000 ($61.14), then the dispute starts that the dalali wants to take the exceeding TZS50,000 ($20.38) for, let’s say, six months,” adds the 63-year-old retiree.
Amid Tanzania’s housing demand of 3 million units with an annual growth of 200,000 units, as reported by the Center for Affordable Housing in Africa (CAHF), dalalis exploit the situation using several techniques. They can give a house to a client, but before the tenancy expires, they bring another client to the landlord with more money and cause the occupying tenant to be evicted.
Shadya Mustafa, a 24-year-old student at St. Joseph University in Tanzania (SJUIT), Dar es Salaam, experienced first-hand this unjust practice. After renting a bedsitter for TZS80,000 ($32.60) per month and paying six months’ rent in advance, she was shocked to receive an eviction notice just two months later, supposedly due to renovations. Mustafa later discovered that another tenant had already secured the same house by paying TZS100,000 ($40.76). “It made me sad to experience such unfairness, but I couldn’t do anything about it,” she says.
In Tanzania, middlemen are paid by renters rather than landlords. It’s not easy to find a house in urban areas without a dalali who usually charges an equivalent of one month’s rent from the tenant – a system objected to by renters and discouraged by the government.
In November 2021, the government issued a ban against agents collecting an equivalent of one month’s rent from tenants, stating that their fees should be paid by landlords. “Those [middlemen] who charge renters the equivalent of one month’s rent are thieves; put a stop to this thievery. The tenant should not pay the agent,” emphasised William Lukuvi, then Minister for Lands, Housing, and Human Settlement Development.
Despite the ban, this unwritten rule persists, posing challenges for renters and often leading to silent conflicts. Most landlords charge rent biannually or annually, making it difficult for tenants to accumulate the necessary funds. The burden of dalalis’ charges adds to the weight making it more overwhelming for many people, especially the majority of the urban poor, 84% of the population, who, the housing sector difficulties hit the hardest.
2% of Dar es Salaam’s renter households live in flats or low-rise apartments, whereas 59% live in freestanding houses and 39% in attached houses. Most residents in Dar es Salaam are unable to afford homeownership due to high property expenses, expensive building materials and value-added tax. Many are left with no choice but to rent their housing because the available mortgage financing choices that are available tend to favour individuals with middle-class or higher earnings.
Esther Milinga, a 37-year-old single mother of two, resides in Ubungo Kibangu, a neighbourhood in Dar es Salaam. She is a tenant, renting a modest room as her home. To sustain herself and her family, she operates a fish vending stall along the roadside, earning TZS 6,000–7,000 ($2.44–2.85) per day, part of which is dedicated to covering the monthly rent of TZS 50,000 ($20.38), which she pays on a biannual basis.
Although Milinga dreams of moving to a larger house, she believes it’s not the right time. She worries that the fees charged by middlemen might eat into her hard-earned capital, making it difficult for her to afford a bigger place. “Whenever I think of the amount I’ll have to give to a dalali, I shrink and just hope that one day I’ll be able to move. I don’t want to cause any harm to my business now because I won’t be able to get back on my feet quickly,” she says
Many renters have long believed there should be a professional body where individuals can lodge complaints when estate agents act contrary to the government’s directives. “With such a body, agents would act in the best interest of the clients, ensuring honesty, fairness, and promptness for both renters and homeowners,” says 35-year-old Charles Haule.
However, after years of people pushing, the Tanzanian government took proactive measures. In 2015, the Ministry of Lands, Housing and Human Settlements Development introduced a bill to regulate the real estate sector and protect consumers from inadequate services. The Estate Agency Act, 2015 is expected to significantly change property sales, rentals, and management within the 61 million-person country when passed.
Under the proposed bill, it is promised that the Estate Agency Board would be established as the governing body responsible for registering and overseeing the activities and behaviour of estate agents. The board would also have the authority to pursue legal action against unregistered agents and adjust the fees charged by the agents.
However, the bill is yet to be enacted, but Dr Angelina Mabula, the current Minister of Lands, Housing, and Human Settlements Development, reassured the public early this year that its finalisation is in progress.
In the face of the government’s slow response, individuals have been taking matters into their own hands. Digital platforms have emerged as an increasingly popular method for connecting landlords and potential renters.
Edson Chonge, 42, manages a WhatsApp group with over 1,000 members where landlords and tenants can directly interact without the need for intermediaries. “Due to the government’s lack of prompt action, we have long taken it upon ourselves to tackle these scammers,” Chonge explains, highlighting the necessity for their proactive approach.
Chonge initiated the group back in 2018, aiming to assist renters and landlords who wanted to avoid middlemen. Having personally experienced the costly involvement of intermediaries, he felt the need for a change. Starting with a small circle of friends, the group gradually expanded as more people were invited. “Every day, I read thankful messages in the group, and that brings me joy knowing that people are being served well and deserving of it,” Chonge says.
Through the group, individuals have the opportunity to swap houses based on their preferred location and the affordability of the properties. The decision to swap lies with the two parties involved, as well as the landlords.
Zeituni Mzee, 29, is among those who have benefited from the group’s services. Last year when she desired to relocate closer to her workplace, she utilised the group to announce her intention and provide details about the rental house she wished to vacate and the one she desired to move into. In less than a day, she found an interested party. “What would have taken me weeks and a significant amount of money became possible in less than a day and zero cost was incurred. I wish it were this simple for everyone out there,” she says.
Facebook, also serves as another convenient platform for connecting without dalalis’ interference. In 2020, a group named Chama cha Wapangaji TZ (Swahili for Tenants’ Association of Tanzania) was created by a group of friends who, having just graduated, struggled to get an apartment as they could not afford the dalali fee. Now with over 159,000 members, the group allows members to inform others about available houses and apartments, free from the involvement of middlemen.
Joining the group requires a commitment to actively seeking rental property and an agreement to be removed and banned from the group if found to be a disguised dalali. “We have zero tolerance for dalalis in this group. We want people to have the freedom to find the properties they desire. Shelter is a basic necessity and shouldn’t be unaffordable for anyone,” says Andrew George, the group’s founder and co-admin.
Despite facing insults and threats online from individuals he believes to be disgruntled middlemen, George remains resilient in maintaining a safe space for renters through his group. In addition to insults, some people have even offered to buy the group from him, but he firmly declined. He says, “I wasn’t sure what would happen to the group if I sold it. It could be transformed into something that goes against our mission of helping people.”
Sadiki “Makuku” Rashid holds the same conviction and operates a Facebook group with over 17,000 members. His motivation to start the group stemmed from his own negative experience with a housing middleman while assisting a friend in finding a rental house. Since its establishment in 2021, Makuku has successfully attracted so many members to the group because “people understand the importance of not spending beyond their budgets.”
These groups help people like Anna Mbise to not worry about leaving their work to make time for working with dalalis in search of an apartment. “I have not used a dalali ever since I joined the group. There you can easily find a house,” says the 44-year-old resident of Tabata, Dar es Salaam. “According to my observation, there are more than thirty posts announcing vacant apartments on a daily basis. I wish more people get to know that there’s a way to not use dalalis who usually don’t think about our interests and time but their own.” To maintain an enjoyable and harmonious atmosphere among the members, the group also allows humour and real-life stories about tenant-to-tenant and tenant-landlord interactions. Makuku says that this practice helps cultivate a strong sense of community. “It’s not only a movement against middlemen exploitation; it’s also a space where we share our own experiences as tenants and landlords and find common solutions.”
Emmanuel Mkojera, a social media and digital security trainer with Jamii Forums, a social justice and digital rights organisation, supports these initiatives. He believes that utilising the digital space to address social problems is a great way for people to exercise their digital rights. “The fact that people are taking such measures to improve their lives, particularly through the use of social media, demonstrates a clear shift in societal understanding of the benefits and significance of social networks in addressing their needs,” he says.
Mkojera explains that there used to be a misperception that social media had no real benefits, but these recent developments demonstrate that when digital platforms are used effectively, they can bring significant advantages. “It’s not just about discussing housing issues; through these platforms, people can come together and collaborate on various social and developmental matters,” he emphasises.
Amidst the prevalence of fraudulent housing middlemen in the Tanzanian market, there are still competent ones who conduct their work diligently, according to Dickson Mwagange, who has been in the industry for over eight years. He is confident that the dalali-less platforms only impact those who lack a good reputation, but for him, who has established a loyal clientele, the business flourishes. “Throughout my eight years of service, none of my clients have ever voiced dissatisfaction. That is where my strength lies,” he proudly states.
Mwagange also emphasises that for the housing sector to operate fairly and benefit all parties involved, everyone needs to work without greed. “It is not always about us. Landlords should also have the courage to refuse to be swayed by duplicitous middlemen,” he says.
The 38-year-old father of four, who has been supporting his family as a housing middleman, also expresses optimism about the upcoming law. He intends to transition into a legitimate role and even considers pursuing a short course in real estate agency. “The law may intimidate some of us, but I am confident that it will enhance professionalism in our work and earn us the respect we deserve,” he says.
Janeth Mhina is a 46-year-old landlady who has had both good and bad experiences with middlemen. She has a unique perspective as she was previously a tenant for over twelve years before becoming a homeowner herself. Recognising the benefits of the real estate sector for all parties involved, she emphasises the importance of landlords actively advertising their vacant rentals through printed posters and having a specific list of dalalis one can fully trust working with. “This approach can spare landlords of the troubles with unscrupulous middlemen, and renters will be relieved of the stress and frustrations they usually have to put up with,” she says.
Living with a low income and the uncertainty of rent increases or eviction notices can cause a lot of stress. According to psychologist George Chacha of the Tanzania Psychological Association (TAPA), “being stuck in a place one doesn’t like because the person has no other option can also lead to mental health problems.” Chacha explains, “Feeling safe is really important for everyone. When people feel safe where they live, it helps them be happier and have better relationships with others.”
After moving around many times, Zambwe, who is now living in his current rental house for a fourth year and feels content, reflects on his past experiences and the benefits of avoiding deceitful middlemen. He considers himself less fortunate compared to those who haven’t had to encounter dalalis’ tricks and wishes he had discovered dalali-free platforms earlier.
“I’m really relieved that others don’t have to go through what I went through for so long,”he says. “Whenever my friends are searching for housing, I always suggest they take the dalali-less route. It’s truly the best option for renters out there.”
Edited by Banjoko Samuel and Uzoma Ihejirika.
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Mweha Msemo is a Tanzanian freelance journalist based in Dar es Salaam, with a distinct focus on shedding light on the stories of marginalised communities. With a passion for amplifying voices often unheard, Mweha's writing delves into the lives and challenges faced by these underrepresented groups, embodying a commitment to raising awareness and fostering understanding.

