African Gay Experiences

My mother fell down, pushed by a blow. She hit her head against a table sending
it tumbling down. Blood oozed from the back of her head, from a deep gash. Then
my Father jumped into his car, revving it like mad and zoomed off at break-neck
speed.

My mother remained prostrate for about 30 minutes as we cried around her. We
thought she was dead.

That is the last time I saw my father.

(THE SONG THIS WORLD IS NOT MY HOME. THEN FADE OUT AND THE VOICE OF A PREACHER)
Preacher: Here lies a man of great integrity. A loving husband and father.
Joyce, we know how saddening it is that your loving companion is now no longer
with us. But remember that the good work he did, including the love he had for
you and the children, will always be remembered.

(CONTINUATION OF THE SONG THIS WORLD IS NOT MY HOME AND THEN FADE OUT)

Chileka: They buried him on a Saturday. We were all there, my mother with her
black eyes and a black scarf to cover the gash on her head.

His car had hit a tree at high speed. The driver of the truck he was trying to
overtake had recalled a very fast moving car emerging from behind, overtaking
and then realising there was an oncoming bus. My father had swerved but ended up
hitting the giant tree.

Preacher: And as we bid our final farewell to this great man, let as all emulate
his life. Let us all be great pillars to our families as this man did…

Chileka: That was the last time I set foot in church. My mother always confided
in the preacher and he must have known what was going on but he did nothing to
try stop the violence. But it no longer mattered. Him and all those people
seated there in the pews, looking very holy, maybe they were all wife beaters.
Maybe their homes were just like mine, but pretended to be happy â€" always
singing joyfully.

I hated society, with its faces in the sand, living a life of hypocrisy, wearing
Sunday faces while under the carpet was all the dirt you can ever imagine.

(PAUSE)

It is the same here in Palemba Prison. Hypocrisy! How ironic? They put me inside
here for kissing another man. But I wish you saw the things that go on in this
prison. Men have sex with men, yet they do not want to admit their orientation.
Some use the excuse that they are meting out punishment, not sexual
gratification, others use the excuse of not having a woman.

Hypocrites!

The prison authorities will not admit that same sex activities occur every day
and night. Some are consensual. Others are forced. Younger inmates are forced
into sex by offer of food or by use of physical violence. Some group has been
trying to persuade the prison authorities to issue condoms to prisoners. They
will not hear of it.

This place is the factory of HIV and AIDS, I can tell you this with confidence.
After six month in the prison I have seen it all. Tom came in as a fresh faced
18 year old, after being arrested in a mass swoop in the city. His crime?
Loitering in the streets.

He is sexually abused every day. I remember his screams the first day. Today he
is too spent to scream. Then there was Alex. Yes, Alex at only 18. He is now in
hospital with some ruptured parts of the body. Alex was pushed to the hardcore
cell, the one they call Condemned, by a warder who was paid by the inmates to
bring in fresh flesh. The next day he was found unconscious, sexually abused so
badly that the doctors thought he would not live.

Many people come here without HIV. They leave with the bug in their bodies or
die of AIDS right here in prison. That is what happened to Thomas, the longest
serving prisoner. When he came here he was sexually abused, then became the
abuser. We saw him succumb to TB, an AIDS related disease. He wasted so much
till one day they wrapped him in a blanket and took him to the morgue.

Then there is Enock. No, Enock is not in Palemba Prison. He is not even in any
jail. He is another example of the hypocrisy of our society.

He was my roommate in the halls of residence at the University of Palemba. We
partied and binged drunk all over town whenever we got our allowances.

(NOISY youthful PARTY with fast paced GHETTO rap musicthen fade out)

Enock was my lover. He is the first man that I had a real affair with. Some
students knew of our relationship. Most took it very badly. A few did not care.

But he had to marry a woman after college in order to create a facade that he is
straight, that he is not abnormal as they call people like me. He told me one
evening that his parents and relatives were pushing him to marry, so he had
conceded.

Again, hypocrisy of the society.

I fear for his wife, Jennifer. She must be at a great risk of contracting a
sexually transmitted infection, including HIV. Enock has many one-night stands
with young men and I am almost sure that he does not use any protection because
of the urgency of his activities.

Is this not sheer hypocrisy to marriage, to a woman that he does not love? How
many other Enocks are there in this continent, dashing away from their wives to
seek other men whenever opportunity arises yet pretending to enjoy the company
of their female partners simply to satisfy the ego of the society. No
organisation has even an intervention programme on HIV/AIDS on people like I and
Enock in this country.

Then there is my sister. She claims to be pious and religious. That is why she
has never come to see me in prison. She says I am tainted and I have shamed the
family. She says that I will go straight to hell. But the things she does! If
this is what religion is all about, then let me live without it.

(IMITATING THE VOICE OF A WOMAN)
Hello Laban. I have come about that deal. The City Council is about to announce
the allocations of its low cost houses and you must do something now otherwise
it will be too late. You said 50,000 but I have 49,000. I failed to raise the
extra 1,000.

