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Reflections

When the System is Unwell, Everyone Falls Sick

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Counting People in a Broken Health System
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Mwalimu Henry was a respected man of my little village of Genga stuck deep in the valleys of South Nyanza, where the rolling Gusii hills meet the plains that extend from Kanyada to the shores of Lake Victoria. Genga village folk still epitomize the traditional ideal of communality. You are the son of every granny in Genga, each one insists on feeding you if you so much as stray into their homestead.

Mwalimu Henry was a wise fatherly figure with a missionary education teaching background. He was pious, disciplined and a bit of a colonial relic from the good old days when success in life was directly attributed to academic meritocracy. I knew Mwalimu Henry long after his retirement from the civil service back in the 90’s. I literally grew up under his wings and patronage.

Mwalimu Henry earned a reputation as a vocal proponent of education as the primary means of uplifting a community. He was a constant fixture at fundraisers for students joining the university. It did not ever matter whose child it was that needed funding for higher education, or how many times a school was fundraising for one classroom. He believed in the principle of education as a human right for all.

For his zeal, Mwalimu got elected as chairman of the local secondary school, leading the Parents and Teachers’ Association (PTA) and he championed the interests of poor parents of the village.

I remember a fundraising committee meeting I once attended. The child’s mother was dirt poor and could not raise the mere basics for her boy’s upkeep, leave alone school fees after admission into a university in western Kenya.

That afternoon, a huge rainstorm kept members of the committee marooned in their homes, except one. Mwalimu Andrew showed up, saddled up in gumboots and clutching a broken umbrella ravaged by the storm. The chilly conditions began taking a toll on him the very moment he arrived at the venue. His legs were swollen and he could not take the tea offered to wade off the cold. He did not look well.

For all his enthusiasm, the good teacher was just a stubborn invalid who had lived with diabetes since early the 1980s. His resilience had kept him going through the decades. Sometimes he would collapse while walking, fall ill and get bedridden for days but he always bounced back to his feet.

Mwalimu Henry was diagnosed as diabetic only a few years before retirement from the teaching service. I had been accustomed to seeing him on insulin medication literally my whole life. In his house, he maintained a mini-pharmacy of bottles of medicine, tablets, needles, syringes and cotton wool.

Despite his diabetic condition, he always wore a brave face, with intermittent periods in between hospitals and doctors. His adherence to discipline extended to his diabetes medication regimen.

I had checked on him while home in the village in the month of October, 2016 to announce my upcoming graduation. He exuded his usual confidence and we reminisced how far we had come. It was a sunny afternoon and as we posed for pictures, he confided that his immobility was becoming a concern. He could no longer attend meetings and church on Sundays as he grew extremely tired and his legs would swell after a long walk.

“I am not sure if this disease would be merciful enough to let me see you graduate.” I dismissed his concerns.

In November, a month after our talk, I received information that he was not doing well. I was very worried since it coincided with a protracted doctor’s strike that had brought the public health sector down to its knees. This meant that Mwalimu faced the dire prospect of a daily commute to far-flung private hospitals for treatment.

As fate would have it, the medication he badly needed was suddenly unavailable. That meant he had to travel 20 kilometers to Kisii town to see a medic only to find long queues at the District hospital and empty doctor’s parlors. Then he would be forced to try his chances in different Kisii town pharmacies. Too many times, insulin supplements and complementary medication on which he had survived on over the years were not issued and there was no doctor at hand to write a prescription or conduct a clinical examination.

The irony was that a man who had spent his entire life trying to supplement the broken public education system had become a statistic of a dysfunctional public health system. Mwalimu was the unlikely victim of his own generosity.

The long trips and queues at public hospitals in Kisii town became unsustainable. Growing concerned, the community fundraised for Mwalimu Henry to relocate him for medical care in Kisumu in late December 2016, where it would be affordable.

His health deteriorated fast and the intervention to private hospitals was a little too late. The damage had been done in two straight months of a lapsed treatment regime. On January 29, 2017, I received the heartbreaking news of Mwalimu Henry’s death and my disbelief quickly degenerated into bitterness.

