I used to be one of those women who would turn her nose up whenever politics was brought up thinking, “what a waste of time, I’ll focus on gender issues and advancing the interests of women.”

I have had occasion to change my mind about politics and the discourses of governance and decision-making in the highest echelons of power.

In fact, I would go so far as to say I have set my mind firmly on pursuing politics as an overarching goal in my activism career.

Once I realized the influence that politics has on my life and its bearing on the choices availed to me as a woman, as a youth and as an African, I became convinced that being a woman must of necessity require one to be a politician.

I figure if politics determines what I can afford to eat, what kind of bed I can sleep on, what kind of shelter I can call home, what kind of lifestyle I can lead (power-cuts, water-rationing and all) – if politics can impact on what kind of clothes I can afford to wear or the kind of educational and career opportunities availed to me – then clearly politics is exactly where my head needs to be and precisely where my heart should set its sights.

If politics determine what kind of future my children will have or the kind of road I must travel on daily and the texture of my journeys (bumpy dusty roads, potholes and all) then I figure politics is exactly where I need to be.

If politics will determine which embassy will shut its door in my face, if politics can deny me the chance to see the world beyond the borders of my nation, if politics has the power to detain me within the confines of my continent – then to change the narrative of my life and to exceed the limitations imposed by my nationality (tainted by bad governance, skewed politics and all); I must delve into politics.

If politics determine what laws will govern my conduct and which laws will legitimize my oppression – then by all means I must become a politician to change the status quo from within and not from without.

If politics can give immense power to a minority and perpetuate the discrimination and marginalization of certain sects of society – then I should be a politician to use the same vehicle to turn the tide of social injustice.

If politics can determine the quality of my life and my fate when I ail (no drugs in hospitals and no health personnel and all) as well as the kind of burial I am likely to get from my well-meaning but financially stunted nearest and dearest – then politics is my business.

If politics determines my diet, keeping the best brands just out of my reach so that I have to be content with the ‘no-name’ average products (with local industry struggling and all) then clearly, politics is where I need to be.

If politics influence the kind of security afforded to me and my property as a citizen (with underpaid cops and corruption being the order of the day) then I have to be a politician or be doomed to a life lived according to the dictates of others.

If politics gives one the voice, to speak on behalf of others then politics is my kind of brew – for no one speaks for me; I will speak for myself and if need be, I will speak for those on the receiving end of life’s endless tragedies and political intrigues.

A woman’s place is in politics. A woman’s business is to shape a tomorrow brighter than our own past and greater than our present circumstance.

So I sold my soul to the ‘dirty’ game of politics for if it is a game then I refuse to be a casualty, a pawn and a bystander caught in the middle and paying the price for decisions made without my consent or footing the bill for events sanctioned without my permission.

So hear me when I say, politics is my business for I would rather pay the price of being one than suffer the penalty of standing on the sidelines while others recklessly play God with my life.

Below is a press release from the organisation Support about the need to make female condoms more widely available:

Female Condom Popular in Zimbabwe – Numbers Show True Picture

By Kathryn Bice, Freelance Journalist

The female condom has come in for some criticism in the media in Zimbabwe in recent months, but experienced advocates are convinced that it is a product strongly desired by Zimbabwe citizens and a vital weapon in the fight against HIV/AIDS.

Critics have claimed that women do not want the female condom because it is too big, noisy and difficult to insert.

Not so, says Mrs Patience Kunaka, the communications manager for PSI Zimbabwe, which distributes the FC Female Condom, branded as care, through private sector channels in Zimbabwe. PSI, or Population Services International, is a non-profit organization that works to make health and population control products and services more available in low-income areas of the world.

The number of female condoms distributed by PSI grew from 455,556 in 2001, when they were launched, to more than 3 million in 2008, before declining slightly last year due to Zimbabwe’s economic problems.

As well as care, the FC Female Condom is distributed free of charge as the unbranded Femidom by the Zimbabwe National Family Planning Council, an arm of the Ministry of Health, through government institutions such as clinics, tertiary institutions and government offices.

Such numbers are proof that demand for the female condom is fundamentally strong and rising, Mrs Kunaka said.

The key is “education and outreach”, she said. “PSI has a highly targeted program. We believe that distribution should be backed up with interpersonal communication. People we have reached out to are very happy to use the female condom.”