Chileka: That is how she got the council house. Laban was the chief housing
officer. She bribed him so that she could get a council house meant for the
urban poor. Laban struck off the name of a deserving applicant so that my sister
could get yet another house, bringing her total houses in the city to three.

That is not all. When her son failed his Fourth Form examinations, she rushed
straight to the examination council and came out with a fake certificate after
bribing the clerks. It showed that her son had passed with distinctions.

That is my sister! The pious and religious woman!

This is why I like Katili. He is somehow like me. He has experienced the
hypocrisy of society. Katili was a well to do man one time. He had a public
transport minibus that brought him lots f money every day. His relatives and
friends worshipped him, praising him and inviting him for all their functions.
They would invite him to every fundraising event, where he would be feted with
adoring words and where he would contribute generously.

Then one day his minibus crashed and his fortune came to an end. As he ran out
of money, relatives and friends melted way, avoiding Katili like he was a leper.
Yesterday Katili poured his heart to me. He told me how he was kicked out of his
rental house for non-payment of rent and could not find a place to stay.

Warder: Attention, Attention you cockroaches. Some of you might be lucky
tomorrow, that is if you do not commit any offence in jail between now and then.
As you know, the president releases some of the cockroaches every year at this
time. Some of you may just see your homes. But make sure that you never come
back to Palemba Maximum. If you do, you will die here. Now listen carefully to
the names of those who are to be released………
Madoli Adoli
Joseph Tambo
Malam Rashid
Obi Oboma
Said Mohammed
Katili Mwendwa………….

(WARDER VOICE FADES OUT)

Chileka: Yes, I knew my name would not be there. I am the scum of the scum or so
they say. The prison authorities never submitted my name for pardon. Most likely
I will spend my entire sentence in Palemba.

But I am happy that Katili is going home. What kind of reception will he get
from the society out there? Jailbird!, convict!, pauper! Most likely they will
spit at him â€" forgetting that their own closets are full of skeletons.
Hypocrites who pretend to be loving husbands and wives yet lead violent and
adulterous lives, hypocrites who bribe and steal from public coffers yet troop
to places of worship….. Hypocrites who only see the mote in other people's
eyes, but not the logs in their own eyes.

Faces in the sand indeed.

CLOSING TUNE

ends
Eden in a Shack by Caleb Muchungu

A wave of sweltering heat of Dar â€"es- Salaam city, in Tanzania in East Africa,
sweeps past me as the car door is swung open. Rashid, the taxi driver who picked
me from my family's Oyster Bay Beach home, lifts up his bags from the boot of
the car. Here, humid heat temperatures can go up to 35 degrees. The moisture in
the air tends to make your clothes stick to you, making it rather uncomfortable.
Even worse is that the streets
of Dar are highly congested with vehicular traffic, bicycles, handcarts and a
mass of humanity that seems to float on all sides of the pavements like rivers.
Soon, in relief, I am in the drab looking airport lounge of Kilimanjaro
International Airport. Though nondescript, it has at least some air conditioning
and I can sit down in comfort without jostling with people in the streets.

I am too early at the airport, something that I always like,
especially now that it takes very long to get past security
checks because of fears of terrorism. But even though it
is important for me to check in early, long hours in airport
lounges are always a bore. I move to the magazine rack outside
a kiosk, but there is nothing interesting. It is too early
to settle at the bar counter for a beer, I say to myself, though
some middle aged protuberant Tanzanians â€" most likely
rich politicians â€" are perched on the stools taking Kilimanjaro
lagers and smoking some expensive imported cigarettes.
I choose to settle for a bugger and a coke. The burger tastes
stale!

I am soon airborne on a Royal Swazi Airlines plane. I am heading
for Cape Town in South Africa, where I am supposed to represent
my youth club in a youth workshop on HIV/AIDS. The youth
club is an interesting place not only because of the activities
that we carry on there, but also because of the interesting
youth that I have met. As I lean on the window, enjoying the
view below, I think about Sata. Is he gay? Sata is from Sychelles,
that idealistic island in the Indian Ocean, but his parents,
like mine, work in Tanzania.

I have only been a member of the youth club, which is run by
a non-governmental organisation, for four months. I was
chosen to represent the club since I am the only one who can
communicate effectively in English. Most of the youth
here are Tanzanians and communication in English for them
is a problem. Years of Ujamaa (brotherhood) system of governance
(they called it philosophy) by the first president of the
republic, Julius Kambarage Nyerere, neglected English,
opting for Kiwahili instead. But this has put Tanzanians
at a disadvantage in world affairs.

Sata is the first youth that I talked to when I ventured to
the club, drawn in from the road by blaring music and the
huge signboard declaring Kituo cha Vijana (Kiswahili
for centre for youth). I had stood at the door, looking lost
as the youths seated in the room, engaged in different activities,
stared at me. Then Sata had waved to me to join him. His cute
face had struck me like a thunderbolt. His long curly hair
fell in strands in front of his face and his complexion was
flawless. He was seated with two other young men, but I was
not bothered with looking at them. As if I was a familiar
figure he had said: 'come, join us for a game.†The three
were playing card games and to accommodate me they started
a new game. Whenever I made a good move, Sata would pat me
on the thigh. Sometimes he would place his hand on my shoulder
as he peered at the others placing their cards on the table.

