When Women Get Angry

When women get angry

They will build schools,

They will plant trees;

They will establish communities,

They will march in the street.

                                                                              The world might sit up,

                                                                              The world might notice,

                                                                              The world will go on.

When women get angry 

They will destroy each other,

They will restore each other;

They will burn their homes,

They will immolate themselves.

                                                                              The world will sit up.

                                                                              The world will notice.

                                                                              The world will forget.

When women get angry

They will not be silenced,

They will bare their chests;

They will dare to interrupt,

They will shock the world.

                                                                              The world will sit up,

                                                                              The world will notice,

                                                                              The world will scold,

                                                                             “And how dare you!”

The question is not                                                                                                          

How could they,                                                                

How could you                                                                  

Speak out?                                                                         

With such vehemence?                                                    

Such violence?                                                                  

Such ire?                                                                             

Such fury?                                                                          

                 The question is,

                 Why did we,

                 Why did you

                 Speak out?

                 With such pain?

                 Such intensity?

                 Such passion?

                 Such molten lava?

(Woven alongside M. Mwangola News to Note: Loud Enough to Hear Ourselves and continuing the "Women in Leadership" conversation with Margaretta WaGacheru)

Erosion

She walks with sophistication

On these foreign streets,

The world at her fingertips.

She fell into good hands,

Kind arms,

Equipped for a life

Of destiny and choice.

She remembers

Watching her sit under the shade

Of the old Mugumo tree.

She remembers.

Amina

Who reclaimed her independence

And took back her life

By saying No!

To old beliefs, customs, and moral codes.

She knows

She could have been one

Of the silenced voices

With limited choices,

Doing what they thought was best,

For their child’s legitimate honour,

Caressing

Practices that framed their own lives;

Practices that promised ephemeral wealth;

Practices that whispered frail security.

She understands

Traditions that grant that fertile guarantee

To an older male,

Perceived protector, guardian,

Master and lord.

She understands,

She knows,

She remembers,

Her moral charge.

(Woven alongside S. Namwalie Dreams of a Real Man; N. Githongo

A Dedication to the Girls of Aitong Boarding School; M. Mohammedali A Song for Amina; M. Mwangola News to Note: Loud Enough to Hear Ourselves)

The Knots We Weave

How to untie a knot

“I must get myself a pair of gumboots, “ he mutters to himself, “Gumboots issued by the  government.”

 These gumboots will apparently protect the man’s legs from being hacked by his wife if he happens to cross her the wrong way by, for example, beating her for neglecting the children or for refusing to attend to her marital duties or even, for burning his food. Where was she when the food was on the stove? Talking again with Mama B, the gossip two gates down the road? Just thinking of it and of a possible meal that she will burn in the future makes him want to give her another beating.  He still wonders if the gumboots will come with shin guards. And how will he protect the other vulnerable parts of his body?

Didn’t he hear one day last year on the BBC World News that a mzungu out there chopped off her husband’s genitalia?  The poor man was drugged and tied to the marital bed. He woke up all groggy and just in time to see his wife cutting off his you-know-what. The shameless wife threw the family jewels away with the trash. Ah! The idea in itself is just so painful. The man does not want to think about it, let alone speak about it, in case it gives his wife a few rotten ideas. Hmmm, that already warrants another beating.

I. Do not cut the knot

February 2012:

The man’s income feeds fifteen people, educates nine of them in the extended family. If anything happens to him, there will be no-one else to feed and education the family. He knows that it is not good to beat the mother of his children, but sometimes, he has no other alternative.

Sometimes, Mama Watoto talks back. This undermines him as the head of the home. She argues with him complaining that he spends way too much time away from home at the local bar. She does not seem to understand that a man needs to meet with his friends in an exclusively male environment. She has her chama, the women’s group, and the Mother’s Union, doesn’t she? He does not complain the many Sundays and the few evenings here and there when she is away at a meeting, does he? The children have been suspended from school again, she will nag. Does she think money grows on trees?

