African Gay Experiences

Murderers, robbers, rapists, child defilers, sadists! Yet, they all think that
they are better than me, that my crime is the worst on mother earth.

I remember that day vividly. The day I was sentenced. I recall the court scene,
the magistrate who sent me here. He came in wearing a black gown and one of
those wigs they place on their heads. As he entered the courtroom, we all stood
up, even the spectators who had come to celebrate the day of the slaughter. He
perused my file for about ten minutes, wrote things in it, all the time the
court silent like a graveyard. Then he lifted his head up and pushed his glasses
further down the bridge of his nose, his cold and piercing eyes staring at me
over the lenses.

Magistrate: Chileka Musa, you have been charged in this court for a gross act of
indecency, an act that you do not deny but which you claim is not an offence. On
August 6, 2005 in a pub in Palemba town you, a male of sound mind, were caught
by members of the public kissing another man.

When the police were called in and arrested you, you asked them what was wrong
with two men kissing. That demonstrates your arrogance and disregard for society
that has educated you to university level. This is a god -fearing nation.
Morality drives our society ahead. People like you have no place here…

(voices of courtroom crowds chanting): Hang him! Hang him!

Magistrate: Silence in court! You are a well-educated young man but you are a
bad example to our society. Moral decadence that leads to shameful acts like
yours must be punished heavily. We do not want our young to emulate you. Now
before I sentence you, do you have anything to say in mitigation?

Chileka: I do not know why I said that. But I stood up and said (CHANGING HIS
VOICE TO DEMONSTRATE A SPEECH TO THE COURT)'No your honour. I am already
condemned by this court and the society in large. You too have personally
already condemned me by your epithets and value laden expressions. Whatever I
say or do will not alter the picture. In this court and outside people spit at
me. This country is one big jail where people are perpetually in chains over
their sexual orientation, over their gender…the minority and the weak have no
say in your society. This is a society that thrives on falsehoods, a society
that pretends to be so moral yet it thrives on crime, deceit, pretence,
hypocrisy and denial. Wake up and face the real world†.

Yes, everybody had already condemned me. My brothers, my sisters, my friends,
none of them were in court throughout. My sister had called me a devil.
(mimicking a lady's SNEERING voice) 'He is Satan. Let him carry his own
burden. This is the black sheep of the family. He has shamed us all,†she had
told the only person who had tried to persuade her to see me in the police cells
after I was arrested. Even the media had already condemned me. All that remained
now was for the man in a gown and a wig to put his official stamp on it.

Magistrate: Chileka Musa, having examined the evidence before me and having
listened to your mitigation plea â€" if any â€" I find it necessary to remove
you from our god fearing society. You have even the audacity to lecture this
court in your warped thinking. I wish the sentence prescribed for the offence
was harsher. But as it is I have no alternative but to sentence you to the
maximum sentence provided by law.

Chileka Musa, I sentence you to a jail term of five-years.

(Joyous clapping and excited cheering from the court crowds THEN SOME SOMBRE
TUNE)

Chileka: It fell like a hammer blow. I had known it was coming. But I never
expected it to be so harsh. Even the newspaper that had condemned me in its
editorial when I was arrested had toned down and written a commentary piece
saying that the sentence was too harsh.

I remember that journey to Palemba Prison. In a truck with tiny holes for
windows, all of us packed like sardines. We stood straight, like soldiers on
parade with no room to manoeuvre about.

(Roar of a truck as it speeds, hitting bumps and potholes and sounds of sirens)

Chileka: The violence from other inmates had started right there in the truck.
Someone had grabbed my hand and removed my cheap watch. Two others were in my
pockets, digging in deep and coming out with all I had â€" a few crumpled notes.
Even my neck chain was not spared; a burly man behind me ripped it off, tearing
skin from my neck in the process. A young guy, originally dressed as fashionably
as a rap artist star, was now only in his underwear. They had stripped him of
his expensive looking jeans, sneakers and a fashionable T-shirt.

At the prison gates there was the reception. Yes, they call it the reception.
More than 50 warders always wait with glee in their eyes for the truck as it
arrives from the courts, truncheons and whips ready, to assert their authority
and initiate inmates to prison life with violence.

(Voices of warders and sounds of whiplashes as prisoners cry out)
Get out, quickly, squat in threes! You will know that you are now in Palemba not
at home. Here, you do as you are told, you are not supposed to think. At Palemba
we do what we want with you. We have killed many people and you will not be the
first or the last ones!

Chileka: Yes, they could do anything they wanted to do with us, and they did
exactly that. We were all made to strip naked and searched in all crevices. They
poked sticks in our mouths and other places that I will not mention for now,
claming to look for contraband. It did not matter whether you were 18 or 80.

There were juveniles, young men and old men â€" all bundled together. We all
squatted there in our nudity on the hot tarmac yard as they humiliated us. I
still see the face of one Sergeant, stepping on the neck of a very old white
haired inmate with his huge boots as his truncheon went up and down, hitting the
inmate.