source: news-minorityafrica

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

author: Mweha Msemo


text:
“I would leave everything as it is now”: Father of jailed Amazigh Riffian leader speaks about the movement that shook Morocco - Minority Africa
Bianca Carrera
October 21, 2022
Entering the Zefzafis’ house was like entering a different world, one in which time had lapsed. The positions of the furniture had barely changed since Nasser Zefzafi’s absence, as his father, Ahmed Zefzafi indicated while pointing at different places of the house.  Black flags were still waving on their rooftop since May 29, 2017, when Nasser was detained for having led the biggest protests of the century in the Rif.
“They broke this door,” said Ahmed, pointing at the main entrance to their house, “and entered with fifty-four members of the national police brigade.” That’s how he remembers the last memories with his son, who is now a figure for the Amazigh Riffians worldwide.
Nasser Zefzafi became known for being one of the most outspoken activists during the Riffian revolts that took place from 2016 to 2017. The Hirak Rif Movement was sparked as a result of the killing of fish vendor Mouhcine Fikri by a garbage truck  after his goods had been confiscated by the authorities.
However, the revolts that followed were not only a sign of popular solidarity towards the unfortunate street vendor. Fikri’s death was just the symptom of a general policy of alleged marginalization and neglect that has been directed toward the Rif region and its people – predominantly Amazighs or Imazighen, the indigenous people of the North of Africa – for years.
At that time, Nasser was not an activist. He, like many Riffians at the time, was unemployed and had started to see his future become blurry as his region – in contrast with other areas of an increasingly modern Morocco – continued its downward spiral of poverty.
“It was only from that day on that he began to take to the streets, to participate in peaceful marches with flowers and candles in Al Hoceima,” says Ahmed.
Despite his humble beginnings, Nasser quickly became one of the leading figures in the movement: delivering speeches, organizing weekly concentrations and, especially, encouraging his people not to give up on their peaceful demands for dignity.
“I cannot say that Nasser was a leader nor a boss. But he brought up the Hirak, the movement,” Ahmed says. “On that night, when Fikri died, if [it]had not been for Nasser, nothing would have ever happened.”
Nonetheless, Nasser’s bravery came with a price.
“On May 26, they broke our door in search of him, but he was not home, he was hiding,” Ahmed recalls. “On [May]29, at 6 o’clock in the morning, Nasser was already in the hands of the national brigade. From that moment on, they took him in a helicopter and tortured him until he arrived in Casablanca’s prison.”
Nasser Zefzafi was detained over charges related to “undermining interior state security,” the public prosecutor of Al Hoceima’s Court of Appeal announced upon his capture. He was also said to be detained over suspicion of “obstructing freedom of worship,” as  he had interrupted a Friday prayer sermon in a local mosque for its critique of the Movement’s protests.
In June 2018, a Moroccan court sentenced Nasser to 20 years in prison for undermining public order and threatening national unity.
“Since 1956, they have had this narrative that we want to change the regime,” claims Ahmed, referring to the period following the formal independence of Morocco from the French, which led to a series of internal clashes with the Rif, who still consider themselves marginalized. “But which regime can I change with some candles on the street? If the army, with colonels and generals, were not able to change it, for example, in the coup of 1971; how can Nasser with a box of candles in the street change the regime himself? It makes no sense.”
It has now been more than five years since Nasser was imprisoned, and he still has 15 more to go.
Although distance makes things hard, Nasser calls his parents almost every day, trying to be as cheerful as possible. However, Ahmed  tells us that his son’s condition is worsening day by day.
“When he entered prison he was in perfect health, but now, he has three chronic diseases,” he says. “This week they found microbes in his stomach, and he has developed different respiratory problems as well.”
The alleged poor conditions and ill-treatment of Riffian detainees have been raised as an international concern by NGOs such as Amnesty International. In one of its online pieces, the famous organization exposes how the lawyer of Omar Bourhass, who was detained with Nasser, said that “police beat him while ordering him to say ‘Long live the King,’ stripped him of his underwear, broke two of his teeth, and threatened and insulted him following his arrest in Al Hoceima.”
But Nasser is not the only one who has paid a huge price for protesting; his parents have too.
When asked about the consequences he and his wife had suffered for being Nasser’s parents, Ahmed said: “There is nothing now, but when we were in Tangier for medical treatment, we were disturbed many times. Spies came with us to our house, to the restaurants, to the cafés…everywhere.”
And, despite  all this, if he was able to go back in time, Ahmed claims he would not have tried to prevent Nasser from doing what he did. “I would leave everything as it is now,” he says.
He is proud of what his son did, and even though his imprisonment hurts him, he believes he did what he had to do to stand for the rights of Amazigh Riffians, who have for so long been forgotten.
“The only thing we want is to live under a human rights regime; to live free, to enjoy the fortune of our land…But there is no one to talk to,” states Ahmed, attesting that the demands of the movement his son led were only those of dignity, respect and attention towards the Riffian people. Indeed, some of the concrete things they were asking the government for were as simple as the construction of a hospital, the establishment of more educational institutions, and the fostering of their local economy.
“At least with the Spanish, there was employment,” Ahmed recognizes in a tone of disappointment, acknowledging  that life under their former colonial power was not as different as the situation facing the Rif today.
But Ahmed has not given up hope and knows that the flame of freedom his son sparked cannot so easily be blown out. He reveals that he receives letters, paintings and drawings in his son’s honor from Riffians and progressive activists from all around the world, for whom his son’s struggles continue to be an inspiration.
Nasser Zefzafi continues to be regarded as a person speaking for many Amazigh Riffians. He might be the one behind bars, but the Rif community continues to mourn his imprisonment as if they, too, are in the cell with him.
“In the Muslim world, there are two ways to explain these black flags,” says Ahmed as he shows me the big black flags hanging on their rooftop. ”Some will say we are Shiites and others will say we are from Daesh. Which of the two are we? Neither. We are mourning, and until my son comes out of prison, they [the flags] won’t stop hanging in his memory.”
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: October 21, 2022