It is true that sometimes, I forget and spend more money than I should at the local bar. You have to buy a few rounds otherwise your friends will think ala! He is a henpecked husband, the wife controls the purse strings. I do not want to be any different from the other men. But I am a good man. I try to take care of my family. Has anyone ever found me lying in a ditch dead drunk because I was not able to find my way home? Have the children ever gone to bed hungry because I like my beer?  

II. Inspect the knot. Most tight knots have a loose section that will relax the   whole knot.  If necessary, use a magnifying glass if you cannot see the knot well.

June 2013:

You know what she did the other day?  She looked at me in an odd way as if I was disgracing her. She made me feel ashamed. I had forgotten that her parents were coming to visit us and had taken a few hours off to go have a few beers with my friends. I was only a bit drunk.  If her parents had not been there, I surely would have beaten her for giving me that Look. It is not because she is a headmistress with the necessary certificates that she can look at me like that.  It also bothered me that her parents looked at me with displeasure. It is true that I would have preferred greeting them in a sober state, but what sane Kenyan man leaves a bar in a sober state? We are not Fanta-drinkers.

Her parents seem to know that I beat their daughter. At least, that is what I think. Her mother gives me the Look (like mother, like daughter) when she thinks I am not looking, like she knows something that she shouldn’t. I know she does not like me and that she would have preferred that her daughter marry a man with a white-collar job. Well, her daughter didn’t, did she? She must have found something good in me to defy her mother’s wishes. Good for her!

My wife tells me that her father never beat her mother. I wonder why. My mother was beaten, as was my mother’s mother and my grandmother’s mother. That is how it always has been in my family.

I wonder why my father-in-law never beats my wife’s mother. I wonder what he does when his wife gives him the Look. He does not look henpecked and he does not drink Fanta either. And my mother-in-law does not look perfect.

III. Create as much slack as possible around the knot by twisting the two ends of the knot this way and that.  

May 2015:

There is one thing that all farmers the world over cannot control: the weather. El Nino one year, La Nina the next. I decided to invest in an irrigation scheme. This set us back a bit; I was unable to pay for the children’s school fees and my wife accused me of drinking the school fees money. Women! Could she not see that I was trying to help the whole family? I am a decent farmer, earning an honest and honourable living. I doubt that a white-collar husband would have been able to provide what I have provided for my wife.

Mama Watoto is a very stubborn woman. I have asked her countless times to join me in running our farm. Why pay an overseer when we could be working together? We would be able to save a lot on supervision costs. She always refuses which makes me so angry and that results in my wanting to beat her.

You know what she told me the last time I was forced to beat her? That farming was not her calling. Calling, calling, do you have to be called to be a farmer? Who calls you anyway? That meant that she did not respect me, not only as her husband and as the head of this household, but also as a farmer. Another time I beat her because she said that her mother had warned her against marrying a farmer. Who does she think feeds the family? And feeds the nation, eh? Farmers like me, that’s who.

Even so, I will give credit where due: despite her stubbornness, my wife is a good woman. She is very hardworking and has never put me to shame outside the home. She contributes to the family income, raises chickens and sells the eggs to the other wamama at her chama and to her colleagues in school. She is very respected in our community. People look at us and tell us that we have a good marriage. We are a fine example to the community, even though I do not go to church, which, I think, is for women and children.

One of the reasons why I married her is because she did not laugh when I opened my mouth to speak to her for the very first time.  Even though she went to a teachers' training college, she did not look down on me. Even today, she does not seem to notice my stuttering and does not interrupt me when I am talking.

I had a very hard time in school. I hardly had any friends and my classmates were very unkind; they used to tease me because of my handicap. The mathematics teacher would punish me because I was not quick enough when reciting the multiplication table.  The only time I stop stuttering is after I have had a few beers.

I do not like it when others finish my sentences for me as if I am slow and stupid; or when they get impatient listening to me, lose interest and their eyes start to wander. And they think I do not notice it. I may not have completed my high school education and gone to university but I am not stupid. I own and run a farm, even though it is small-scale farming. We export our produce to Europe, I am not stupid.

IV. Insert a knot pick or an awl into the loosest part of the knot. The kind of picking tool to use will depend on the size of the knot. Work the tool back and forth. Check for loosening. Feed loose rope into the knot as you go along. Repeat as necessary.

