African Gay Experiences

Sadly, I have to part ways with Dr Mureithi at Jan Smuts Airport
in Jorburg, that is what they call Johannesburg in short.
We are supposed to catch different flights to D.H. Malan
Airport in Cape Town.

On Monday, the workshop starts with earnest. We are divided
into two groups â€" the youth and the â€adults†for some discussion.
I want to join the adult group since Dr Mureithi is there,
but they chase me away light-heartedly, saying that I have
come to spy on their discussions so that I can leak the information
to the youth. Dr Mureithi has very nice arguments and I would
have liked to sit and discuss with the group. He seems to
understand that everyone has a unique identity and that
there are sexual maps that people belong to. These are some
of the things that we discussed in the plane. 'There is a
lot of hypocrisy in Africa and other parts of the world.
People do not want to admit that homosexuality exists,
that their brothers, sons and fathers may be gay. This is
why many gay men still marry in order to portray a false facade, â€
he told me.

On Friday, the organisers indicate that the youth group
will visit Gugu Letu. This is a rough neighbourhood, a violent
slum, we are told and nobody should dare move alone.

Our host is going to be Mafeking, a black man, who is organising
residents in the slum to make their lives better. The Gugu
Letu Community (GLC) is organising seminars on HIV/AIDS
and offering micro credit facilities, we are told. Mafeking
is the Secretary of the group.

Mafeking is a tall man who walks with a limp. One of his legs
is shorter than the other. We become instant friends. Maybe
I just admire people with great arguments, such as Dr Mureithi,
and now Mafeking. After the tours of the projects run by
GLC, Mafeking takes all of us to a Shebeen. This is a place
where local beer is sold. He would like us to see the wild
side of life. He assures us that we are very safe. At first,
Mrs Milligan, our tour matron is against the idea. But she
has known Mafeking for long. Mafeking is the king of the
slum and nobody would dare harm his charges. He even wears
a thick golden chain, but nobody would dare grab it, something
that happens every day to other people in the streets of
Gugu Letu every time, before you can say Halleluja!.

Mrs Milligan refuses to accompany us all the same. She seems
like a high-class sort, with her pointed nose and sharp-heeled
shoes that go plater, plater, as she walks. I suspect she
suffers from panic attacks. When things go wrong, she gets
very jittery. For instance, when Moses â€" one of the youths
â€" went missing on our second day here she was biting her fingers
and walking up and down muttering to herself. He had only
walked down to the candy shop at Alfred and Victoria Waterways
area for a few minutes and could not understand what all
the fuss was about.

At the Shebeen, patrons are bemused to see us there. I guess
they think that we are some sort of classy folks, like Mrs
Milligan, and that we are out of place. But they welcome
us heartily all the same. One old man, his hair white like
snow flakes, is particularly happy to welcome us. Mafeking
tells us about his exploits as a fighter for the African
National Congress (ANC), now the ruling party of South
Africa. This is the party that ushered Nelson Mandela to
power after long detention in Robin Island. 'I have talked
to Mandela many times, †he says excitedly like a small
child. He keeps a picture of the younger Mandela, when he
was a boxer, in his thick wallet. But when I ask him what happened
to his leg he goes mum. Maybe he has a troubling story that
he keeps to his heart. When I ask him about family he goes
mum again. I am learning to tread carefully in order not
to upset him.

Then just as we are chatting excitedly, after Mafeking
has recovered from his 'mum†moments, enters a young man
in the Shebeen. I am awestruck! He wears very tight blue
jeans and a sleeveless top that only reaches his belly button,
thus exposing his firm stomach. He is rather thin, but this
complements his cherubic features. The locals are shouting
at him excitedly in a language I cannot understand.

He seems to be very popular here. Eventually, he comes to
where Mafeking is seated with us. Mafeking introduces
him to us and as he greets us I have a feeling that his hand
lingers long on mine. I am no longer interested in Mafeking
and his anti-apartheid stories. His name happens to be Kiddo â€" what a sweet
name!

Now my mind is fixed on Kiddo. Everyone seems excited at calling his name.
Kiddo sits right next to me, squeezing his body against
mine. I chart with him, oblivious of everyone else. Kiddo
has an infectious lopsided smile. When he smiles, I also
smile, as if I am a mirror of him. His hair is neatly done in
plaits, cornrows that run down his head.

'I would like to take you to our cinema. Would you like to
come?†Kiddo asks me after some time at the Shebeen. I say
yes. Who would say no? Kiddo asks Mafeking whether he can
take me away. Mafeking says NO.

