The Young Feminists Gathering: sisterhood in action

 A few days ago I experienced a rare and beautiful thing; a meeting of young feminists in a safe space. In this case, that space was the African Women's Development Fund (AWDF) office and this was the first ever Young Feminists Gathering they have hosted. It’s not often that I meet feminists in my hometown of Lusaka or in Accra where I’m currently staying.  More common are the misguided voices saying feminism is unAfrican or that feminists are just angry women who can't find a man.

After the ice breaking – which included introductions and spelling each other’s names with our butts (weird, but we actually did that!) - an AWDF staff member, Belinda, gave a talk about the organization including its history and the work it does. Next up was a talk about our “Feminist African Ancestors” given by Maame, another AWDF staff member. The feminist ancestors included late Zanzibari musician Bi Kidude and the ladies of the Igbo’s Women’s War, also known as the Aba Women’s Riot. I was familiar with Bi Kidude, a woman who challenged traditional gender roles in a conservative Muslim society and defied expectations. But I was totally unaware of the ladies of southern Nigeria, who in 1929 staged a revolt against colonial taxation. This served as a reminder that I need to learn more about women of colour, both past and present, and their fights against the system designed to oppress them.

Another AWDF staffer, Jessica, spoke about the definition of feminism or rather as she put it, “feminisms.” It was the first time I’d heard it referred to in the plural but it immediately made sense. While there are some basics many feminists agree on (a belief in equality of the sexes), there is no one feminism and I continue to discover new types. From atheist feminism to Islamic feminism and choice feminism to eco-feminism, diversity exists within the movement.  

Feeling woke

After a discussion on the meaning of feminism we moved on to discussing certain words and concepts, relevant to women's and more broadly speaking, social justice issues. Each of us picked a piece of paper with a word or concept that was to be discussed. Terms included meninist and ant-feminist triggers such as patriarchy, rape culture and mansplaining. Others were choice, sisterhood, self-care, misogyny, misandry, heterosexism, personal is political, gender non-conforming and a personal favourite, intersectionality. Boy was I feeling woke and up to date with the lingo, until we got to 'chosen family,' a term I’d never heard.  And might I add, it was great being with people who got it and didn’t find the language strange. 

 Source

What’s wrong with anger anyway?

Addressing the stereotype of the ‘angry feminist’ some ladies questioned what the problem with anger is anyway. Anger at injustices causes some to act and can help bring about positive change. Anger in and of itself shouldn’t be a problem. But some of the ladies in attendance could attest to how speaking out about social injustices and inequities we see and experience can often lead to dismissive tone policing (attacking the tone of a message rather than critiquing its content). 

He’s the man!

Grabbing takeout with a male friend (who just so happens to be a feminist ally) after the YFG, I noticed that our server turned his back to me and made a point of only showing the bill to my friend only. I had planned to pay a least part of the bill and I asked the server why he didn’t bother showing it to me. The response, as he looked at my friend and then back at me: “He’s the man!” Aside from thinking this man needed to be brush up on his customer service, I thought back to the end of the YFG, when we were asked to give one word describing how we felt. I gave two: grateful and validated. Sitting in that fast food place, I felt grateful and validated once more. Grateful to have spent the afternoon with ladies who understood the trouble with comments like the one the server made. Granted, the comment was not meant to be harmful, but my male friend and I found ourselves subject to gender stereotyping and it was less than an hour since I left the YFG and that is where the feeling of validation came in.

No borla: my first beach cleanup

When I first arrived in Ghana one of the things I was most excited for was the beach. I wasn’t quite sure the beaches would live up to some of the ones I’d seen in Zanizbar and Australia but I was psyched either way. I’m from landlocked Zambia, I’ll take any beach.