September 2016:

We have been expanding and growing for the past three years, the reason why I would have liked my wife to work with me on the farm. I found a bank that gives us a good line of credit. Training courses have taught us how to use less pesticides for better crop treatment and we have learnt how to examine our plants for diseases. We are also learning about food safety and trying to better our labourers’ working conditions. You would be surprised at how our yields have improved and increased.

Europe has set very high standards for all their imported horticultural produce. This reassures the consumer. We are expected to practice good farming methods. The European market also expects us to keep business records going back three years. If then there is a problem, it will be easy to trace the origin of the problem and solve it.  This is what good farming is all about.

February 2017:

I want this farm to be certified which means that we have also gone back to crop rotation in order to improve the quality of the soil. The farmer has to respect specific farming operations procedures. We were audited a few months ago and are now waiting for the outcome of the audit. I believe that we have done all that is required of us and it is with pride that I say that we were ready for the audit.

April 2017:

We are now certified as a farm that has put into use good agricultural practices. And every year we will be ready for the audit.

My wife said that the audit was a very good and positive thing for us. She compared the audit to end-of-year examinations. Because we had worked well, we had gotten good results and a certificate to prove that we had done well. I almost expected her to say, “Very good work, keep it up!” when she was done talking.

We will now have to continue making progress every year to maintain the good farming practices.  I am confident that we will be able to do so.

V. Work carefully with the knot pick or awl to avoid damaging the rope.

April 2017:

When I told my beer-drinking friends about the audit and what my wife had said, they said that people do not know a good thing until they lose it. What did they mean by that? They meant that I had a very good, supportive wife. She should have left me a long time ago.  Has my wife ever insulted me, been rude to me? They asked me. Has she ever talked badly about me to other women behind my back? I had to say no. The funny thing is that some of these men also beat their wives, but they did not understand why I beat mine, even though, lately, I have been beating her less and less.

Needless to say, this got me thinking as to why I beat my wife. I beat her when I am drunk, never when I am sober, even when she annoys me. I wait until I have had a few beers which seems to give me the courage to beat her for whatever she said or did that annoyed me. I do not know why my wife has not left me. I know that her family would take her back with open arms.

I do not know what I would do if she were to leave.

VI. A line, a string or a rope will carry the memory of where a knot has been. The knot, however, does not define the rope, but shapes it.

January 2018:

I heard the other day in the news that a man killed his wife unintentionally in a fit of anger: he beat her to death. Accidentally. The couple had two children, one of whom was in primary school and the older one in secondary school. What will become of the children?

It made me wonder again what I would do if that were to happen to me (I have been doing a lot of thinking the past few months). What would happen to our children? What would happen to the extended family and the farm I have worked so hard on? Even if I were not to kill my wife, but ended up in prison, our lives would be destroyed. Where would that leave our children?

November 2018:

I have not beaten my wife for quite a long while now. I go to the bar less often because of the amount of work on the farm; we have bought more land. We have set high standards for ourselves to maintain, I tell my beer-drinking friends because I do not want them to think that I am a henpecked husband who has lost his rights.

I do not know if I have stopped beating my wife. My father-in-law does not beat his wife. How does he do it?

(Weaving alongside Phyllis Muthoni The Words We Use;

Richly inspired by Rachel Gichinga, Njoki Ngumi, Crystal Simeoni)

When Wanjiku¹ Travels (II)

“Where is Wanjiku? Is she even in Kenya? Might Wanjiku be in the Diaspora? If so, what would she see there or how would she see Kenya from there?”                                   
                                                                                                                                  - Wambui Mwangi

All Wanjiku¹ Wants

“Your assignment for the coming fortnight: come up with a three-minute presentation while reciting a text in a foreign language that you may or may not understand. Your text can be a poem, a short story, a word or a phrase repeated over and over again, the list is endless.”

The dance teacher looked at her class that came from diverse backgrounds and continued, “I want you to make me forget that you are reciting a text in a language I probably do not understand, but by the end of your performance I want to have understood that text. Bonne chance!”  