The perception that the female condom is too big is sometimes due to the fact that “some people have poor understanding of the female anatomy,” she said. “People who have been exposed to it have no such worries because they know the female condom fits well as it lines the contours of the vagina.”

The FC Female Condom is a tube-shaped sheath about as long as a male condom but slightly wider so that it lines a woman’s vagina comfortably.

The FC Female Condom has a small ring at one end that fits inside the vagina and keeps the condom in place and, according to some users, gives enhanced pleasure. It also has a larger ring that stays outside and covers part of the woman’s genitalia and the base of the man’s penis, giving extra protection from sexually transmitted infections.

Mrs Kunaka got some backing from an unexpected source recently when the advice doctor in US Glamour magazine, Dr Kate O’Connell, wrote that when she tried the female condom, inserting it “wasn’t as tricky” as she expected.

Dr O’Connell also commented that although it made “a little squishy sound, it wasn’t distractingly loud,” and that she probably noticed it only because she had her ears open for noise.

PSI socially markets care through hair salons and barber shops, pharmacies, private health care institutions, support groups for people living with HIV/AIDS, and networks of sex workers.

Priced at 20 US cents for a packet of two, it is “attractively packaged and positioned for women who are confident and care about themselves and their partners,” Mrs Kunaka said.

The internationally recognized hair salons initiative has been so successful that Botswana is considering replicating the model.

“We continue to recruit hairdressers and provide structured training and support for them to sell the female condom and to teach women condom negotiation skills and how to use it correctly,” Mrs Kunaka said.

“When the clients go in for a hairdo, they have a chance to talk to the hairdresser about how to use the female condom, and the hairdresser can teach them.”

Mrs Kunaka said the decline in consumption of female condoms in 2009 was due to Zimbabwe’s economic challenges, which include unemployment and effects of the 2008 inflation.

“The hair salons are our major channel, but they have been badly affected by the economic problems,” she said.

“We have water shortages and power outages, which make it difficult for salons to operate. Some are opening for shorter hours and some are closing altogether.

“We are moving to a situation where some hair dressers rent a chair in a salon, and with rents going up they might have to move at any time, so they don’t have anywhere to store their condoms.”

The economy has also been “dollarized”, with the US dollar being used for many transactions.

“We don’t have a 10 cent denomination, which makes it hard for people to buy their condoms because they don’t have these smaller denominations”, Mrs Kunaka said.

“To enable women to access the product, clients are encouraged to buy amounts costing a dollar which is the readily available denomination.

“But we still have a lot of confidence in the hair salon channel. We try to take advantage of the conducive environment, and provide the distributors with branded aprons, towels, floor boards and racks to display the condoms and posters that show the hairdressers posing with different hair styles.”

Ministry of Health and Child Welfare figures put Zimbabwe’s adult HIV prevalence rate at 13.7 percent in 2009, down from 18.1 percent two years previously. The female condom remains an important weapon in the fight against the epidemic.

“The female condom is very important because it gives women a chance to play a role in HIV prevention at the family level,” Mrs Kunaka said.

“Women say they feel safe, because they can buy and put it on themselves, so they are sure the condom is there to protect them.”

But an underlying problem is the gender inequality in Zimbabwean society.

“When you look at our culture, it is the men who make the sexual decisions. It is very hard for married women to negotiate condom use. In fact women who are in less regular relationships actually have more chance to negotiate,” Mrs Kunaka said.

“In the past there has been a stigma attached to being seen buying a female condom. There was a perception that condoms were for people of loose morals. We position it as a family planning product to married women, and that has successfully overcome the stigma.”

PSI has also increased its efforts to sell the female condom to men.

“We have expanded our barbers’ network, because we hope they get to talk to as many men as possible. If men can also buy the condom for their partners, then many more women will be able to protect themselves.”

SCREAMING
Poem by Shailja Patel, Kenya/USA. Performed at the AWID forum by Shailja Patel.

I.