author: Bianca Carrera


text:
Ìfé, a Nigerian film about two women in love, reassures African queer women - Minority Africa
FK Twigs
February 11, 2021
The music is certainly the first thing to grab your attention about Ìfé: the voice of Nigerian singer, Temmie Ovwasa enveloping you in recognition, so that you feel like you have been here before, at this moment, at this time.
Ìfé is a love story about two lesbians—the titular character played by Uzoamaka Aniunoh, and Adaora (Cindy Amadi)—one open about her sexuality, the other still in the closet and afraid to lose her family over her orientation.
This scenario is one that hits close to home for most LGBTQI+ relationships in Uganda, where I am from, and across Africa.
The characters meet for a date that ends up spanning three days, during which they discuss life and love as lesbians while examining the different attitudes of their families, as it concerns their sexual identities.
An important aspect the film highlights is the need to be more understanding of queer people who can’t be “out and proud”. It borders on the necessity of compassion, which many people lack because they refuse to realize the privilege that inherently comes with having a support structure amongst friends, family, and colleagues.
While visibility is the ideal objective and certainly does have its advantages, to blame queer people who are not able to be as visible for their own invisibility is to absolve the system that sustains the need for them to stay hidden in the first place.
The film is set in present-day Nigeria, which like most parts of the African continent is deeply homophobic.
In recent times, though, people’s attitudes toward LGBTQ+ people seem to be changing.
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 would not accept a family member who is LGBTQ+, significant progress from the 83% who said they would not in 2017.
As much as Ìfé’s storyline might be triggering for many queer people that have been in similar relationships, it bears a hopeful message, a reassurance: “It’s okay; we have also been through this, and you are not alone.”
“I just wanted to tell a story that Nigerian queer women can relate to, and as a storyteller. . . what’s always important is representation,” said writer and director, Uyaiedu Ikpe-Etim, in an interview on YouTube.
“I want people to be able to see themselves and I did that by making sure that both characters represented a lot of Nigerian queer women.”
Pamela Adie, the film’s producer, and an LGBTQ+ rights activist, equally says that the film was made to increase visibility and to share the experiences of queer Nigerian women with the Nigerian audience.
Pamela Adie and Uyaiedu Ikpe-Etim have, amidst threats of jail time and the refusal of the National Film and Video Censors Board (NFVCB) to approve the film for theatrical distribution, proceeded to make the film available online.
Ìfé is a film with a two-pronged purpose: helping to shape the future of Nollywood as bold and inclusive, and being the movie for queer Nigerian women, and queer African women, too, to see themselves, most realistically and honestly, the way we have always wanted to be seen.
Ife is out on EHTV now and you can rent it for €10.
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Journalist at large.

created: February 11, 2021

author: FK Twigs


text:
In northern Uganda, war survivors and comfort dogs are “healing together.” - Minority Africa
PK Cross
January 14, 2024
It’s  11 AM on Saturday at the headquarters of Big Fix Uganda, an organization specialising in treating and rehabilitating stray dogs. In the tranquil compound, Evelyne Anena is seated on a mat, tenderly stroking a dog called Peyot. The atmosphere is serene as Peyot, with closed eyes, luxuriates in each soothing stroke. The dog reciprocates the connection by placing its paw in Anena’s hand, creating a touching moment.
Periodically, Peyot lifts its head, acknowledging and cherishing Anena’s comforting touch. In the background, the distant sounds of other dogs echo from inside one of the buildings on the compound.
The bond shared between Peyot and Anena is one of profound interdependency. This connection had its roots in 2021 when Anena sought solace in the organization, looking for counselling to navigate the trauma she endured after losing her husband to the Lord Resistance Movement (LRA) rebels.
“On the night of July 2002, rebels came into our home, grabbed my husband and killed him in front of me and my children,” the 50-year-old Anena recalls. ”For almost twenty years, I could not sleep because every time I closed my eyes, I re-lived my husband’s murder.”
Following that fateful day, life took a turn for the worse for the mother of four. Prior to her husband’s demise, he served as a policeman and was the primary breadwinner for the family. The family was forced to flee their home and seek refuge in Gulu Town.
Anena and their children found themselves in dire circumstances. She faced the daunting task of rebuilding her life and ensuring the well-being of her family.
“I would ride my bicycle for a long distance from the camp to the village to gather food to feed my children and the balance I would sell to get money for bills like school fees and clothes.”
In 2008, when the dust settled, Anena and her children returned to their home. However, in the absence of her late husband, her in-laws conveyed to her that she could no longer reside there, asserting that, as a woman, she had no rights to the land.
“They wanted me to leave with my children and go back to my parents’ home. However my parents and two of my siblings were also killed by the rebels so I did not really have anyone to go back to,” Anena narrates.
“I struggled with my in-laws until we were given some land; that is how I managed to survive. But some of that land has already been taken since then.”
In 2021, Anena joined Big Fix Uganda. In the beginning, she wanted counselling services. During the sessions, she was paired with Peyot, a dog which was also going through trauma of its own.
“Peyot in Acholi means ‘It’s not easy.’ I gave it that name because of what we both had been through,” Anena says, looking at Peyot who is now sleeping beside her. Peyot opens its eyes, looking at Anena as though in agreement. “After starting counseling and meeting Peyot, I was able to sleep well within the first three weeks.”
The relationship between Anena and Peyot is exactly what the Comfort Dog Project set out to create when the project started in 2014.
According to Francis Oloya, a community psychologist and manager of the Comfort Dog Project and education program at Big Fix Uganda, they majorly employ animal-assisted interventions that use dog therapy for treating and rehabilitating the mental health of war trauma survivors.
“Northern Uganda has been a place where we experienced decades of war between the LRA and the Uganda government which has left thousands of people suffering from the effects of the war up-to-date,” Oloya says.
However, for Oloya, his involvement in the Comfort Dog Project serves as a personal testament to the profound impact dogs can have on someone’s life. Oloya, who is visually impaired, forged a meaningful connection with two dogs belonging to a neighbour during his high school years
“[The dogs] instinctively came to know that I needed help and whenever I left the dormitory to class, they would come and lead me and help me navigate especially in the night,” Oloya says while petting his comfort dog Bailey who sits at his feet nervously looking around.
During that period, Oloya found solace in his canine companions when he couldn’t garner support from his fellow students who were also grappling with the stress of school. Every time he ventured out with his white cane, the dogs would come running, offering him the companionship and support he needed.
“That was the situation of helplessness I was going through. I felt that I needed someone to be there for me, and these dogs came to the rescue time and again. I felt safe,” Oloya says.
Throughout the remainder of his high school years, Oloya continued working with the dogs. He finished school and joined the university where he earned a bachelor’s degree in community psychology.
Upon completing his university degree, Oloya returned to northern Uganda, where he crossed paths with Sarah Smith, the president of Big Fix Uganda. Originally founded as a charitable organisation, Big Fix Uganda aimed to foster the bond between animals and humans, promoting both physical and mental well-being.
“We came to the understanding that dogs can help people and that is how the Comfort Dog Project was born,” Oloya says.
Pet therapy builds on the pre-existing human-animal bond. Studies show that interacting with a friendly pet can help many physical and mental issues.
Big Fix Uganda has worked and consulted with the Warrior Canine Connection (WCC) in the USA, which also uses dog therapy to help war veterans who are struggling with PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder).
Since the program’s initiation, Big Fix Uganda has successfully trained approximately one hundred dog guardian teams. Currently, there are eighty-two active members who continue to work alongside the comfort dogs of which 70% are women who are still dealing with the effects of the LRA rebel activities in the region.
According to a report by the United Nations Populations Fund (UNFPA), women and girls bear a disproportionate impact during times of war. The psychological, reproductive, and overall well-being of women is frequently severely compromised in conflict situations. Conflicts tend to escalate the occurrences of sexual violence, rape, sexually transmitted infections (STIs) such as HIV/AIDS, and unwanted pregnancies among women and girls.
To ensure the program produces effective outcomes, the pairing of the dogs and their companions undergoes a rigorous process.
Initially, beneficiaries of the Comfort Dog Program are identified within communities through engagements with residents and consultations with village leaders focusing on trauma and mental health disorders.
Potential candidates then undergo assessments using depression tools such as the Post Traumatic Scale Intervention (PRSI) and Beck Depression Inventory (BDI). These tools help evaluate the severity of mental health conditions, providing crucial insights into the individuals’ needs.
“All the dogs used in the program are rescued as well,” Oloya says. “Most of them have had guardians, some also suffered some trauma like motorcycle and vehicle accidents, others had been trapped by metallic traps and sustained injuries. Others went through tough conditions where stubborn community members subject them to serious wounds by stoning them.”
When the dogs are rescued, they are taken first to a hospital for veterinary care and vaccinated before they are rehabilitated.
“Then we give them the temperaments test to check whether the dog is friendly, if they are able to socialise and can also work with a person,” Oloya explains. “Temperament tests check if the dog is fit for the program.”
According to Oloya, as the pairing is conducted within village communities, an additional assessment involves a prey drive test for the dogs. This test gauges whether the dogs exhibit a tendency to chase or harm other animals, such as chickens. “To see if we can manage this behaviour before the dog is paired with someone.”
Once the dogs have successfully undergone these tests and are deemed suitable for pairing, Oloya elaborates on the complexity of the next step. The pairing of dogs and guardians involves a thorough compatibility assessment. Several factors are taken into consideration, including the dog’s behaviour around the potential guardian, the age and appearance of the dog in relation to the guardian, the specific needs of both the dog and the guardian, and whether the two share common traits such as playfulness.
“We also do inspections to check if the home is ready for the dog; like if the home has a kennel, if family members are ready to receive the new member and if the neighbourhood is safe for the dog,” Oyola says with a hint of concern.
For Anena, the untimely death of her husband and the ensuing instability meant that her children missed out on an opportunity for a better life. She believes that these circumstances prevented her from providing her children with the education they needed to enhance their prospects and improve their lives.
“Today my children have no jobs. The two girls stopped at Senior Four and are married now and the boys stopped in Senior Two. They are peasants and live at home with me,” Anena says.
However, she always looks forward to Saturdays, when people and their comfort dogs gather for training sessions, participating in various activities including grooming and cleaning the dogs, mastering obedience training tricks, and annually participating in dog games on October 4 in celebration of World Animal Day with Peyot.
“Peyot was abandoned and homeless. We are now healing together,” Anena says and Peyot looks up at her as if in agreement.
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.
PK Cross is a journalist at large at Minority Africa.