I decided to use the Kiswahili text of the inside front cover of the Kenyan passport in which the President of the Republic of Kenya requires and requests in his Name that the bearer of the passport be “allowed to pass freely without let or hindrance” and “to afford him or her every assistance and protection of which he or she may stand in need.”  

Hati hii ni ya kuwaomba na kuwasihi, kwa Jina la Rais wa Jamhuri ya Kenya, wote wanaohusika, kwa kusudi wamruhusu mwenyewe hati hii kwendelea bila shida ama kizuizi; tena kumsaidia na kumhifadhi kwa kadiri anavyohitaji.  

                                               ---------------------------------------------

Just when Kenyans finally made up their minds to stop bashing each other’s heads in April 2008, four long months after the rigged presidential election results, Thailand’s innards,  which had been rumbling rather quietly for a while now, started growling. The country was going through her own political crisis, the second in a span of two years; the people’s visceral needs were not being met.

On the 25^th of November 2008, anti-government protestors blockaded Bangkok’s main international airport, as well as the road leading to the airport. The Airports of Thailand was forced to suspend all inbound and outbound flights to Suvarnabhumi Airport, leaving hundreds of thousands of passengers stranded, among them ten thousand French nationals. The closure of the airport lasted for eight days with flights resuming on the 4^th of December.

Television footage showed irate French citizens berating the French government for dragging its feet in getting them back home. Additional footage showed more French citizens storming one airline’s office, so scaring the personnel that one of them, utterly distressed, did not report to work the following day.  

On the whole, the French, as well as their other Western neighbours, can count on their governments to come to their aid in time of trouble. Is not that one of the reasons why they have elections? To elect leaders who will look out for their interests?

The good citizens in the West know very well that they cannot always count on the airline or tour operator that flew them into the foreign country that they find themselves in.  Some airlines and tour operators are so averse to spending money that one could not be blamed for thinking that these establishments have a huge porcupine wrapped snuggly round their wallets; every time they reach out for their wallets, the avaricious airlines/tour operators scream in pain and hastily withdraw their fingers.

After all, it is too expensive and a bit problematic feeding and lodging all these angry passengers.

Take for example the French. Will they expect to have a gourmet meal, now that their gastronomic prowess has been recognized and honoured by UNESCO as an “intangible cultural heritage,” at a meeting held in Nairobi, Kenya? If not, will they go on strike while chanting that good food is a vital part of their cultural heritage and identity?

Will the Italians expect their pasta to be prepared al dente, just the way mamma makes it back home? Will the Germans want to have sauerbraten with a good German beer? Will the Spanish expect to be served tapas while the airline/tour operator personnel dance flamenco?

Will Kenyans expect to have their nyama choma, ugali and a good Kenyan beer? They can always sit next to the Germans for that we-have-something-in-common beer-bonding experience. The English will be easy to please with bangers and mash … and a good Irish beer.

And the Greeks? No, they are all back home, what with their economy having gone AWOL. But just as well they are not there. They would probably organise a marathon in the terminal. On second thoughts, it would probably be an excellent idea, just to keep the French busy and make them forget that they want to strike. Of course Kenyans would win the marathon for all Kenyans are excellent runners, aren’t they?

Can you see how complicated the feeding logistics are? We will not even go into these finicky passengers’ accommodation.

Even if the feeding and accommodation costs were not a thorny issue, the airline or tour operator cannot make that final call. They have to consult the Head Office. This is also known as passing the buck.  Due to the eight-hour time difference, they will receive a reply from Head Office twenty-four hours later, do the math, stating that the urgent matter is being looked into.

Senior management will hold an exceptional meeting to set up a special committee to look into the urgent matter. The special committee will hold a sempiternal meeting. After endless cups of coffee, water and hearty lunches to fortify these good people in their urgent deliberations, the special committee will issue a Memorandum of Understanding which will have to be urgently ratified by the CEO in person, only that he has been called away on another urgent matter…. See why the French mistook the airline office in Thailand for the Bastille? And it is true: a camel is a horse designed by a committee.