There are too many battles
and too many wounds
and I
I can’t take it
I don’t want to know

that Inez Garcia was sentenced
to life imprisonment
for killing the man
who held her down
while two other men raped her

I want to cover my ears and scream
to block out the voices that chant

that Piah Njoki had her eyes
gouged out by her husband
because she did not bear him
a son

I want to be free of the murder
that pounds in my brain

because six hundred women a year
in Delhi alone
are doused in paraffin and burned
burned to death for the crime
of too small a dowry

I want to pretend it won’t happen to me

did you know that a student
at Sussex university
was raped on her
first night in residence
by a man who just walked
just walked
into her room

I am not a part of this bleeding
this scream
I don’t want to challenge argue fight
construct confront negotiate
beg for change

do you hear me

I want to retreat
to a room filled with humans
shut out the night
the fear and pain
hear myself stop
screaming inside
unravel my breathing ask

in a very
low
voice

dare I
claim the right
to a voice
that does not
scream?

II.

so it wasn’t until I learned to fight
I could be sexy

the swing of my hip developed
in pace with my elbow strike
I grew out my hair
as my flesh grew harder
began to wear lipstick
bare my shoulders
as I learned to judge
how fast to strike

and where
groin
eyes
jugular

It wasn’t until
I could walk down a street
knowing I could turn rage into action
that I could strut
down the same street

say with my stride
yes I think I look good too
yes I revel in my body
yes I love the sun on my skin
this body is mine
the better I learn to defend it
the better I flaunt it
from sheer joy

III.

for the truth of experience
Is in the body
when I am a fighter
my body is weapon
when I am a lover
my body is food

now my body
is paintbrush
story
truth illusion
sing through my limbs
like the shock
of cold water

breathe me clear
breathe me free
breathe me home

Read more at www.shailja.com Shailja Patel’s book, Migritude, comes out from Kaya Press in September 2010

http://kaya.com/books/28

The day I met Samia Nkrumah, I was awestruck – by her humility, her grace and the dignity with which she carried herself.

It was a moment I proudly splashed on my Facebook, and squeezed into the 120 characters of a tweet.

I was convinced at that moment that I was well on my way to greatness, for in some journeys – there has to be some turning point – and that was it for me.

Having been identified among some of Africa’s most extraordinary emerging women leaders; the enormity of it had not yet sunk in and I arrived in Accra for the 3 week fellowship training feeling considerably daunted.

From over 800 applicants from all over the continent and the African diaspora, I was picked in the final 25 and with this selection came the honour of being a MILEAD Fellow by the Moremi Initiative for women’s leadership and development in Africa.

I set foot on West African soil determined to make the most of the experience.

My arrival coincided with the opening ceremony for the fellowship and in attendance was none other than Zimbabwe’s ambassador to Ghana, Mrs Pavelyn Musaka, the South African ambassador to Ghana, Mrs Jessica Ndhlovu and the Nigerian ambassador to Ghana, Alhaji Issifu Baba Kamara.

And they treated us as equals and deferred to our opinions as if we were their peers – and it was refreshing to not be patronized but to be engaged with as a group of leaders who have what it takes to impact the world positively.

It was also humbling to note that the Minister for Women and Children’s Affairs, Ms Joyce Aryee took time from her parliamentary session to share some insights on what it takes to be a leader in Africa, more-so a woman leader.

“They will tell you it cannot be done, well I am here today to tell you that not only can it be done, it is has been done and it is still being done. You owe it to yourselves to never give up and never ever walk away from a fellow sister in need. In this journey to becoming the next generation of African women leaders, you will need to help, support, encourage and work with each other,” she said adding that she had been called names and insulted in the media during smear campaigns so she had learned to just be tough.

Since the leadership institute commenced, I have had the honour of visiting Ghana’s parliament which occasioned my encounter with Samia.

Then the opportunity to meet with Betty Mould-Iddrisu who is Ghana’s Attorney General and Minister of Justice, the first woman to ever hold these posts since Ghana’s independence in 1957.

“I will tell you one thing. You must work hard and you must never, never forget where you come from. Never forget. Never let yourself forget,” she stressed urging us to be humble even as we pursue our most lofty ambitions.

We were inspired.

Soon after this meeting, we were shuttled to the Accra Holiday Inn Hotel where we had the honour of spending an hour with Mary Robinson, former President of Ireland, a member of the Council of Elders, former UN High Commissioner for Human Rights and the founder of Realizing Rights.

She shared her experiences on working in Africa and some of the most pressing problems faced by the continent.

“If we can isolate one of the most pressing challenges in Africa, it would be the use of religion and tradition to oppress women. The efforts to realize gender equality and to elevate the status of women are significantly hampered by this,” said Mary Robinson.