Earlier on, Mafeking had asked me whether I wanted to go
to a football match, and then spend the night at his place.
'But your place will be crowded. What about your wife and
children?†I had enquired, bringing in again the subject
that Mafeking does not like. 'I have no wife or children, â€
he gruffly had said to me.

'He is my charge and I have to ensure his safety, †he says
to Kiddo. Now I am pleading with Mafeking, 'please, allow
Kiddo to show me the cinema.†At last Mafeking succumbs.
It is getting late and if I have to go to the cinema then I have
to spend the night with Kiddo as I can not make it back to the
hotel where we are staying. Kiddo is telling Mafeking that
he will take good care of me. 'But I thought that you were
interested in the football match?†Mafeking asks me. I
was, but that was before the entry of Kiddo.

'You take care of him and make sure he is up by 8 a.m. so that
I can take him back to his hotel, otherwise Mrs Milligan
will fret the whole day. Do not take him to any dangerous
place†Mafeking says, though I can it clearly that he does
not like me to go with Kiddo.

The cinema hall turns out to be a big, darkened room with
a huge TV screen. We sit at the back and Kiddo immediately
puts his arm around me. We are not interested in the thriller
showing on the screen. 'I just wanted to be with you, †he
says. His lips lock on mine and we engage in a long kiss. I
can feel his hand under my shirt, stroking my long nipples.
My nipples are very sensitive. The reason why I never learnt
to swim was because of the nipples. As a child, other children
would taunt me, pulling at my nipples, whenever I removed
my shirt. For me, there is nothing greater than the hand
of another man exploring my chest, stroking gently my nipples!

My hand falls on the hard bulge on his trousers. 'Lets go, â€
he says suddenly and stands up. I do not care where we are
going, am ready for anything. We emerge from the room into
the sunshine holding hands. As we move along, Kiddo stops
at a kiosk to buy chips, which we munch on the streets as we
move. About a kilometre later we arrive at a row of dilapidated
shacks. Kiddo proceeds to one of the rooms, secured with
a huge padlock. 'This is my place, †he tells me. This is
a pathetic neighbourhood, but as long as I am with Kiddo
I do not care!

Inside the room is a large, unmade bed. Scattered clothes
litter the floor. On one side stands a basin and a bucket
of water. Kiddo throws me on the bed and starts to undress
me until I am only in my boxer shorts. He holds my hard organ
through the soft fabric of the shorts, fondling me with
increasing pressure. He then pulls the boxer shorts off,
exposing my throbbing organ. Soon I am also undressing
Kiddo, staring with his flimsy top, then his jeans. I then
pull of his pants and plant my mouth on his dick, sucking
the tip in slow round motions while stroking his tender
balls. We kiss passionately, kneading each other. We have
the most explosive sex. Later, as we lie in bed, exhausted
but stroking each other's bodies, I ask Kiddo about a long
scar that runs across his stomach.

'I was knifed, †he tells me. Kiddo works at the minibus
ranks, the so-called taxis, where rivalry is great in the
lucrative public transport business. Sometimes, rival
minibus operators fight each other violently, using guns,
knives, axes and every weapon available. I feel sad about
this. Why is life so cruel? Why should Kiddo be subjected
to such a life at only 19? He dropped out of school at second
grade and since then life has been one big struggle. But
he is ever cheerful. The only parent he has ever known, his
mother, died too poor in a council clinic after battling
Malaria for three days.

He has been arrested several times and has even served a
six-month jail term. I know that rapes in South African
jails are endemic. But I do not want to ask him whether he
was raped, this will only make me sadder if the answer is
yes.

The next day, we get up at around 9.00 a.m. after hours of
kissing and fondling. When we open the door, Mafeking is
standing outside, his shorter leg placed on a raised culvert.
Let's go, he says curtly. How long has been standing outside
here, since 8.00? I wonder. Why is he so moody? Why didn't
he knock? Is he jealous that Kiddo has spent the night with
me? Could he also be gay, a jealous gay who I shunned for Kiddo?

One Month later:
I am back at my father's imposing bungalow in Oyster Bay
in Tanzania. The song Soweto plays in a low volume from my
stereo in my bedroom. Kiddo took my address and promised
to contact me every week. I have not seen a single letter
or email. He does not have addresses of his own, so I cannot
contact him, I have to sit and wait. Could he have been arrested
again, could he be lying in a ditch with his throat sliced
by some maniac rival taxi operator? What could have happened
to the young man, Kiddo, who gave me a taste of Eden in a shack?
If he does not contact me, maybe one day I will revisit Gugu
Letu - not to see Mafeking and his ANC stories, but in search
of my angel, the cherubic Kiddo!

Ends
Caleb Muchungu is a gay journalist living in southern Africa.