A generous man, who spent his entire life mobilizing funds to educate young minds for a better society, had suffered at the hands of a broken system. A government on a warpath with its healthcare givers was taking casualties of its own in collateral damage. Mwalimu Henry died at the hands of a healthcare system defined by economic profiling, inequality, greed and prejudice.

Little did I know that I would become a victim of the same system preceding the birth of my son. I came to face to face with the viciousness of economic profiling and prejudice when two Eldoret private hospitals flatly refused to admit my heavily pregnant wife a couple of months after we laid Mwalimu Henry to rest. She was categorically denied outpatient examination twice on account that my health cover paid for by a private company was not of the public service category even though she had been allowed a choice of those hospitals for inpatient services.

Both of these hospital facilities did not even bother to inquire if we could settle the bill by other means, other than the insurance cover the moment we mentioned that we did not work in the public sector.

The said private facilities in Eldoret did not care that doctors in public hospitals were on strike. The need to grant a clinical check-up for my pregnant wife was secondary to financial guidelines that ensure non-public servants do not get out-patient services on the National Hospital Insurance Fund (NHIF).

Such a money-first-life-later approach to provision of healthcare services by private hospitals who are key players in provision of healthcare services in the country is clearly one of the reasons so many lives were lost during the doctor’s strike. The 100-day nightmare came to bear on me the morning my son was born mid-April 2017.

On Easter Monday morning, I had travelled back to work in Nairobi and an emergency scenario was the last thing on my mind. My wife had slept very well, only reporting the usual occasional and slight abdominal contractions of pregnancy.

We had not anticipated she would go into labour so soon. The doctor’s estimation had placed birth at three weeks ahead so when it happened unexpectedly at the height of the doctor’s strike, our first instinct was private facilities, in event of any unfortunate birth-related complications.

This time we opted to try a different private facility. By the time my wife arrived via a taxi ride through bumpy and potholed roads of suburban Eldoret, her condition was aggravated, the waters broken and in no position to listen leave alone negotiate financial details and payment modes.

One private facility laid down multiple terms and conditions including down payments before admission that we did not object. They came up with loads of paperwork, to be signed, beforehand by the spouse. The papers contained financial agreement terms and conditions and medical consent forms running into tens of pages.

No amount of pleading would grant my wife the option of signing and filling in the details later since her husband was stuck in Nairobi trying to catch a flight. This point worked me up immensely. Fortunately, a relation in the medical industry suggested an alternative facility and we rushed her to the Moi Teaching and Referral Hospital (MTRH), well aware that it was a dicey prospect with the doctors on strike. The gods were kind and my wife delivered a healthy boy through normal birth in the MTRH maternity wing

Lady luck was clearly on our side for the conditions of the maternity ward left me bewildered when I finally arrived a few hours after the birth of my child. In the hallway comprised 8 beds, each shared by two new mothers, lying side by side, facing away from each other on a two by six inches bed.

The newly-borns were lying precariously on the edges of those beds either feeding or asleep, as their worn out mothers struggled to keep them from falling off the edges of the tiny beds.

The ward was congested. Imagine new mothers coughing right into the face of the other and trying to shield a newborn from any possible mishap. No doctor was on site. The only single nurse doing rounds kept reprimanding new mothers whose babies would not stop crying. I still recall what my wife said the moment she saw me: “Am either coming home with you right now or if they won’t release me, be sure to take us home first thing in the morning when it’s daylight.”

Our healthcare system in Kenya is akin to a war-zone, where the sick pay the ultimate price in collateral damage due to government negligence, corruption and the greed of health profiteers. In our public healthcare system, to be poor is like a punishment for a crime you did not commit. Health care should not be a privilege enjoyed by the upper classes. It should be a right that is as fundamental as giving every child a chance to a good education. But what we have in Kenya is not even a system. It is a gamble with life.

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Gor Ogutu is a journalist based in Nairobi.

