This post is un-African

Source: Masterfile.com

 

While I was away someone invented the afronometer and put mostly men in charge of it. And there is one peculiar thing about the afronometer: when it comes to making progress towards treating women with dignity and allowing them to exercise rights that were previously denied, it is rarely ever on the women’s side.

I have met with the afronometer when someone is arguing about the un-'Africanness' of gay rights, which is another debate altogether. Most times the afronometer is thrust forcefully upon me during discourse about why some things about the way women are treated need to change. As soon as I open my mouth to make a case for progress, someone somewhere, usually a man, blurts out: But that is so un-African!

Source: Africanholocaust.com

So I was not surprised to read an article on the Marriage Bill where a lawyer from the East Africa Law Society, no less, was quoted as having said that lawyers needed to advise Members of Parliament against the Bill because it is, wait for it, un-African. Never mind that he did not explain what was so un-African about it, or perhaps the reporter was only too happy to have gotten the perfect quote out of him, that he did not bother to put him to task to explain what about the Bill fails to measure up to the African standard. Other leaders, among them Kakamega senator Bonny Khalwale called on parliament to africanise the Bill.

What is African? How African are the clothes that you wear, the products that you use, your education, your religion,  your gods and so forth? If you were to examine every little thing about your life and culture, how much African would your afronometer find in it, or is 'Africanness' the convenient card we pull out to stand in the way of change that our minds have refused to process? A lot has changed since the origin of the African man.

Source: Superstock.com

We have adopted some cultures and assimilated them into ours, discarded some and retained others, and by so doing we have shown that culture is not a static phenomenon. It is dynamic -- constantly changing with the times. We pick some, drop some and get on our way. That is why our views on marriage and the place of men and women in it are being reviewed to be in sync with the realities of this time. In any case, I would say that the Marriage Bill has recognised  what some men would call African culture fully, by officially embracing polygamy. But the clause that would have men’s boxers in a twist is probably the part where they have to get the consent of their first and other wives before bringing in new wives, and other such ‘un-African’ measures, whereas before they could do whatever they pleased without seeking anyone’s consent. The only men who should be running scared about the Marriage Bill are those whose treat women without decency, respect and dignity. Those who have been treating women with dignity, know that the Bill is just a physical reminder of what they have known to be right all along. 

And for those whose argument against the Bill is its 'Africanness' or lack of it: to say that something is un-African is a fallacy. If anyone has a problem with a law, a custom or anything else, he should state why that thing is a problem and argue out his case instead of hiding behind 'Africanness' only when it suits him.

Read a copy of the Marriage Bill, 2013 here, so that you can make an informed and objective contribution to the Legal and Justice Affairs parliamentary committee as it holds it's public hearings on the Bill around the country, this August: http://goo.gl/E6WKGZ

 

The struggle to find a fitting name

                               f -e-l-e-p-i-p-h-a-n-y

I would never marry a man who couldn't get my name right. Instead, I'd dump him in the box of people who contort straightforward names and insist on adding letters to a name that is already complete. Mine is one of those clear-cut names, but like any other, it is often subjected to unnecessary distortion.

I once wanted to change my name. Not to anything simpler, but to something that would get me into heaven.

I must have been about six years old or so, and I had just read one of those doomsday booklets. From the message in that pamphlet, one thing stuck and terrorised my naive brain no end: those whose names were not in the Book of Life were thrown into the flaming fire, and there was weeping and gnashing of teeth.

I already knew that fire was not something you wanted to be immersed in for eternity; and I thought my mum had deliberately set me on the path to hell by choosing to give me a name that was not in the Book of Life (which I assumed was the Bible). Why did my siblings and everyone else in the family, except me, have a name that was in the Book of Life? I had to do something fast before Jesus came back, as then it would be too late to get my name in and I would be thrown into never-ending fiery torment, complete with an ever-present horned devil turning up the coals with his fire fork to keep the heat at its peak.