We had all heard about Palemba â€" of the numerous deaths of inmates and the
cruel treatment meted out â€" but now it was no longer hearsay, we were part of
it.

(PAUSE)

But that was six months ago. . Since that day I have seen more violence than I
can describe. Violence from the warders, violence between inmates. There are
those inmates called in-charge. They are the eyes of the warders in the cells
and they are even worse than the warders. I have seen them beat up inmates until
they cry out like small children. I have seen inmates die before my very eyes.

During all the time I have been in Palemba Prison none of my relatives or
friends have dared visit me. How do you get identified with a man who has
committed the worst crime in the world â€" kissed consensually another male? For
them it is better to steal, murder, forge documents…..

But I am sure my mother would have liked to see me, only now she is too old to
travel all the way to Palemba. Yes, my mother, that sweet lady who took such
great care of the younger me. Sometimes, in my forlorn moments, I think a lot
about her.

Life, how hard life was always for her. No wonder she has aged so fast. The last
time I saw her I could not believe this was the once vibrant woman who cared for
me. She looked like a zombie, shrunken and stooping, with a face full of
wrinkles.

Now I realise that she was also always a prisoner, a prisoner not in Palemba
Maximum Prison, but of domestic violence at the hands of my father. I remember
them fighting virtually any time my father was at home. They quarrelled on the
smallest things in life you can imagine.

(Sound of a radio broadcast tuned to the BBC increasing in volume THEN TURNED
OFF then a MALE CLEARING THROAT)

Father: Joyce, why is this radio covered in dust. Can't you ever think of
wiping it? Why is it that nothing in this house works? This radio is just like
the furniture in the house. I notice that it is very dusty, yet you sit there
the whole day and do nothing.

Mother: But you are the one who was with the radio the whole afternoon seated
outside under the mango tree. It must have gathered dust then. And for the
furniture, I personally wiped everything up when you were in bed in the morning,
reading your newspaper. It is the dry season and there is a lot of dust
everywhere.

Father: Under the mango tree the whole afternoon and in bed reading the
newspaper! Are you insinuating something? Are you saying that I am as lazy as
you? Are you saying that it is now my work to keep the house clean? This house
is like a garbage dump. Even the children's clothes are torn, yet you cannot
take a needle and thread and patch them up! You want to tell me that it is not
dry season in other homes. Why do they manage to keep their furniture clean?

(Silence, only the clock ticks)

Chileka: My father always came up with numerous accusations. He spoke in a
cynical manner, always finding fault in my mother. Sometimes I wondered whether
whenever he was quiet he was not actually scripting, rehearsing the next episode
on how to hurt my mother.

That day she decided not to argue any more, thus saving herself a blow. Other
times she would argue and it would always end up in physical violence. But that
day she only sat near the fire burner sobbing till late in the night.

I always wondered what brought them together. They seemed miles apart. Was it a
forced marriage? Their marriage was one big lie, yet they continued to stay
together â€" torturing each other. Why could they not just go their separate
ways. Society abhorred divorce. It expected women to persevere even in the most
brutal union. My parents marriage was for the society, not for themselves.

Whereas my father used physical violence, my mother always used her tongue. She
would say bad things about my father when she was talking to Aunt Hilda. I
always overheard them, and their talk was always about my father. They normally
sat for long in the kitchen, taking tea and talking â€" unaware that we were
listening. I often heard Aunt Hilda tell mum to leave my father before she was
hurt badly. But she always came up with an excuse to stick around â€" the
children, the image, her parents…
Mother: Imagine me walking away from the marriage. What would people say? My
parents would die out of shock. And what about the congregation in the church,
they would not accept me again.

But Aunt Hilda had done it. True, she was considered loose and immoral. But she
did not care about what others said. My sister always spoke very badly of her.
She said no moral woman should leave her husband to raise four children on her
own. Even the priest in our church said she was not fit for the church. A woman
who leaves her husband was not worthy of the congregation, the priest would say
in reference to Hilda.

I admired Aunt Hilda. She spoke with a forceful voice, unlike my mother's, and
knew exactly what she wanted in life. Her children always seemed happy. She was
never judgemental. When she caught me smoking she simply said she would tell no
one but I should consider whether smoking was really good for me at that age. I
have never smoked again - in my whole life!

My father worked in a distant town, coming home only on weekends. But whenever
he was home, there was always violence. He always seemed ready to make my mother
suffer. We, the children, always longed for him to come home â€" waiting for
Friday nights to hear the sound of his vehicle and to see its lights dancing in
the distance as it approached our rural home.

But always, always, the weekends ended up in misery. The two were simply
incompatible.

(Church Choir singing The Lord's My Shepherd Then fades out)

Chileka: On Sundays, we would all go to the church like one happy family. I
remember that church. It was made of wooden walls and a shiny corrugated iron
sheet roof that shimmered in the sun from afar. It was perched on high ground,
overlooking down on everything else. My father had contributed a huge amount for
its construction. Maybe this is the reason the priest never cautioned him about
his violent behaviour to my mother.

