Those of us who stand outside the circle of this society’s definition of acceptable women; those of us who have been forged in the crucibles of difference – those of us who are poor, who are lesbians, who are Black, who are older – know that survival is not an academic skill.
-Audre Lorde, The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House
how do you put yourself out
when you are a fire that needs to
keep burning
to make it through the next day, and the next;
but you are dying of self-immolation
although these are questions i have fielded several times, these final months, i have been asked about my time here: how are you doing?
when i am not lying, i mention the loneliness
[but not the sleeplessness then the long periods of sleep, not the skipped meals, skipped showers, skipped classes, skipped appointments, skipped pills, skipped]
and then they say, well at least you will be done soon, then you can leave that place.
lately, i have been trying to find ways to articulate that as crippled as i am here, it is preferable to the desperation that made me leave to begin with.
the children showed up
and the government felt so threatened
that it showed up, too, with helmets
and rungus and tear gas.
and then your eight-year-old was in prison,
your ten-year-old was in hospital
and you still do not know where your seven-year-old neighbour is.
how dare you allow your child to defend her humanity,
the president challenges you,
as if she came home last week with a permission slip you had to sign.
as if she doesn’t know for herself the difference between good and this fresh hell.
but the children keep coming,
their parents are holding their hands now
and the president, behind his beautiful doors
behind his beautiful walls behind his
beautiful security
[remember, security starts with you]
he smiles,
because he owns all the milk that the people will use to wash the teargas out of their eyes.
Nairobi, December 9th, 2014
A second woman has filed a complaint with the police against Standard Group columnist and PEN Kenya Secretary Tony Mochama for alleged sexual assault. The victim requested identity protection, as is her right under the law, and details of the alleged assault will remain confidential as police investigate. Mr Mochama is currently under police investigation for an alleged indecent act against author Shailja Patel at a lunchtime meeting of poets on September 20th. The purpose of the meeting was to introduce Kenyan poets to the founder of the Africa Poetry Book Fund, Kwame Dawes and other US poets visiting Kenya for the Storymoja Hay Festival, and for Kenyan poets to learn about the work of the Africa Poetry Book Fund.
Police are urging any other victims of alleged assault or alleged indecent acts by Mr Mochama to also report to police stations in the jurisdictions where the crimes may have occurred. There is no statute of limitations on crimes under the Sexual Offenses Act.
Witnesses in the case have reported threats by Mr Mochama to sue them for defamation. Witnesses have also reported harassment by writer Binyavanga Wainaina. Police assured all witnesses in Ms Patel’s case that Mr Mochama’s threats have no basis in law as long as witnesses are simply reporting truthfully what they saw and heard. Police warned Mr Mochama and Mr Wainaina that witness-tampering is a criminal offense. Police urged witnesses to report harassment and threats to the police stations in the jurisdictions where they occurred.
Wangechi Wachira, Executive Director of CREAW (Centre for Rights, Education and Awareness) said: “It is unfortunate that Mr. Mochama, while loudly protesting his innocence in the media, is actively attempting to subvert the course of justice and impede the due process of the law. It is the duty of every citizen to cooperate with our criminal justice system until justice is not only done but seen to be done.”
Issued by:
Contact:
Wangechi Wachira
Executive Director
Centre for Rights, Education and Awareness (CREAW)
Cell. 254722314789
wangechi@creaw.org
“Every woman I have ever loved has left her print upon me, where I loved some invaluable piece of myself apart from me — so different that I had to stretch and grow in order to recognize her. And in that growing, we came to separation, that place where work begins. Another meeting.”
— Audre Lorde, Zami: Sister Outsider
did they tell you about the dead little girl?
she lived with her family in kisii. she was four years old.
did you hear about anita osebe moi?
she died from acute heart failure. her four-year-old heart.
but do you know what he did to her?
her heart failed because he raped her. he killed her. he sunk her body with a rock. he was there when they found her body. he was there when they took her body home. he was there, and then he wasn’t. he’s gone.
did you hear her parents screams making their way across the country?
you probably did. you hear them every day. but they sound so much like the wind, or the wind sounds so much like them, and isn’t it easy to ignore the wind?
so, did they tell you about the dead little girl?
maybe they didn’t, but there are so many dead and dying little girls around you, you can’t remember. which one was she? did they tell you, did they need to?
did you hear about anita osebe moi?
she was four years old. she could have been five years old. she could have been ten, or two, or fourteen. she lived in kisii. she could have lived in watamu, or in that town whose name you only learn because a bad thing happened in it, or across the street, or kakamega, or that town in which bad things happen, but not bad enough to make the news. she could have been your your son’s classmate, or the girl you saw holding her mother’s hand in town.
but do you know what he did to her?
you don’t need to hear what he did. you don’t need to hear because you know what men have been doing to women and girls in this country for years and years and years. you do not remember a time when men have not been doing these things to women. you know, and still you want us to tell you exactly what they have done, where they have touched us, where they have hurt us. you know, and still you want us to explain ourselves into graves that have already been dug for us. you know, and still you demand we report it to a system even you don’t believe in. you know and still you act like we are the ones hurting ourselves. we do not need to tell you what he did to her.
did you hear her parents screams making their way across the country?
of course you did. of course you did.
they sounded like a million losses, like many, many shards of pain. i can’t possibly name all the things they sounded like, but of course you heard them. they mingled with the screams from other parents, or from other little girls, or from other women, but of course you heard them.
did they tell you about the dead little girl?
did you hear about anita osebe moi?
do you know what he did to her?
did you hear her parents scream?
it’s time you listened. we are not the damn wind.
ku[to]starehe 