created: January 14, 2024

author: PK Cross


text:
In Uganda, a new approach to ending sexual and gender based violence: training men - Minority Africa
Safra Bahumura
February 25, 2022
Image description: A man dressed in a white shirt and wearing a black facemask is signing a pledge to end violence against women on a flipchart. Pledges to end violence were signed by men in a training organized by the Foundation for Male Engagement Uganda (FOME) during 2021’s 16 Days of Activism against Gender-Based Violence.
Kampala, Uganda (Minority Africa) — After an hour’s walk from the primary school he teaches in, Samuel Abong usually gets home at about 7:00pm. As is routine, he checks his children’s school books and helps with the remaining chores in the household.
His mornings are busy too. Abong makes sure the children are bathed and ready for school, something his wife used to do.
Although this comes easily for him now, it has not always been so.
“It was challenging,” Abong says, laughing. “But the more I did [house work] the more I got used to it. Now it is something normal for me.”
The 29-year-old father of four living in Moroto district in the northern region of Uganda has been following this routine since March 2021 after going through training on gender equality with MenEngage Uganda, a social network organization that focuses on working with men and boys on issues around gender justice and equality.
“I would drink alcohol and go home around 11:00pm and disorganize everyone’s sleep, causing confusion,” Abong says. “Now I am home by 7:00pm.’’
“Men feel like when they beat a woman, they have solved all their problems, yet, they have inflicted pain on someone. They will ask where the food is, and if it is not there, kiboko!” he adds, explaining the norm in his area and referring to the local term for a cane.
Since his training and from engaging in house chores, Abong has adopted a new way of thinking that does not ascribe to gender roles.
“I don’t even hold a stick anymore,” he says.“Before I joined this training, my children would see me coming and take off, but the life we have now is different. There is no violence. If there is a problem, we sit down and talk.”
His wife Agnes Namer agrees. Namer, who is a survivor of gender-based violence, has witnessed the change in her husband’s character. She says she knows two faces of Abong – the man before the training and the man after.
‘‘When my husband would come home and find no food, it was trouble for me and the kids, but now, he can put money on the table and say, ‘Get the children something to eat,’” she says, adding that her husband and children help with chores now, which lessens her burden.
Yet reconciling these two faces and accepting that change was not easy for Namer. Growing up and living in rural Uganda, widely held social perceptions and norms made her believe that the kitchen was a woman’s place in a home.
“I felt like he was trying to remove work from me,” she says about acclimatizing to her husband’s new behavior. “I wondered ‘Am I punishing him?’ He then explained that these are things he was learning in training. Later, I realized it also helped to simplify my work.”
In 2010, MenEngage Uganda began with the aim of working with men and boys to be part of the solution for gender equality. The organization held its first training on the importance of writing wills, a topic driven by the effects of HIV/AIDS in Uganda where, by 2010, an estimated 67,000 people had succumbed to AIDS-related deaths.
282 Men were trained in making wills, encouraged to test for HIV and adhere to their drugs if they were already positive. Since then, the organization has trained nearly 60,000 men.
“In the beginning, it was just a feminist approach of including men and boys but now it is an intersectional feminist approach,” says Hassan Sekajoolo, the country director.
MenEngage Uganda conducts 12-week training sessions; targeting men in relationships, men in positions such as Local Council leaders, men who work in garages, and fathers.
Sekajoolo explains the ideology: when men are involved in their home affairs, such as raising children and housework, it helps eradicate harmful norms they internalized which will consequently reduce Sexual and Gender-Based Violence (SGBV).
According to studies, parents reproduce inequitable gender relationships through the intergenerational transmission of domestic violence: boys who witness domestic violence are far more likely to abuse their partners, and girls to tolerate intimate partner violence.
In South Africa for example, males experiencing abuse or neglect in childhood is an important risk factor for committing rape as an adolescent or adult.
‘‘The highlight for us here is [that] we have been able to change the men’s perceptions towards women; it is now one of respect and equality. They now look at women as supportive partners,” Sekajoolo explains.
In traditional Ugandan society, culture and societal norms dictate gender roles; housework and parenting are reserved for women, and as such, men rarely participate in daily activities in a home.
“We work with them on their mental health because once they let go of some societal pressures, they are less likely to be violent,” Sekajoolo tells Minority Africa. “We also teach them practical steps to ensure they do not escalate or become the source of violence.”
Close to 3.3 million Ugandans are exposed to adult domestic violence each year. Between 2019 and 2020, there was a 29% increase in the cases of GBV reported from 13,693 reported in 2019 to 17,664 in 2020. During the COVID-19 lockdown, 22% of women noted experiencing sexual violence in Uganda, GBV cases also increased to over 3000 with less than half of that reported to the police.
But how do programs such as MenEngage Uganda aiming towards behavioral change in gender perceptions measure their impact and what is the consequence of that not being measured correctly? Lisa Kanyomozi Rabwoni, a feminist organizer and media personality from Uganda says this is a crucial consideration.
“The thing with abuse and people who are trained away from abuse is that it doesn’t go away completely,” she says. “Six months of training is nothing for something that has been conditioned entirely for years and years to come, they can see their wrong, they can manage to be restricted for a short period of time but I do not think that it goes away fully and wholly.”
Rabwoni adds that it is then even more important for organizations working on such interventions to institute additional steps and phases within the communities that allow women to report if cases happen again and for those reports to be taken seriously.
“With abuse, a lot of times we think, it’s okay, it’s fine, we have moved on,” says Rabwoni, “And when that person strikes once or twice, we give them the leniency and forgiveness thinking, ‘Okay, it’s just a one-time event, probably not going to happen to me again, he probably slipped.’”
To address this, she says frameworks that allow reporting should be followed by training women to speak up and also be cognizant of instances in which their husbands lie in the wrong.
“You are training people to be able to report from a culture of silence so I don’t think open reporting is the best way to move forward,” Rabwoni says. “So how can [these women] report cases in a way that they are sure of confidentiality?”
Rhonah Babweteera, who is the head of Gender Equality and Violence against Women Prevention at the Uganda Network on Law, Ethics and HIV/AIDS (UGANET), which runs a similar program to MenEngage Uganda says the only measurable results are a shift or lack thereof in knowledge.
She admits this can be difficult to determine when organizations only train and don’t continually engage men.
“We also manage to measure attitude and behavioral change,” Babweteera tells Minority Africa. “These are measured through constant engagement [where] we look at how they have used this information in their homes.”
She adds, “We have had many men who say ‘Before I got training, I used to be the alpha and omega in my home. I conducted myself the way I felt like.’”
But despite this, women like Namer have to also deal with societal views on men engaging in household chores, even among other women.
“They asked me, ‘Why do you let your husband do this?’” she says. “I told them that work becomes simpler [and that] we don’t have any conflict when we do this. Eventually, they stopped asking me.”
Abong has faced similar scrutiny and has received criticism from people around him for participating in home chores. “I heard them ask each other, ‘Is this one a fool?’ Later, the neighbors realized the benefits and some have even started doing the same,” he says.
Foundation for Male Engagement Uganda (FOME), another organization in Uganda bringing men to the forefront in the fight against SGBV, employs a similar model called ‘‘reaching men from their comfort zones’’ to sensitize them on the dangers of SGBV.
‘‘We find men in their drinking joints and boda boda stages, speak to them, and sometimes share educational videos. Some men are interested in sports betting, so we partner with these sports betting companies and provide them with information,’’ says Joseph Nyende, the Executive Director of FOME.
FOME also holds community parliaments with men and women where they push dialogue about violence to find a solution.
During last year’s 16 Days of Activism against Gender-Based Violence, FOME invited cultural and religious leaders who were in conversation on what the Buganda kingdom has done to break toxic masculinity and promote positive masculinity instead.
Yet for all the good intentions, organizations like MenEngage Uganda and FOME still have to grapple with a reluctance to participate. Sekajoolo notes that recruiting men for the training is difficult and he attributes it to their experience of social pressure forcing them to conform to conventional ideas of masculinity.
‘‘’You are trying to change us; you are trying to make us submissive,’’’ Sekajoolo says, recalling some of the comments he has received from men who are convinced that these organizations are trying to undermine their role.
Despite these hurdles, people like Abong say the training has changed them. He hopes that his transformation will set a good example for his two daughters and two sons.
Today, because he is more involved in the family’s well-being, the bond between the family members is stronger.
‘‘The children always wait for me after school and I ask them what they learned and what they would like help with,’’ Abong says.
His actions are also transforming attitudes in his community.
Through a module he was given for free, Abong happily shares the knowledge he received with other men, like his neighbor Amos Laalany, who was impressed by his transformation.
‘‘We would laugh at him but now he is changing our families,’’ Laalany shares.
This reporting was supported by the International Women’s Media Foundation’s Gender Justice Reporting Initiative.
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Safra Bahumura is a Ugandan woman journalist with a legal background living in Kampala. She has worked with Straight Talk Africa under Voice of America to report on issues affecting East Africa. She has also worked on the production of several documentaries that have been broadcast nationally.