My parents would always pretend that nothing bad had happened the previous day
or even the same morning as we went to church. I remember my father, always
resplendent in a fitting suit and a nice tie. And my mother, I wish you had seen
her. She would wear floral dresses, bright in colour and a headscarf to match.

But the violence would resume once we came out of the church, sometimes even in
the car as we headed home. My father would never leave home for his posting
without a really good fight with my mother. Were other families the same, I
would wonder as I sat in the pew with Mario, my primary school-mate. I think I
found solace and comfort in Mario in a certain way I could not explain. He
seemed always happy. In church, we would sometimes giggle and play around,
oblivious of the preacher and those around us. We would sneak out of the church
to play in the compound. Mario always told me his father was God. He did not
know his own father. I sometimes wished my father was God too. At least God
would never hit my mother.

(Shouts of children as they play outside the church)

Chileka: Then one day the worst happened. I remember it vividly as if it was
only yesterday. It was after Christmas Day.

(SLOW, MELANCHOLICAL INSTRUMENTAL TUNE)

My father was home, this time for a longer period, it being the holiday season.
Everything seemed unusually tranquil. He would sit there in the lounge, his feet
on a coffee table. He would lead us in singing Christmas carols, his deep voice
competing against our high-pitched voices. I remember him teaching us a
Christmas song using Mario's guitar for instruments. It was Silent Night.

(THE SONG SILENT NIGHT BEING PLAYED ON A GUITAR AND SHRILLCHILDREN'S VOICES
JOINING IN).

How I loved the song. It was as if I was right there in that city they were
calling Bethlehem. I could almost see and touch the shepherds as they followed
the star. And Joseph and Mary, they seemed so loving to each other. Did they
also fight each other? Would baby Jesus, now in a manger, also grow up in a home
torn by violence like mine?

During that Christmas even my mother seemed happier and radiant as she prepared
chicken and rice. The puffs under her eyes seemed to have faded a bit. Sometimes
my father would dash to the kitchen to steal a piece of chicken from the grill
and the two would chat excitedly. It was as if they had declared an armistice
and a time of healing had began. I had never known such happiness in my life.

But this happy moment was only a lull before a storm.

(A PAUSE THEN THE MELANCHOLICAL TUNE)

The volcano erupted on Boxing Day, the day that my father was set to leave home.

That day they quarrelled and fought like wild cats. The fight started after my
father saw ticks on one of our cows. My dad had a passion for the animals. They
were supposed to be sprayed against ticks every week by our worker, Chifuma.

My father came back to the house fuming. My mother had just come from the
bathroom with a smile on her face, probably expecting another nice day. I saw
the smile freeze on her face.

It was the worst fight that I can remember in my life.

Father: (SHOUTING) Joyce, why are these cows full of ticks. I always leave
behind money for the spray chemicals yet when I come home I find nothing has
been done. What is your work in this home. You expect me to be at work hundreds
of kilometres away, toiling for you and your children, and yet you cannot make
sure that the homestead is run well. You just sit there like a bag of potatoes.

Mother: Why must you always pick on me and accuse and abuse me in this manner.
Chifuma sprayed the cattle exactly a week ago. The animals can pick fresh ticks
from anywhere. You can ask Chifuma.

Father: Ask Chifuma? While you sit there the whole day doing nothing? Look at
Susan, she is running her home very well. If you go to her home you find that
things are running. Her animals are kept well, her garden is blossoming, her
home is neat, she cooks appetising food. If you cannot run this homestead, I can
bring Susan to stay here and manage the farm.

Chileka: Susan was the single mother who my father had sold a piece of our land
to. My father said that he had sold it to her, but my mother always suspected
that my father had given it to her for free. In fact, my mother suspected that
my father was having an affair with her. Although Susan's house was not far
from ours, none of the women visited or talked to each other.

My mother has a strong intuitive mind. I sometimes wondered whether she was
psychic like Madame Hola Hola, that mystical lady in my comic strip book. Or
maybe she was just good at putting two and two together to make four. My father
would go to Susan's home often, claiming that he was pursuing the balance of
the land payments. My mother never talked about it to us, but I overhead her
often tell of her suspicions to Aunt Hilda.

Immediately my father mentioned her my mother erupted.

Mother: Yes, I have always known it. That is why you see fault in everything I
do. It is that woman Susan, your mistress. She has poisoned your mind. When you
come home you always go to see her. You think that I have not noticed that there
always assortments of household goods in the car before you go to her and when
you come back they are not there!

Chileka: My father replied in the best way he knew â€" violence!

(SOUND OF A SLAP THEN SILENCE)

Chileka: The slap was like a thunderclap. Then my father followed it with more
slaps and blows.

(Sounds of slaps, shrieks and screams) You are lazy and good for nothing. You
have now the audacity to question my integrity. After all, any man worth his
salt would admire Susan, not you.

Chileka: And I remember the fall. It was the most horrible and frightening
thing.

(SOUND OF A PERSON FALLING AGAINST A TABLE AND UTENSILS TUMBLING DOWN).