I visited Labadi Beach, Accra’s most popular, on my first day in the city. Back then I was happy to be at a beach for the first time in years but I was somewhat disappointed by the litter I saw. It wasn’t an overwhelming amount but enough to bother me. I found this to be true of other beaches in Accra. They were beautiful but the litter reduced their beauty. (Littering is one of my peeves. I will secretly, and sometimes not so secretly, judge you for littering but I don’t do much about it.) So it was with absolute pleasure that I participated in a beach cleanup along Afia Beach in Accra. The cleanup was organized by the interestingly named NGO, Hipsters of Nature. It took place on 17 September, which I learned was International Coastal Cleanup Day. I participated along with my friends from the Humanist Association of Ghana.

The hashtag for the day. Borla is Twi for rubbish

The work was confined to a small stretch of beach but yielded dozens of bags of trash and we couldn’t get it all (especially not the countless shards of plastic). Unsurprisingly, everyday items were part of the haul - plastic bottles, shoes, clothes, cigarette butts, bags, dolls, toothbrushes and old electronics. Chances are much of this stuff wasn’t discarded in that area. I wondered where my trash goes after it’s collected by Zoomlion. I have no idea, and that’s part of the problem. Usually it's 'out of sight, out of mind.'

Clearly I’m unfit - it wasn’t long before I was sore, tired and sweating. However it felt good to do something about one of my pet peeves. It also felt good to contribute in a small way (emphasis on “small”) to the city I’ve stayed in for the last few months. It also made me think about what ways I could contribute to my hometown once I return.

It was hard work but there was still time to laugh and goof around

The task at hand seemed overwhelming at times. The beach certainly looked cleaner but it would’ve been impossible for us to completely clear it of trash on our own. Afia Beach had more trash on it than I’d seen on previous visits - strong tides had brought in trash from the sea on to the shore and made the task more arduous. Also, a few metres away from where worked there was yet more trash that was left untouched. Ultimately though, I was glad to have participated and wish there more beach cleanups. Cleaning up a small stretch of beach on International Coastal Cleanup Day is a good start but considering the scale of the problem, way more needs to be done.

Trash aside, the beach really is beautiful

Chale Wote - the Spirit Robot and purple men

I tried to become one with this graffiti butterfly

August is festival time in Ghana, so I was told when I first arrived but didn’t think I’d still be here at that point. But luckily I am and I got to attend the Chale Wote Street Arts Festival, held annually in Jamestown, Accra. The festival’s been running since 2011 and this year’s theme was ‘Spirit Robot,’ but don’t ask me what that means. The festival was on from 15 to 21 August but I only made it for the final day to experience the paintings, graffiti murals, musical performances, acrobats, street boxers and fearless fashion, among other things.

Elmina: beautiful castle, ugly history

[This article was originally published in Nkwazi Magazine]

It’s just past 1pm and I’ve arrived in Elmina, a town on Ghana’s southern coast.

Locals direct subtle glances at my fellow travellers and me; they can tell we’re not from around here. We ask for directions to the castle, the main reason we’re in town.

Crossing the bridge to the castle

Elmina Castle, built by the Portuguese in 1482, is one of about 40 castles and forts along Ghana’s coastline. The former trading post and UNESCO World Heritage Site is among the oldest European buildings in sub-Saharan Africa. The Portuguese were drawn to the area because it was rich in gold, but eventually human beings became its primary export. People from present day Ghana and other parts of West Africa were held here anywhere from two weeks to three months before being shipped off to the Americas (the United States, Brazil and Jamaica included). The castle in Elmina, along with many others in West Africa, was a critical part of the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade.

The view as we drove into town

As we got closer to the castle we’re approached by children asking for money and a few men trying to sell us locally produced jewellery. I gave in to one persistent vendor and agreed to have him make a bracelet displaying the name of a close friend back home. One gift sorted and after that I made a beeline for the castle.

It’s striking how beautiful the castle, the ocean and Brenya Lagoon are, especially when considering the area’s ugly history. Our tour guide, Alex, first takes us to the female dungeons. These rooms, originally made to store gold and other goods, are dark, musky and humid. Upwards of 150 people were crammed here with no consideration for sanitation, ventilation or a proper diet and they could be kept anywhere from 2 weeks to 3 months. I tried to imagine the stench, the fear and the despair. I know what happened in those rooms but it’s incomprehensible and I cannot understand how it continued for centuries. The castle held around 1,000 captives at a time, roughly 400 women and 600 men. As many as two thirds would die before a ship arrived to transport them to the Americas but there was often a steady supply of newly captured men and women.