The knowledge that Jesus was "coming soon", made me even more desperate. However, I couldn't ask my mother for a new name, nor could I change my name behind her back, because as anyone who grew up during my time as a child can attest, an African mother's decision was final and the thought of questioning it was enough to make the contents of my ready-to-leak bladder stream down my trembling legs into an unwelcome puddle.I just had to wait it out, and hope that Jesus delayed the Second Coming, until after I had succeeded in getting myself a name like Mary. Thankfully, age intervened and I discovered that the Bible was not the book in which my name had to be for me to be let through the Pearly Gates.

Nevertheless, even after I figured out that the Book of Life was something other than the Holy Bible, I still flirted with the idea that I could have had a better-sounding, sexier, more glamorous name. But with billions of possible forenames to choose from, I suffered from the paralysis of unlimited choice and I let it go. I have since come to terms with my name and even began to love it.

Going back to my roots

I am a woman of many names - originally named after my aunt and my great aunt before her. Traditionally (among the Kikuyu), children are named after their ancestors according to a laid-down naming system, with little or no alteration. Most of those who had been on earth before me and my peers, and whom we were named after, had unexciting forenames like Loise, Esther, Mary, Naomi, Priscilla, Anne ... but by the time I popped out, my mother's generation was already experimenting with more exotic names like Yvonne (this sounds very plain now), so I did not take my great aunt's full name as was the norm, but it was still mine to have and the really old folks refer to me by her first name, Loise. It was the name on my birth notification, before my mother was hit by a wave of inspiration and found a better name - the name I struggled to love and accept for a better part of my life. I have always loved my middle name, though; I'm convinced that no other name would make a sweeter-sounding replacement. My love for my middle name had my heart racing when I toyed with the idea of dropping my English name so that I could be true to my roots and be fully "African".

I also went through a phase of matching up the names of the guys I was interested in or dating, with mine, to see if they rhymed or went well together when put together. I also checked if the men's names would sound awesome when appended to the names I had in mind for my future children. Then in defiance of tradition, I decided that I did not have to adopt the name of the man I married. If he was too fussy, I would hyphenate it to include his while maintaining my original name in a double barrel that almost worked for everyone. This is also the time when I questioned why men couldn't take their wives' name instead.

I have flirted with changing my name on many occasions, but I didn't and now I'm kinda stuck with it, unless something really drastic happens and I have to change my entire identity. What surprises me is that almost every American celebrity you read or hear about has had their name changed at least once. This is especially true for those in the arts. Most times it is usually because their given names could supposedly not work in the world of the arts where image matters. They needed a more salable name.

I would not trade my name for anything now. I have become accustomed to it, and even like the sound of it, and if a man can't get my simply simple name right, I would probably marry him, but only if there was something funny about the way he couldn't get it right.

One last thing:

Before I was baptised at around age five, I took baptism classes as was the tradition before the all-important Anglican (Christian) ritual could be performed. On the eve of the ceremony, at the rehearsal, a lay leader took us, the baptism candidates, through D-day's programme and demonstrated what would be expected of us. We did some role-playing just to get it right: the lay leader acted as the priest while we responded to his prompts in our capacities as baptism candidates. And so it went:
  
Lay leader:  Mũtungatĩri akoria, "wĩtagwo atĩa?" Nawe ũgacokia [na rĩtwa rĩaku]: "Jĩtagwo Josephat Karũri." 
(The priest will ask your name and you will answer e.g. My name is Josephat Karuri, and the minister will proceed to baptise you with that name that you have proclaimed.)

Having listened carefully, I was picked to go first.

Lay leader: Wĩtagwo atĩa? (What is your name?)

Me: Jĩtagwo Josephat Karũri?
(My name is Josephat Karuri! [said with enthusiasm to an audience which immediately burst into roaring laughter]

Thankfully, I got my name right during the actual baptism, otherwise Josephat Karũri would be part of my already long name.