It was an enlightening session, coming hot on the heels of a group outing that saw us visiting the African Women’s Development Fund (AWDF) headquarters where we were hosted by some of the most successful women in funding on the continent.

AWDF has over the past decade funded women’s organisations all over the continent and propelled the women’s movement by facilitating the necessary financial resources to ensure that organisations continue the all important work of elevating the status of African women. And I find myself increasingly recalling the sentiments of Bernard of Chartres who used to say that, “we are like dwarfs on the shoulders of giants, so that we can see more than they, and things at a greater distance, not by virtue of any sharpness of sight on our part, or any physical distinction, but because we are carried high and raised up by their giant size.” For a great deal has been achieved by those women leaders who have gone ahead of us and with each generation the load becomes lighter but the complexity of the challenges we are up against remains.

May we be found worthy of the mantle of leadership when the day comes to pass on the torch?

Strong in the broken places

I often wonder what ignites the passion for activism and what motivates individuals to care enough about the plight of others to place themselves on the firing line.

One of the things I discovered about the 24 young women that are taking part in the Moremi Initiative for women’s leadership and development in Africa (MILEAD) here in Ghana is that their passions derive from some of their most painful and deepest hurts.

In essence, they have risen against all odds to face their pasts and use their own pain to alleviate the suffering of others, prevent the possibility of similar pain being inflicted on others and wherever possible to use their experiences to reach out to others.

I once read a daily devotional that was titled, “strong in the broken places” and I never could really understand the meaning of that phrase.

But now I realize that there is strength to be derived from the lessons we learn when life’s tragedy breaks us down.

It all started with a seminar on child sexual abuse, gender violence and all the inherent complexities of these social ills and turned into a cathartic experience when one of the fellows shared a personal horror story.

Herlyn Uiras was diagnosed with HIV after she was raped by a truck driver who had offered her lift smuggled her into South Africa at the age of 16 and dumped her in Johannesburg miles from her country of origin – Namibia.

Herlyn’s story is heartrending, spine-chilling and life-transforming, proving the remarkable resilience of the human spirit and the triumph that comes with choosing to be a survivor and not victim of life’s endless tragedies.

“My friend and I wanted to see what Joburg was like and that truck driver said he could get use into SA. We were excited, we were 16, we were on an adventure. The moment he got us across the border he demanded sex, I refused but he went ahead anyway and when I saw that he would do it anyway, I begged him to use a condom. He wore one but it broke while he was at it. He didn’t stop. And I couldn’t stop him.”

The way Herlyn tells her story is striking in two ways; first she owns the consequences of her choices, specifically the choice to trust a stranger with her life.

She stayed 5 months in South Africa, surrendered herself to the police and was given passage back to her country.

Today Herlyn is 26, working with AIDS organisations to sensitize young children about the disease and is engaged in projects to discourage human smuggling and warn people about the dangers of human trafficking.

Prior to the earth-shattering revelations she made about what she went through, I had already created a profile of her in my mind, as I did with every other young woman I had met there.

I had profiled her as one of the fun-loving, side-splittingly hilarious women I have ever come across.

One would never guess at the sound of her infectious laughter that her life had been touched by such trauma and tragedy – though it wasn’t easy, Herlyn says she got to the point where she made peace with what had transpired – forgiven herself and even managed to somehow forgive the man who had raped and infected her.

As she told her story, she was so composed and we all listened disbelieving because although she spared us the details, most of us could still feel our skins crawl and imagine how she must have felt.

Then somewhere along the narration something just broke in her – she cried and we cried. Cried for that 16 year old girl who didn’t know any better and cried for the woman standing before us, who ten years later re-lives the nightmare to help others and to warn others by sharing her life story across the continent.

I have no way of knowing who’s life may be helped or saved by sharing Herlyn’s story with readers who follow Kubatana’s blogs, but there is no doubt in my mind that her story will help someone, somewhere to either avoid what befell her or choose to overcome whatever pain was inflicted on them.

Having received a fully-packed programme scheduled with back to back lectures and activities lined up for us, I went to Ghana expecting to be taught but when I got here – I found myself learning. Learning the meaning of what it means to be strong, strong even in the broken places.