Women held in Elmina had to deal with the added indignity of sexual abuse by the governors, officers and traders occupying the castle. The men were at liberty to pick any woman they wanted. She was then thoroughly washed before she was raped. Otherwise, captives held at Elmina were never given the opportunity to bathe the entire time they occupied the castle. Enclosed by the female dungeons is the inner courtyard where women who refused to be used as sex slaves were punished. They were chained to a canon ball, which still sits in the courtyard, and left to endure the elements for several days. This served as a punishment for the women and also as a deterrent for their fellow captives who had a view of what awaited them if they refused to be used by their captors.

Inner courtyard and female dungeons

Leaving the inner courtyard, we go past the male dungeons and on to “the door of no return” in the room the men and women spent their last moments before boarding ships headed for the Americas. That’s if they survived the dungeons. The door of no return is more like a little window, small enough to let one emaciated person through at a time. For safety reasons, metal bars have been placed over the door. The room is pitch-black and gloomy but looking through the door I see locals enjoying a game of football, women selling food and fishermen resting by their boats on a bright and sunny day. Life goes on, the castle is merely a backdrop.

The door of no return

And the view from outside

After the door of no return the group heads upstairs to the rooms occupied by officers, traders, governors and even clergymen. Not only did priests, pastors and missionaries live here along with slaves, two churches were built in the castle. This was a shock to some but not me; when it comes to slavery and colonialism, the Church was often on the wrong side of history. The first church, built by the Portuguese, occupies a central spot in the main courtyard and is now a museum. When the Dutch seized the castle from the Portuguese they built their own church upstairs and turned the original one into a slave auctioning room. After they bought it from the Dutch, the British built a new church outside the castle.

Main courtyard with the Portuguese church in the centre

View from inside the Portuguese church

The living quarters upstairs are, in stark contrast to the dungeons, spacious, well ventilated and built to let in a lot of light. It’s amazing to think that Europeans lived comfortably while below, Africans wallowed away in dehumanizing conditions. The roof of the castle offers gorgeous views of Elmina town, the sea and Fort St de Jago, another Portuguese building. The fort sits atop a hill and was built to protect the castle from attacks. At the top I felt conflicted. Once again, I was struck by the beauty of the castle and marveled at the fact that the building was still standing after 534 years but this felt wrong, as though acknowledging its beauty was disrespectful to those who suffered here.

Fort St de Jago

Later, back at ground level, we visited two cells that stand side by side, both with the purpose of punishing unruly occupants. One meant to contain drunken officers had a door built to allow a decent amount of light and air. Marked with a skull and cross bone, the other room, however, is where slaves were sent to die, usually after attempting to escape. Alex had us enter the punishment cell meant for officers. “I’m sorry the tour has to end like this,” he said and then walked away. We chuckled at this joke Alex has probably played on visitors countess times, a light-hearted moment during an emotional tour.

"I'm sorry the tour has to end like this"

Towards the end of our tour we discussed African complicity in the slave trade, something relatively few people know about. Chiefs would trade captives from enemy villages for anything from alcohol to gunpowder. Some Africans became slave raiders and captured fellow Africans, typically from rival tribes, for Europeans.

I know slave trade happened but it’s one thing to know about it and another to understand it. The Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade is not part of my history as a Zambian but I’m also half Nigerian and the realisation that some of my ancestors may have passed through Elmina en route to the Americas is sobering to say the least. One can only take comfort in the fact that slavery is over. But it’s not over. It still exists in countries like Mauritania and Sudan to name a few. Human trafficking is a form of slave trade and forced labour still exists around the world. And we still persecute those that look different from us and hold different beliefs.