It was only at the end of the game that Sata had sought introductions.
In turn, he had introduced me to everyone in the room as his
'friend.†He had then ushered me to a back office where I
had been registered as a member, after filling in a long
form spelling out rules and regulations of the club. From
that day I had attended the club religiously, every day
arriving with the expectation of seeing Sata.

Now, as I sit in the plane, looking down on a meandering river
in the ground as the plane gains height, I cannot help but
remember December. Yes, December. That is the month that
I really came close to kissing Sata. The Christmas festivities
air was lingering and everyone seemed in great spirits
â€" from the fishmonger in Kinondoni to the choir- master
at the St Mark Church.

The club had organised a nature trail walk for us in some
beautiful gardens. As we were descending from a leafy hill,
a tiny insect had entered my eye, forcing me to stop as I furiously
rubbed my eye. 'Do not do that!†Sata had warned, examining
my eye as the last three people in the group passed past us.
'Don't flinch, †Sata had told me, as he held apart my lower
and upper eyelids. 'I can see the offending insect. I will
remove it for you, †he had said softly. Then the unexpected
had happened.

He had pushed his face on mine and gently, with his tongue,
removed the insect from my eye. He had then held it at the
tip of his finger, showing it to me, 'there, that is the animal
that was eating your eye.†He had then examined my eye, bringing
his face close to mine as if peeping through a microscope,
to see that his handiwork was done well. He had gazed at me,
as if saying 'what are you waiting for, why don't you kiss
me?†But, I did not do it. Then, as if to justify what he had
done, Sata had said, 'my grandmother taught me how to do
that.â€

Quick reasoning had made me not do it â€" kiss him. What if he
reacted differently? What if he shouted and the others
came bearing down on me? But I could not stop wondering,
was I wasting a golden chance? Maybe he was also in a dilemma,
how to approach me. But in a homophobic society I had to be
careful. In Tanzania, like many African countries, homosexuality
is frowned upon, though it takes place daily. Gay people
have to pretend that they are heterosexual for the benefit
of society.

'Ladies and gentlemen we are soon going to land in Manzini,
Swaziland. Passengers connecting to Johannesburg should
remain in the airport lounge….†The voice of the flight
attendant draws me from my thoughts. Swaziland is one of
the smallest countries in Africa, surrounded on all sides
by South Africa. I am wondering whether from the air it would
be possible to see all its borders if they were marked, given
its tiny size. But it is not the size of the kingdom that has
captured world attention. Rather it is its king, Mswati
111, who every year picks a virgin from a reed dance as his
wife, who has made the tiny monarchy known.

Only yesterday I was listening over the BBC that he has picked
up a 18 year old, Xolile Magagola, to be his 17th wife. The
king, 34, has spent huge amounts of money refurbishing
palaces for his wives and 24 children, the BBC announcer
said. In fact, the BBC reports that he has spent over $ 16
Million (100 million Emalangeni) on the palaces.

But soon I will be in the land of Nelson Mandela, he who is
revered all over the world. So for a moment I forget about
Mswati and his wives.

It is at Manzini airport that I meet Dr Mureithi. He is going
to the same conference, though of course not under the youth
category. The mature adults will in most cases offer their
experiences to us 'dotting young ones.â€

Dr Mureithi is a nice old professor. He speaks with a heavy
Kikuyu accent, his mother tongue from the highlands of
Kiambu in Kenya, stressing every word as if he is slowly
reading from a radio script.

He worked with my father at the University of Nairobi's
Sociology Department. That was before my father landed
a lucrative three-year contract to work in Dar for a non-governmental
demographic research organisation. But my father has
always remained a lecturer â€" in mind. I guess if the contract
was not so lucrative, he would have opted to remain in the
lecture room, molding young minds - as he always called
it. I have always pitied my father. He wanted me to be an academician
like him. So he was very disappointed when I could not achieve
the grades to make it to university. He had been more devastated
when I had come home spotting earrings and informing him
my dream in life was to be a rap musician.

He would have wanted, I imagined, a son spotting heavy rimmed
glasses, in a tuxedo suit, stooping behind a stack of books
researching one thing or another about Max Webber's ideal
type! Yet, he is still proud of me â€" parading me before visitors
at home whenever they come knocking. I guess he still smacks
from the outdated notion that to have a son is the greatest
blessing in life. This is so because I am the only son in the
family. When I told him I had been selected to attend the
conference he was overjoyed. Maybe the invitation acted
as a redeeming factor â€" that maybe after all I was not such
a dunderhead! On the eve of my departure he invited a horde
of his friends to our home to bade me farewell, yet I was only
going for a week, and summoned Rashid the taxi driver to
make sure he picked me at the house the next day to the airport.