created: February 25, 2022

author: Safra Bahumura


text:
“A game changer”: How a Kenyan radio station is reviving a dying indigenous language - Minority Africa
David Mangula
March 16, 2024
Standing out within the Mau Forest Complex, in a forested area approximately 210km west of Nairobi, Kenya, is an over 60-foot steel radio mast with an aviation light on top. Inching closer, a wooden fence intertwined with wire mesh separates the compound of Sogoot 97.1 FM from the houses around it.
A community radio station, Sogoot, which in Ogiek means “leaves,” broadcasts in Ogiek from 6 am to 11 pm daily, educating and giving direction to thousands of Ogieks within the station’s 30-kilometre radius.
“Sogoot FM is a game changer for us,” says Stephen Lele, station manager and a founding member of Sogoot FM. “Within where we reside, we haven’t heard any radio station that broadcasts in our language. Our shows focus on everything that touches on humanity, from culture, health, education, leadership and governance, conservation, social, and economic empowerment”
According to UNESCO’s World Atlas of Languages, over 6,700 are indigenous and are highly threatened, facing extinction. In Africa alone, hundreds of languages are facing extinction or are already “dead”. In Kenya, Ogiek is one of the eight Kenyan languages considered threatened and facing extinction.
The 2019 Kenya Population and Housing Census (KPHC) says there are over 52,696 Ogieks in Kenya. The Ogieks, known for beekeeping and being hunters and gatherers, claim they have been sidelined in many development matters because of their minority status in Kenya.
Stephen Moitalel Njala, a grandfather and community elder, says the Ogieks’ woes began when the Kenya Forest Service “KFS” evicted them from their ancestral land within the Mau complex in October 2009.
Njala calls the eviction a violation of the community’s human rights, which has adversely affected them economically, socially and politically. “Our culture and language cannot stand if we are deprived of our fundamental rights and freedoms. We have no representation in the county assembly or national assembly, nor do we have representation in the national government and at the county level. How do we redeem ourselves if we don’t have our leaders whom we elected?”
“As a community, our culture and language is in the intensive care unit ICU,” Njele continues. “What we are doing now is trying our best to resuscitate it. Despite numerous technical challenges facing the station, we are proud of our only radio station, Sogoot FM, that has partnered with us as elders to promote our language and culture.”
Professor Wendo Nabea, a historical linguist and communication expert from Laikipia University in Kenya, says lack of practice, bilingualism, rural-urban migration, and natural calamities play a role in endangering languages across the globe.
“We understand we have diverse cultures and some are more powerful than others, and young people, to be specific, tend to rely on them for survival; hence dependency syndrome, that ends up enslaving existing language and culture,” Professor Nabea says.
Mr Erick Kinya Muriuki, a cultural officer in Nakuru County, says that Kenya’s language challenges are not new; they date back to the colonial days when citizens were not allowed to use their vernacular and indigenous language before their masters. This marked the beginning of the “death” of indigenous or local languages in Kenya, among other areas.
“After independence, we were supposed to cut ourselves from the colonial mentality, but it never happened,” says Muriuki. “The language of instruction became English, it became fashionable, and we forgot to safeguard our local languages.”
While modernisation and technological advancement should be used to save endangered languages, Professor Nabea says instead, they serve as a platform for championing the popular ones.
“Majority of parents in Kenya pride themselves when their children communicate in English, which is an official language, and downgrade the national language, Kiswahili, and other native languages,” adds Professor Nabea.
To save Kenya’s dying languages, Muriuki says measures are underway to bring back the eroded languages and culture through the formulation and enactment of indigenous knowledge policies that are at an advanced stage.
“Some of these policies will not only safeguard indigenous languages but also take care of all the culture that has been taken for granted,” says Muriuki. “All is not lost; we have resources and programs in place; we also encourage parents and guardians to allow and motivate their children to participate in extracurricular activities such as music, drama festivals, folk songs and dances to guard our culture and languages.”
For Lele, Sogoot FM is a way to ensure Ogieks have a voice and all community members are informed, educated and entertained in their local dialect. “When your right as a community is deprived, you have no say; you can’t even be able to elect your leaders; our language automatically ends up diminishing and dying.”
Thanks to the support from the community led by Ogiek elders, the station has continued broadcasting in the indigenous Ogiek language since 2019, when it was founded.
At various times, the community has come together to fundraise for the station to purchase instruments or gadgets. In 2018, the community came together and helped build a modern broadcasting house, which includes a newsroom, office and studio. Members of the community send in gifts to the radio stations, help the young presenters come up with content by sharing knowledge on Ogiek’s way of life, and organise gatherings to sensitise and promote listenership.
“There is still a lot that needs to be done, especially in sensitising the communities to actively and holistically participate to ensure that the vulnerable groups in society can use multiple systems they need to protect their rights,” says Eunice Chepkemoi, an Ogiek People’s Development Program (OPDP) coordinator implementing Amkeni Wakenya.
Funded by the United Nations Development Program and the European Union, Amkeni Wakenya seeks to enhance networking and working relationships among the Ogiek community and their neighbours, government agencies, and human rights institutions in other to improve access to justice and increase awareness of the challenges faced by the marginalised groups in Kenya
“As an organisation, OPDP, through the support of other partners, we are engaging young people to document our culture and language for posterity,” Chepkemoi says. “We have published a book about the Ogiek community, we have recorded songs, and we are coming up with a Bible written in the Ogiek language.”
Leon Ruto, an Ogiek youth and a law student who neither understands his culture nor speaks his language, opines that speaking in a foreign language, for instance, English does not mean one is educated. Those speaking in vernacular/local language should not be perceived as inferior.
“Everyone should be proud of their local languages; every language can carry the burden of your experience,” he says. “We should be proud of our diversity in Kenya; no one should be denied his or her rights and freedoms to promote unity, integration and a capital resource too. I salute all actors on the forefront to safeguard our culture and language so we may have a sense of belonging.”
As the conversation continues, scholars like Professor Nabea insist that when we go silent on culture and language conservation, we risk history judging us harshly.
Edited by Banjoko Samuel and Uzoma Ihejirika
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
"David Mangula Omurunga is a multimedia and award winner in Agriculture, Environment journalist,content producer, feature writer, news presenter with over ten years of experience, based in Nakuru Kenya.
I am a Diploma holder in Mass Communication and Journalism from the Institute of Commercial Management, England.
Have worked for various radio stations, serving in different capacities, doubling as a news editor.
I believe in the spirit of humanity, that I am because we are."