I believe it’s important to move on but in doing so I do not want to forget the atrocities of slavery and I find it fitting that we ended the tour at a spot with a particular message inscribed in the wall:

In everlasting memory of the anguish of our ancestors.

May those who return find their roots.

May those who died rest in peace.

May humanity never again perpetuate such injustice against humanity.

We the living vow to uphold this.

Huffing and puffing through the castle with my camera in hand

The tour was over and outside more people were selling jewellery and trinkets, my friend’s bracelet was ready and someone was trying to get me to make a donation to the Elmina Community School Football Club. It was time to move on but I have internalised the message inscribed on that wall and am committed to honouring it.

Labadi to Makola: my first two days in Accra

A few days ago, I arrived in Accra for the first time and was immediately struck by the intense heat and humidity. I’d been somewhat relieved to miss the Harmattan winds but there was no way of dodging the scorching temperatures. “How bad must things get by midday if I’m breaking out in a sweat at 3am, just minutes after getting off the plane?” I wondered. We went through immigration quickly, Kotoka Airport was almost as unremarkable as KKIA in Lusaka. Ten minutes later, I was at my aunt’s home, my new home for the next month and a half. 

After a short but deep sleep and an ostrich steak lunch, my next stop was Labadi Beach. From what I’d read before coming to Accra, this is the city’s most popular beach and it’s often crowded on weekends. Luckily for me, it was a Tuesday afternoon and I didn’t have to deal with the crowds. Coming from landlocked Zambia, going to the beach was one of the main things I was looking forward to in Ghana. I must admit, I was a little disappointed by the litter and the touristy feel – I wasn’t expecting to find people selling Ghanaian art, crafts and clothing, among other things. It’s hard to have a peaceful stroll on the beach when faced with several people trying to get you to look at their jewellery, painting and sculptures.

Hope was one of the vendors I met at Labadi Beach

My hair attracted more attention than I wanted. Many sales pitches started with “I like your rasta.” Even some vendors who didn’t try to sell me anything called out stuff like “Jah rastafari” to me. And for some reason, a few of them assumed I was American. One welcomed me and asked if I’d come from New York. Saying that I was from Zambia got me responses such as “Africa is one. We’re united.” At least these guys were entertaining. Whatever the case, I was happy to be back at a beach for the first time in years. And the jewellery was surprisingly cheap, the vendors weren’t charging the overinflated prices I expected for a beach next to a 5-star hotel. Alas, the kwacha in my wallet was of no use.

My aunt, haggling

"Rasta" girl in the ocean for the first time in years

Day two was decidedly different. I headed out to central Accra with Joyce, the lady my aunt hired to take care of her home. We took the trotro (local minibus) to a local market. Trotros are a lot like minibuses in Zambia; old, rundown and cramped with more people than they’re designed to carry. For a second, I almost forgot I’d left home. Once we got to what Joyce called the “real Accra” we walked through what has to be the biggest market I’ve ever been to. We walked and walked and it felt we were never going to reach our destination. It felt a long trek just for fruit, especially with the blazing heat. I realized at some point this must be another place I read about, Makola Market. We bought what felt like enough fruit to feed a family of four for a month and then we left Makola and headed back to Airport Residential.

 

As we headed out of the market, several men on one street started to call out to me but I ignored them. It turns out, this street was some kind of money exchange black market and they were offering to exchange my dollars for cedis. Apparently, these men had also assumed I was a foreigner. Did I look like an uneasy foreigner, clearly not familiar with her environment or are those men just really good at spotting foreigners under any circumstance? Probably a bit of both. 

Back at home I had my first plate of jollof rice. I’ve never been to West Africa but I’m familiar with jollof wars, mostly between Ghanaians and Nigerians. I’ve heard both Ghanaians and Nigerians not only argue about which country makes the best jollof but also speak of well prepared jollof as though it’s something that’ll change your life, a food-based spiritual experience. I enjoyed it but unfortunately, my first plate of jollof did not change my life and there was nothing transcendental about it. But hey, I have plenty more time to try jollof again and many more Ghanaian foods.