The French government was criticized for her disorganization in getting her citizens home. Think about it. If the French government—a member of NATO, G6, G8, G8+5, G20, Gee, what mind-bogglers!—runs a country that introduced the world to, among many other things, penicillin, motion pictures, bullet trains, that microchip in your credit card, the Olympic Games, and frogs legs, can be a bit disorganized in getting her people home, would Kenya be able to do one better? 

A lone Kenyan called Wanjiku is stranded in a foreign airport in a faraway land.  Let us see how we can get her back home.

When Wanjiku applied for her passport,  she remembered filling in the following in section 8 of the “Application for a Kenya Passport” Form PP.1 (Revised 2006):

I (Emigrant/ Parent/ Guardian) ……………………………..  of P.O. Box ………………………………… and I.D Number …………………………….. hereby agree to bind myself to pay the Government any charges and expenses (including expenses of repatriation from overseas of the Emigrant and Dependants, if any) which may be incurred by the Government of Kenya in respect of myself.

What a fine way of scaring Kenyans into staying home to help to build the nation. Not very reassuring, is it? If you cannot pay back the Kenya government, you. Are. On. Your. Own.

When Wanjiku signed the application, she never thought that this part of the declaration would ever apply. She needed a passport and this one bit was not going to stand in her way. Why worry, she reasoned to herself, about something that might never happen?

Now that she is stranded, the sun does not shine as bright.  At the back of her mind lurks a few nagging questions: can I really count on the Name of my president? Will he really care that I am caught up in something bigger than myself? Can I count on his representatives? If yes, what about the flawed elections of 2007? And the violence that followed hard on the heels of the rigged results? 

So what is Wanjiku to do in a foreign land, far away from home? The Something-has-hit-the-fan Law says that when you find yourself in such a situation, you will also find yourself very, very low on funds. You have just about gotten rid of all your foreign currency, save for the loose change that cannot even buy you a cup of coffee. The jingling change is already memorabilia. Your credit card? Don’t even dream about it. Your account is barely hanging in there.

In any case, you can only withdraw only so much per week and you have already withdrawn that amount. If only you could be able to hawk the souvenirs in your possession to the other tourists who just happen to have bought the same souvenirs for their loved ones, and whose pockets are also jingling with memorabilia. Besides, you had a travelling budget which did not take into account a totally unexpected prolonged stay far away from home.

The overhead TV monitors have black screens, Wanjiku notes. They have all been shut down. There is no news filtering in. There have been no announcements. Wanjiku has no computer access so she has no idea what is really going on. Despite all the noise, the frustration and the chaos, she is not worried for her safely. The protestors are friendly, sharing their food and water the first couple of days. One of them even gives her a hand clapper as a gift as he apologises for the inconvenience and attempts to explain their motivation for the blockade.

The first night, Wanjiku slept fitfully on her two suitcases, her hand-bag serving as a pillow. The second and third nights, she chose to sleep, if you could call it that, on the security conveyor belt. She is so lonely for home. All the travellers are lonely for home.

It is now the fourth day. Tempers are starting to fray as conditions at the airport deteriorate. Toilet facilities are a nightmare, restaurants have practically run out of food. This morning, Wanjiku heard that one of the first-class lounges still had food and drink. She managed to get a sandwich and a small bottle of mineral water before everything ran out. There is now a rumour circulating that power will be turned off. The protestors are noisier than ever. Hot, tired and clammy babies are crying louder than ever. There are hot, dirty and sweaty bodies everywhere.

The airport staff is not very helpful in the midst of all the pandemonium. They are probably more stressed than the passengers themselves, wondering what will happen to their country. So far, the police and the army have shown restraint; a military takeover cannot possibly resolve the current tensions facing the Thai mwananchi.

Wanjiku is so exhausted and so lonely for the familiar. She slightly envies the European tourists around her. Travelling with a burgundy-coloured EU passport can be a breeze, she thinks to herself.  She gets the impression that sometimes all that an EU passport-holder has to do is to wave their passport at the border police on duty who, with an impassive flick of his hand, lets them walk through. And off they head, with a determined step, towards the exit to stake the baggage carousel.  In addition, in the Schengen Area, EU travellers have their own queue which advances at the speed of light, while your queue with a variety of passports that represent a third of the colours of the rainbow moves at a … is there an animal slower than a snail?