author: David Mangula


text:
Inside Uganda’s LGBTQ+ inclusive church - Minority Africa
minorityafrica.co
November 19, 2021
In Uganda where homophobia is rife and LGBTQ+ Christians often cannot find inclusive churches, Adonai Ministries is opening its doors to members of the community.
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Editorial.

created: November 19, 2021


text:
“Is my Queer Body Not Strong Enough?”: The Pan African anthology hoping to amplify LGBTQ+ African voices - Minority Africa
Kevin Githuku Wanai
March 27, 2023
According to the Human Dignity Trust (2022), LGBTQIA people are still criminalised in 32 of Africa’s 54 countries. This is despite 30 African countries ratifying the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR). For most LGBTQIA people, living in the shadow of the dominant traditional values that stand against their identity can be lonely.
However, it is not only this loneliness that Dr. Layla Cassim and Dr. Meryl C. du Plessis, editors of Is My Queer Body Not Strong Enough? Pan-African Writings & Artwork, sought to shed light on while working on the anthology. In the foreword to the book, Dr du Plessis emphasises that this journey is not only about the heartache but also about the connection, love, and laughter that come along for the ride.
She writes, “Those heartbreaks are there, yes, but so are support, solidarity, communion, connections through honesty, vulnerability, sexiness, sauciness, and laughter.” The 95-entry anthology is a multimedia project that aims to embrace the diversity of its contributors by setting minimal limitations on their stories and creativity while taking great care to not limit representation to only a minority of LGBTQIA people: young, urban, and middle to upper-class people.
“We cannot pretend that there is only one queer story,” Cassim says.
Featuring 78 contributors from all walks of life, the anthology published in November 2022 covers various genres, from academic articles to personal reflections, poems, short stories, music, photographs, and videos, accurately portraying the complexities of LGBTQIA life in various contexts. The anthology’s title was carefully chosen from a line from Samukezi Mrubula-Ngwenya’s “Impotence and the Potency of Trying Again,” one of the stories from the anthology.
“The line immediately jumped out at me. It is incredibly powerful and can be analysed on so many levels. It highlights the physicality, vulnerability, resistance, and contested nature of queer bodies,”  says Cassim. “It centres queer bodies and our struggles and captures the essence of Deyana Singaram’s picture ‘Reflections,’ the cover artwork for the book.”
Is My Queer Body Not Strong Enough empowers the voices of Black queer writers and artists, particularly Black female artists. One of the contributors, Gomolemo Sefotlhelo, for example, included a series of pictures to “exhibit the journey of a lesbian life through clothing in liminal spaces” to “capture a moment of expression, self-awareness, and a proud lesbian without negativity or focusing on the prevalent hate crimes. Portraying lesbians as individuals and as a group to encourage unity, dignity, and equality”.
Cassim owns Layla Cassim ERS Consultants CC, which supports postgraduate students and emerging researchers. She had the idea to create a queer anthology while working on her fourth postgraduate toolkit. Working with Dr du Plessis, who she’s been married to since 2013, they attempted to weave the anthology’s stories together to find commonalities in divergent emotions, experiences, and forms of expression.
One of these stories is “To Whom It May Concern” by Nonkululeko Nxumalo, a bisexual writer from South Africa. The story details the painful struggle of Sinzwe, a fictional character who ends his life because of depression caused by being rejected by family and friends because of his sexuality. Nxumalo uses Sinzwe’s character to show how distancing children from queer realities can lead to depression and eventual suicide, one of the leading causes of death among young people, especially LGBTQIA youth.
Regarding the anthology, Nxumalo believes parents should let their children know the issues society is battling daily; she also asks parents to allow children to engage them on these matters as they are completely normal. “These are the things that need to be spoken about. Let children read to know what is happening in the world around them,” she says. “Parents need to be open-minded. Just because your child is reading such a book doesn’t mean they will become gay.”
du Plessis shares that dealing with the difficulties of queer identity within your family is strikingly different from facing these social problems in public because intimacy is involved in the former. Your family deals with your humanity differently, which stems from the years of bonding as a family unit. Having grown up in a conservative and religious family, du Plessis is cognizant of religion’s role in influencing norms and beliefs around sexuality. She understands firsthand the challenges of expressing her sexuality freely when interpreted to be at odds with the religion where she found comfort, security and familiarity as a child. “It will always be a journey, and there has to be continuous work to foster freedom for all people, including queer people,” she says.
But inclusion is still a far-fetched reality for queer Africans, as many African countries go beyond having strict laws and punishments criminalising homosexuality to placing bans on publications related to LGBTQIA communities. These actions drive LGBTQIA communities further into the shadows by preventing their stories from being told and suppressing their identities. To circumvent such a situation,  Cassim, du Plessis and the contributors decided to make an e-book version of the anthology.
“We decided to have this book in both hard and soft copy to ensure it is easily accessible to anyone who can use virtual private networks to read it,” Nxumalo says. Cassim and du Plessis are independent publishers who want the autonomy to allow contributors more creative freedom to tell their stories in ways of their choosing. Beyond this, the anthology not only creates awareness but also seeks to facilitate healing for the contributors, making them feel like they belong.
While Nxumalo recognises that traditional African societies have customs they respect, she believes it is time for them to learn something else through this book and hopes they can change their way of thinking and become more accepting of minority communities. Cassim and du Plessis agree with her, emphasising that tradition is not static, but rather evolves with society.
“We must tell our own stories,” du Plessis says, quoting Audre Lorde, “Because tradition cannot evolve if people remain silent. The sheer breadth of different stories in every context shows that we are everywhere.”
Nxumalo, in turn, adds, “Nobody has the right to shame us, castigate us, or even punish us just because we are different from them.”
For Riaan Narshall Visman, another contributor whose piece is entitled “A Reflection of Self,” this collection allowed him to have a sense of belonging and be part of a shared humanity, united against the challenge of discrimination. He speaks about what the book means to him: “The collection gave me a platform to raise my voice at a time when I felt voiceless, hopeless, and unloved.” The book also helped Visman cope during a dark time and space in his journey. “I was financially incapacitated, jobless, and locked out of a safe space of love. It grounded me and made me understand myself better than ever.” His contribution came when he felt lonely, purposeless and ostracised by his family. Therefore, his story was a healing process in his journey of grief and hardship.
Visman parts with this thought-provoking message, “I would like people to see it as a testimony of myself. To look inward and accept self. To use it as a template for documenting our journeys with ourselves and our journeys with those we love and care for. We can’t control the vicissitudes of life. But we can control our responses to it. And to use mindfulness as the foundation of any interaction and relationships, we have with other humans. To practise self-love and self-care fiercely and unapologetically. And to remember that the opinion of others doesn’t define you. Accept and love your imperfections perfectly.”
For Cassim and du Plessis, representation is of utmost importance. Their goal is to nurture a space where people feel a sense of belonging and validation, “Hopefully, people can see themselves reflected in the stories and entries in this book,” says du Plessis. Contributions such as those by Samukezi Mrubula-Ngwenya and Witness Maluleke seek to shed light on the less frequently told stories of queer people by looking at the gay and lesbian experiences of middle-aged adults in rural areas of South Africa.
Ultimately, this creative work aims to champion courage and representation for African queer communities, from Nxumalo and Visman’s pieces to the other 76 impactful contributors, whilst highlighting that there is no single story, and it should never be portrayed as such.
Edited and Reviewed by: Samuel Banjoko, PK Cross, 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.