On a recent visit to my grandmother’s rural home, I remarked to my uncle how sad it is that when I have children of my own, all of their grandparents will be city-dwelling creatures who won’t boast scenic views of misted mountain ranges, free-roaming cattle and grass-thatched rondawels.

“Ah, but you can’t be sure of that yet,” he quipped. “You could get married to a man whose parents live in the rural areas and who loves to go and see them often.”

I am not too sure whether the grimace I felt growing within, after that statement was made, actually seeped through my flesh and crept all the way up to my face. Marry a man whose parents live where and who loves to do what?!

Now, I know those types well – the urban dwellers whose lungs can’t take the smell of diesel and industrialisation for any protracted amount of time, and who must therefore drive off to the ‘roots’ (that’s Zimbabwean slang for one’s rural home) at any opportunity. Public holidays, Christmas, Easter, annual leave – name the calendar dates and these men are on their merry way.

I have absolutely no problem with this whatsoever. Showing love and appreciation for where you come from is a sign of humility and respect. So bravo to all of those who have embraced their heritage.

But please don’t expect me to be the first to be kitted out in faithful pursuit at the suggestion of each and every road trip to see my in-laws and their string of relatives.

Let’s go through the reasons why.

It isn’t just rural folk who want to see what mettle a mroora (daughter-in-law) is made of. But they make the greatest demands on you to find out whether you really were worth all those cows given away as your bride price.

They want to know if you can cook, clean and do every other wifely task they know of from their own mental handbooks.

And note, cooking here is not for some previously planned dinner party of eight guests who all get place names. In this instance, it’s more like cooking for the whole village – aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, brothers of aunts of great uncles and any other relation you can think of!

Oh, and I neglect to mention that this is cooking by fire.

In a drum.

With a big old log for you to stir the pap around with as it gurgles and threatens to erupt all over your face.

I laugh at the thought of my even attempting such feats of heroism.

Ah, and then there’s the small matter of plucking feathers from newly deceased chickens which, in their final moments, you watched coursing about the yard headless and bloody.

I have to pass on that one too because I have real issues with cooking or eating something that I have seen living.

Call me crazy, but I grow attached to livestock. I watch and learn their different characters and even give them names and nationalities. In fact, in just this last visit to my grandmother I reincarnated one of her hens as a moody painter called Pierrick cocking his head to and fro (in the previous life the hen was male!) and fixing his eyes on angular shapes and edgy colours.

So don’t think for one moment that I could ever partake of the cooking and eating of Pierrick and others of his kith and kin.

Fetching water from a well kilometres away and then balancing a full bucket over my head? And actually walking with it?

Pass again.

But my personal favourite is getting all of this done before the first cock crows and with the whispers behind my aching back about when exactly it is that I will show my fertility by falling pregnant.

Did I just chuckle out loud? I am not so sure because no one else is in the room.

The chuckle, whether audible or otherwise, is induced by the fact that I am involved in a well-documented unshakeable romance with my pillows. So much so is sleep the glory of my life that I have since forfeited the spectacle of picturesque sunrises for it.

I will forfeit a whole lot more, even at the risk of being called a salad. In Zimbabwe, people who are considered to be ‘raw’ in a cultural sense, are derisively referred to as salads – no particular type of salad, just anything that’s made up of raw ingredients.

Oh, and who really understands the idea of getting married and enjoying your spouse’s company for a few years before birthing a brood of noisy rugrats? Just you wait more than a year and listen as everyone speculates that you are barren and that you need that special healing that the pastor who lives on a distant mountain top gives.

I am in no way making light of rural life. Rural communities have their own systems, proud rituals and traditions. And these are what keep them functional.

But I am at an age where I can be honest with myself.

I will never be a size 10. I will not be a fashion designer when I grow up. And I will not be the typical traditional wife.

My way of life is a fusion of things – an acculturation of different ways and beliefs about how I feel that I can most benefit the various structures within society, including family.

I am not a domestic goddess. I can be competent at house work, but nothing more. And whoever I marry, if I marry, has to understand that.

So no eyes gawking at me and vetting my competencies, thank you! The rustic life wasn’t made for some.

And for this narration of my reservations, call me a salad if you want. In fact, call me a Waldorf salad. At least I can munch away at bits of apples and nuts while you chew over my audacity.

Bon appetite!