Wanjiku shakes herself out of her reverie and wonders what she is going to do when she hears a pleasant, clipped English accent behind her. A British diplomat, thank heavens. He seems a bit harried and preoccupied.

It has been a really long week. This is the fourth day that the airport has been closed. Thailand’s second international airport, Don Muang, was also shut down by protestors two days ago. Long-haul international flights and domestic flights into Don Muang are suspended. There are flights leaving from Phuket Airport but these are charter flights or regional flights to Singapore, Kuala Lumpur, and Hong Kong. Planes to repatriate European nationals will probably be rerouted to Phuket (862kms from Bangkok) as well as to the airports in Chiang Mai (696kms from the capital) and Korat (256kms). That will mean finding the means to transfer everyone while trying, at the same time, to account for each person, man, woman and child. Must have a complete list of those with food restrictions and  health concerns. Must remember to call the Foreign Office and Tourism Minister. And Civil Aviation. Hope Wanda will have an update for me in the next one hour on the outcome of the meeting with the principal tour operators. Why are they so recalcitrant? Glad I am not alone in my corner. A comfort to have EU member states in the same boat. Is there something I have forgotten? The  diplomat asks himself. We must get all these people home. We will get them home.

Wanjiku once read somewhere that in countries where Kenya has no diplomatic representation, a Kenyan can turn to the British Embassy or to the British High Commission for help. Does this moment, this particular circumstance, qualify?

She hesitates to approach the diplomat who is looking around him, studying the situation, taking it all in. She would love to know what he is thinking.

What will be her justification in requesting for his help? How will she make herself understood? Does she qualify being evacuated on humanitarian grounds? And what humanitarian grounds would these be? She finds herself incapable of calling upon the name of the president. She is on her own. What will she do? Simply walk up to the diplomat and present her case?  What could be the common ground on which to base her arguments?

Our countries have quite a bit of shared history and identity, she might start by saying. My country is a member of the Commonwealth. We drive to the left like your country does.  I know all your nursery songs and rhymes.

Wanjiku might at this point hesitate for a second, then she might clear her throat before forging on. Before Kenya’s independence, and I will not put too fine a point on it, Sir, we had schools going by such names as “Duke of York,” “Prince of Wales” or even “Duke of Gloucester,” although today, the names have taken on a local flavor.

Our bunge, that’s “parliament” for you, Sir, is almost similar to yours even though our MPs do not use words such as  “floccinaucinihilipilification.” Our judges might have stopped wearing wigs in court (tropical climate, you see) and are no longer addressed as “My Lord” or “My Lady,” but they have kept the robes, just like the Queen’s Counsel. 

We drink tea, lots and lots of it, although, I admit that we are also getting a taste for coffee. You see, we grow it. We never knew how good our coffee was until we tasted what we exported. So now we are buying Kenyan coffee to build Kenya. But we still have our four o’clock tea, no fear.

My brother watches all the Man U matches. I sometimes watch them but much prefer watching tennis at Wimbledon. Rugby and cricket are right up our alley.

I remember as a child buying fish and chips wrapped up in a newspaper. I watched Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels and understood every word of it despite the Cockney dialogues and accents. I have read most of your classics as well as all the Harry Potters.

I guarantee you that once in transit on British soil, I will not all of a sudden remember that I am a political refugee and ask for asylum. All I want to do is to go back home.

“This is all so complicated,” Wanjiku whispers to herself. She feels so alone. “I do not have to justify why I need to get on a flight out. All I want is to get home.”

She gathers up her courage, stands up and walks up to the diplomat. She has no idea what she will tell him, but of this one thing she is sure, and she repeats it to herself: “I was born free and I have my rights. This man in front of me is endowed with reason and conscience and he will do the right and responsible thing in a spirit of brotherhood.² That is my human right.”

¹ Wanjiku, a feminine Kikuyu name, has come to represent the common man and woman, the mwananchi, in Kenya today.

² Paraphrase, Article 1 of the United Nations’ Universal Declaration of Human Rights.

(Weaving alongside W. Mwangi, The Surprise of the Familiar; M. Mohammedali Wanjiku Sends a Postcard Home)