author: Kevin Githuku Wanai


text:
“[It exposes us] to more hate,”: Mixed feelings trail South Africa’s migrant ‘inclusive’ census - Minority Africa
Mkhululi Chimoio
March 13, 2022
Image description: In the illustration, a woman (Left) in a green and white Nigerian football jersey and a headwrap with colours from the South African flag wears a radiant smile. She is wearing gold earrings and a necklace with the South African flag as a pendant. Behind her is a man dressed in a shirt in the colors of the flag of the Democratic Republic of Congo. He is bearded and looks skeptical.”
Johannesburg, South Africa (Minority Africa) — In the small restaurant she runs in Johannesburg, 38-year-old  Chioma Eke* offers customers local Nigerian food. The menu is a wide array: egusi  soup, pepper soup, okra soup and fried rice. Yet, despite the loyal customer base she has built, Eke is an asylum seeker from Nigeria and this status has stalled the progress of her business.
Eke is occasionally harassed by the police for her status – a string of events that has also affected her client base, many of whom are undocumented and asylum seekers like herself and would rather not have run-ins with the police.
Earlier in February, the South African census began. It is a notable one because the government announced that undocumented migrants and asylum seekers would  be counted for the first time, a decision that has garnered different reactions.
For Eke who came to South Africa in 2004 chasing a better life, this announcement and its implementation could potentially open up a door of opportunities for her and her business.
“[It] is a milestone for me as a foreigner,” she says. “Migrants always struggle to access healthcare services; they struggle to have their children accessing government schools where education is for free.”
“[Counting us] will give the government officials accurate figures about the number of migrants in the country,” she adds. “With time, we will be included in accessing these services because they will plan everything with us in mind as well.”
Besides access to social services, Eke is hopeful that being counted will also reduce the intensity and frequency of xenophobia that foreigners experience in South Africa.
The Institute for Security Studies Protest and Public Violence Monitor has recorded 241 xenophobic attacks and related incidents in the eight years from January 2013 to March 2021. Their data shows that 58 of the 241 incidents (24%) occurred in the past 12 months alone, although the actual number is likely higher because only attacks reported by the media are captured.
In recent months, The Dudula Movement — a vigilante organization that targets ‘illegal’ foreign nationals, accusing them of taking jobs from locals and deploying violent methods to evict them — has gained ground in the country.
“We have seen how some politicians and activists fuel hate between the locals and migrants through giving incorrect figures on the number of migrants living in the country. They use the wrong figures to garner votes and relevance in their political activities,” Eke says.
“At least now if migrants are counted the locals will know the correct number of migrants living with them and they won’t be lied to or used by activists to feed into their political schemes,” she adds.
Grace Matondo*, an undocumented migrant from the Democratic Republic of Congo does not share Eke’s viewpoint and instead expresses skepticism on the census programme.
“I wonder why the South African government is doing all this; exposing migrants to more hate and targeting by the extremists in the country,” Matondo who is a fish-and-vegetable vendor tells Minority Africa.
“With the amount of hatred that has been perpetrated by some sections of South African citizens, I’m sure they are against this move of counting migrants. I am sure the government will not be able to defend this when extremists start challenging them,” she says.
Matondo who witnessed “Operation Dudula” recently has a feeling that the groups who perpetrated xenophobic violence will weaponize data from the census against foreigners.
“They will wake up one day and use this data against us. I have fears this will happen,” she says. “Counting migrants will work against us and trap us into facing more persecution from these far-right groups.”
But Sharon Ekambaram, a Refugee Migrant Rights Manager at Lawyers for Human Rights, an organization working to give legal representation to marginalized and vulnerable communities, believes this data can be beneficial.
“We need disaggregated data which includes information on international migration to debunk the myth that South Africa is flooded with undocumented foreign nationals or just the numbers of foreign nationals in our country,” she says.
Ekambaram also adds that it is necessary to insulate migrants from possible backlash and violence and have that data as confidential as possible even as it is used in policy design.
“Disaggregated statistics on both international migration and internal migration and a proper breakdown of the numbers of people is critical to ensure that the government is making informed decisions with respect to budgeting and provision of services including health care, education, delivery of basic services,” she says.
Her perspective is echoed in many conversations around migration and the census and is in part bolstered by the developments from the 1996 census during which Black South Africans and other migrants in the country were counted for the first time as citizens of a democracy.
Amando Dlakama, a Mozambican migrant who had fled civil war in his home country to live in South Africa in 1988, was among those counted in 1996. 66-year-old Dlakama — only 40 at the time — notes being recorded in that census as a turning point in his life.
“[It] made that huge difference as our livelihoods as migrants changed for the better,” he tells Minority Africa. “People were documented [and] were allowed access to many things.”
Dlakama received his permanent residency status after the first census of 1996.
“We used to survive through piecemeal jobs, but after the census and getting documents I took a license and got a job as a driver, so there is always hope in everything,” he says. “I believe the government is on the correct path and after this census, something meaningful will come out for migrants, either documented or not.”
Regardless of these perspectives and criticism around how the census has also excluded LGBTQ+ people, the ongoing census is scheduled to run up to the 20th of March and with a possibility of extension.
“We need to give the programme a chance,” says Rufaro Tinashe*, an undocumented Zimbabwean national. “Everything, in terms of planning and implementing, starts from having the correct figures. I want the government to use the outcomes of counting to develop the country and correct those thriving on fake news and misinformation.”
Tinashe is resolute in their belief that the census can work, as is Trevor Oosterwyk, Director for Corporate Communications for Statistics South Africa, the body organizing and implementing the census.
“People who are in South Africa illegally have no papers, but we need them to plan as a government,” Oosterwyk says. “We will keep this information confidential, they must not shy away.”
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Mkhululi Chimoio is a Zimbabwean-born investigative journalist residing in South Africa. He is a full member of the Southern Africa Freelancers Association (SAFREA) and holds a qualification in Communication Science, another qualification in Journalism and Media studies, as well as in Forensic investigations.

