They Rape You Because They Fear You

A teenage girl is jogging in her neighbourhood. A car starts following her. The car is full of boys. This is not the beginning of some day-time movie. This is something that happened just a few days ago.

Teenage jogger

How do you suppose that scenario turned out? If it was a movie, it wouldn’t be pretty. In regular life, the girl probably got intimidated and stopped jogging, which messes her health routine, and does a lot of damage to her mind. Those boys may not have said a word, or even laid a hand on her, but can you imagine what was going through her head, and what those thoughts are still doing to her? Now, reverse the roles for a second. Imagine it was a (teenage) guy jogging, and being followed around by a car full of girls. I doubt he’d be unhappy about it, let alone traumatised …

I’m not a bra-burning feminist. I quite like my bras actually. They’re comfy and fluffy and just a tad pricey. That said, I’m the single mother of a feisty, gorgeous, pre-teenage baby girl. I also live in hoodies and jeans, and wear my hair in short purple dreadlocks, so women’s lib comes up around me a lot. Plus, I have first hand experience with rape, so it’s a big issue for me.

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#RaphLove: The Definition of Trespass

Credit: #KOT

I’m sure by now, you’ve all heard the nasty stories about this blog’s good friend Rapho aka Tuju aka Raph Lover.

The short version of it is that Ogunda(this guy who got booted from the police for somehow money laundering) found his way into Raph Lover’s house wife which led to Raph filing for divorce. Around the same time, Ogunda also started filing for divorce from his wife as well. Anyway, after a few more back and forths in court for Raph Lover and Ogunda, Ogunda was found dead one morning in Raph Lover’s house.

When asked what he thought of the situation, Raph responded by saying:

“There was an existing court order that barred him (Mr Ogunda) from going to any of my premises and it’s unfortunate his death occurred at my premises.”

That’s just gangsta. The guy that was ploughing your wife just died in your house in an obvious murder and your reaction is the legalese version of “Well, that negro shouldna been there in the first place, let alone die there.” Continue reading

That Ain’t Yo Man, Woman!


Every few months I come across this exact scenario.

A gorgeous, brilliant, awe-inspiring, jaw-dropping woman will walk her weepy self into a group of “close friends” and share her woes. It’s always something to do with this man she perceives as perfect. Being the skeptic I am, it usually takes me all of 23 seconds to immediately realize this guy is scum. Anyhow, she goes on dreaming about said perfect person until she gets to this line:

“…but he’s in a relationship.”

And then the weeping continues. Continue reading

The Gospel Of My Delusion

Feminism. Bemused. Insomnia.

In that particular order, the three words with which I have suffered the longest love-hate relationships. Today I’ll focus on the first, and I’ll get right into it by admitting that there was a time when I couldn’t be convinced to touch it. No. Not with a seventy-foot long bargepole. Not if it had just stepped out of the most expensive autoclave. Not, even, if it participated in scientific research and won the Nobel Prize three times in a row. A friend made me promise, some time back, that I would never allow myself to ‘get into that feminism crap’ [sic]. Howbeit, the days go by. They do, really. I must now go back on my word because I’ve gotten to that point where I can only afford to keep the promises I made to people that have since passed on. (John1, you should not be reading this, but if you happen to, I would like to say I’m sorry. I’m just trying to be my own person now. Honest. I hope you understand. Friends?)

Nowadays, days, I’m attempting to figure out why a piece of me has always been wary of feminism. Except it is taking much longer than I anticipated, and though I should like to spare no costs in finding the underlying cause of this mistrust, I am unwilling to consider psychoanalysis. Alas, I distrust Freud more than I could ever distrust anyone or anything else. However, I will let him be. It is far too early in the year to digress.


In the heart that beats within my heart, I know what feminism is [supposed to be] about. Continue reading

On Having Our Cake & Failing To Eat It

The protagonist that returns after an incredibly astonishing and enlightening stint in some outside country to find that many of his ways and means are irreconcilable with those in his homeland is a staple in African lit. Almost every writer that belongs to the venerable Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o-esque guard has had something to say about this character.

I recently bumped into one such protagonist.

Yes, in real life.

He’d been back for about two years when our paths re-crossed. We were in the same class at some point but never really had much of a relationship. Let’s just say he was a gregarious and charismatic mixer—one of those born-to-mesmerize types—and I was, well, I was one of those insufferable and shrinkable low-growing Violas. Continue reading