author: Mkhululi Chimoio


text:
“It is as if we don’t exist”: Nigeria’s LGBTQI+ persons decry exclusion from electoral Poll - Minority Africa
Taiwo Hassan
February 22, 2023
A few days away from a crucial presidential poll, Nigeria’s physical and online landscapes are awash with campaigns, manifestoes, and banter among supporters of candidates and political parties. Undoubtedly, this is the country’s most crucial poll since 2015 when there was a change of baton at the Presidency. According to a timetable released by the Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC), Presidential and National Assembly elections would take place on Saturday, February 25, 2023, and two weeks later, governorship and state legislative elections would hold on March 11, 2023.
The 2023 general election marks 24 years of Nigeria’s return to civil rule since 1999 – the longest thread of uninterrupted democracy in the history of the West African giant. About 93.5 million people have registered to vote – 16.7 million bigger than the combined voters’ register of the other members of the 15-nation Economic Community of West African States (ECOWAS). Unfortunately, the country’s Lesbian, Gay, Bi-sexual, Transgender, Queer and Intersex (LGBTQI+) community is excluded from the crucial poll; according to activists and sexual minorities, the Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC) does not acknowledge the existence of non-heteronormative people in its programming. This is despite the introduction of new technologies and a host of other measures to ensure a more transparent and inclusive electoral process.
Although Nigeria’s Electoral Act 2022 makes copious provisions for vulnerable groups, none of these inclusionary provisions touches non-heteronormative persons. Speaking with Minority Africa, Zikora Ibeh, a research lead at Corporate Accountability and Public Participation Africa (CAPPA), a civic group campaigning for inclusive democracy in Nigeria, says that Nigeria’s electoral management body has redefined what vulnerable groups are, thereby effectively pushing sexual minorities further back into the margins of society.
“They categorize women, youth, People with Disability (PWDs) and Internally Displaced Persons (IDPs) as vulnerable groups but they do not recognize the LGBTQI+ identity. It doesn’t exist for them,” Ibeh adds. “This is a direct effect of Nigeria’s anti-gay law which effectively outlaws sexual minorities out of existence.”
The anti-gay law, otherwise known as the Same-Sex Marriage Prohibition Act (SSMPA) 2013, was signed into law on January 7, 2014, by former president Goodluck Jonathan. It is a sweeping piece of legislation that criminalizes public displays of affection between same-sex couples and restricts the work of organizations defending gay people and their rights. With the law, “terror on LGBTQ+ people in Nigeria rose from 1 to 100,” social justice campaigner Chimee Adioha tells Minority Africa. Adioha, the founder of Masculinity9ja, works globally and in Nigeria to promote inclusion and LGBTQI+ rights.
Speaking in the same vein, Marline Oluchi, an LGBTQI+ Gender Justice activist and Diversity Equity and Inclusion (DEI) consultant, opined, in an online conversation monitored by Minority Africa, that the law has reinforced deep-seated religious and cultural biases and legitimized violence against sexual minorities. “[With the anti-gay law] you are basically restricting everything about my life,” Oluchi says, “you are placing systemic barriers to any sort of conversation that comes up for LGBTQI+ rights, you are making it impossible to raise their conversation in policymaking spaces, in government spaces, in decision-making spaces.”
Stereotypes are powerful and they can inform social behaviour and bias. That is exactly what the law does – it stereotypes sexual minorities and makes it impossible for them to exist, thrive and access any sort of resources that they should have access to. This explains why sexual minorities are absent in all government and civic programming including elections and census. “For a group of people Nigeria already criminalizes, it is like we are not recognized. So there is no way we would have spaces when programming for minorities [is]being done. We are not even counted among the minorities they are programming for,” Oluchi says.
Likewise for Adioha, the exclusionary electoral climate only further shows that politicians have no interest in issues relating to gay people. “First, these people don’t understand the politics of [minorities], and it is so shameful of them,” Adioha says. “I am not saying that LGBTQ+ people should be boxed into PWDs, no, but I just think there is a very clear motivation that allows people in authority in Nigeria to not consider [sexual minorities]. Most of them [government officials] are educated, so they know what minority entails, but their religion and cultural biases won’t let them.”
Adioha believes that the fact that Nigeria’s voter’s card recognizes only “male” and “female” gender options is not accommodating enough for an election taking place in the 21st century. “If there was an idea for an introduction of a Bimodal Voter Accreditation System, there should be an idea that allows for all persons to freely identify,” he says. “So, when they talk about [minorities], I know they are lying because the definition of “minority” in their head does not include LGBTQI+ people.” Sadly, all this does is fuel homophobic temperature in the country while completely banishing sexual minorities from exercising their franchise and civic obligations as citizens.
Although there are no official accounts of attacks on LGBTQI+ persons during elections, activists believe that these attacks have occurred in the past and may occur again in the forthcoming elections. For Adioha, “Nigeria is flowing in a river of undocumentation,” hence the lack of records of election-related violence towards LGBTQI+ persons. But as he argues, given the harshness of the political space towards queer people, the lack of acknowledgement of their existence, and the exclusionary language of the election, attacks on queer people are entirely possible in the forthcoming elections if they venture to participate.
During the historic October 2020 #EndSARS protest, homophobic and heterosexual Nigerians turned against and tormented queer protesters. Queer activists always point to that as an illustration of how there is no safe space for queer people. This is because; people are only “[People are only] interested in the oppression that they particularly face,” Adioha says. “They are not interested in an oppression that is intersectional and I don’t think that’s how change can come.”
But even if there are no direct attacks, Ibeh argues, the hostile climate and the lack of identification and acknowledgement in the electoral process might encourage the growth of political apathy, fear, and unwillingness to participate among LGBTQI+ persons. “Already the community suffers historical discrimination which has, in some cases, had [a] lasting effect on the mental and physical health of victims,” she says. “For persons who have experienced violence or victimization because of their sexual orientation, election day is just another reminder of the ongoing issue of societal exclusion where the status quo remains unchanged.”
In a similar vein, Oluchi believes those who say LGBTQI+ people face no concrete risk of electoral violence since poll officials do not demand knowledge of sexuality before permitting eligible voters to vote, miss the point. According to her, the point here is how the ingrained and deep-seated bias in society, which is further reinforced by the anti-gay law and the lack of acknowledgement of queer people’s existence in election programming, makes queer people vulnerable.
“If someone as simple as a cross-dresser cannot go to a polling unit to vote without fear of being lynched, what chance do queer people have? You have to be bold and audacious to come out either because you are unknown because you present in an acceptable hetero-normative way or because you are not out in a way that puts you at risk,” Oluchi says. “Additionally, you can’t run for an elective position as an out-queer person in this country because everybody is scared and conscious that this is going to be a big barrier to them.[If] I pick up an INEC form to contest for the most basic position and there is room for not just male or female [identities]but other identities, that already shows an intention for inclusion. It shows these people recognize our existence and our right to participate in this process. That is enough to embolden me to take the next step.”
Sadly, there does not appear to be any respite in sight. This is evidenced by the lack of attention paid to the past incendiary remarks made by a vice presidential candidate, who was called out by mostly members of the LGBTQI+ community while the rest of the society could not be bothered. Furthermore, even when another presidential candidate expressed solidarity with the community in his campaign, he faced widespread criticism from citizens who deemed him lacking in moral values. But the community continues to be hopeful while activists are trying to use any opportunity available to engage the electoral process and see what can be won for queer people.
Asked what changes they would like to see from a new government following the elections, Adioha tells Minority Africa, “I want them [government] to change the way that they see gay people, and that one or two popular cross-dressers do not entirely represent LGBTQ+ Nigerians. There should be an emergency intervention that would repeal the SSMPA.” For Oluchi, she believes that if the 2023 general election produces a progressive government that at least tries to listen to all oppressed and marginalized voices including queer voices, it would be a good start.
“Right now, nobody wants to hear our voice, nobody wants to know why we have needs and interest for better representation related to our identity,” Oluchi says. “Nobody wants to listen to our needs. Inclusive democracy should mean each person [and] each group is considered in policy-making and governance processes. The incoming government should create room for conversations about the needs of queer people. We really want room for conversation [and] policy doors should be opened to us.”
While hopeful about the elections, the activists are also clear about their options. They have been steeled by years of hiding in the shadows and struggling through a multiplicity of means to get their voices out. So if things do not go their way, then they would have to continue what they have been doing best before now, which is clandestine organizing, lending support and love to each other and keeping hope alive while patiently waiting for the tables to turn.
Edited/Reviewed by Caleb Okereke and Uzoma Ihejirika
Features a roundup of fresh MA reports, announcements, events/workshop listings, and minority content curated from across the web.
Taiwo Hassan is a freelance journalist from Lagos, Nigeria whose interest lies in bringing to light underreported stories and unheard voices in our communities. He regularly contributes feature stories, investigative reports and Op-ed to several leading newspapers. A graduate of Fine and Applied Arts from the prestigious Obafemi Awolowo University (OAU), Ile Ife, Osun State Nigeria, Taiwo is also a prolific writer, essayist and polemicist. Taiwo is currently working on a new book examining the geopolitics of Africa’s relation with the rest of the world.

created: February 22, 2023

author: Taiwo Hassan