Reflections

Not yet Uhuru: Growing up Gay in Kenya, before the Digital Age

The High Court’s decision brought up many emotions for me as a gay man over the age of 50. To be told, officially, by your own country, that you do not matter and in fact you do not exist and your issues are not real, is very difficult to hear.

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Not yet Uhuru: Growing up Gay in Kenya, before the Digital Age
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I will never forget that weekend, over 32 years ago. It was a sunny day; I was walking on Koinange Street, and was about to get onto Kenyatta Avenue, when a vivid and amazing realization hit me, “I am gay!” I was 22 years old at the time, and had been struggling for many years prior – I had become familiar with the darkness of depression and shame at the thought of being homosexual. I had prayed desperately to God to take away the feelings I had.

I knew from a very young age I was different but never actually understood what that difference was. By Class Three or Four, my brothers – I have five in total – had given me nicknames “Ciku” or “Suku” that always had me fighting with them, since they seemed to disparagingly suggest I was engaging in roles that were supposed to be for girls. I was too young to understand any of this at the time. But as I grew up and went into high school I completely got lost when my male peers started having discussion about girls. I could not understand their excitement and strategies on how they would get their first kisses or hugs. My lack of comprehension of what my peers were going through began a deep fear in me that there was something terribly wrong with me. I pretended with my friends that I understood their conversations but I failed to catch this wave of pubescent excitement.

It was not until I got into college, and luckily took a class in human sexuality, that I finally understood that I was part of the sexuality spectrum that included same-gender attraction. This realization was liberating, albeit for a very short period, because once I actually understood what this meant for me, my understanding of my family, my culture, religion, friends and everything I held dear to my life, I became petrified. I was barely 21 and was about to start a very challenging journey of shame and refusal at what was very clearly the reality of who I was. I loved my family deeply but with the realization that I was gay, I was afraid that I would be a disappointment to my loving and supportive parents. This of course led to feeling ashamed and undeserving. The prayers to God and anybody who could hear me seemed to land on deaf ears until that fateful sunny day on K-Street. It’s kind of funny how this moment happened on a street that was known to be Nairobi’s red light district. Irony, you might say.

For reasons I still do not understand till this day, I felt a divine intervention and connection in that moment, possibly with ancestors looking out for me, that finally made me stop questioning myself and finally accept how I was born and who I was. For the next many years, I realized that my realization on that sunny day was just the beginning of a very long journey of self-discovery, a different kind of struggle that comes with claiming my space in life.

With a new acceptance of myself, I began looking for people who might be going through similar experiences. This was Nairobi before the digital age and so there was no Internet, no social media, Facebook, Twitter, or anything like that. Amazingly, there were individuals going through the same thing, and often one got introduced via networks that people had made over time. The fear slowly began to ease, and I began to be excited since I now did not see myself as a problem but as someone who belonged.

Over time some of us spent long hours at various places, including Cameo Cinema on Kenyatta Avenue, talking and getting to know one another. There was a lot of cruising around on Kenyatta Avenue, where lifelong friendships and even relationships were born. I was to later learn that these encounters were happening in other parts of the city and particular bars, clubs had begun to be spaces that individuals could meet and socialize. This is why it is important to have spaces to experience oneself with people like yourself. And all this existed in pre-digital Nairobi. Today’s society might not want to believe it, but we – queer people – have always been here. These pioneering spaces, I believe strongly, were the precursors for organized LGBQTI groups that were to start in the late 1990s and really blossom in the mid-2000s.

I left Kenya soon after for further studies, and moved to New York City. There, an HIV epidemic was in high gear, affecting primarily gay and bisexual men. While in New York, during the late 1980s and into the 1990s, and working within the HIV sector, I saw dozens of my gay friends die, not only from the lack of medication then, but from also the intense stigma and discrimination they received from the society at large. With my background in health, I got immersed in the responses against HIV in the city. This included facilitating HIV-positive support groups for gay and bisexual men of African descent ( African-American, Caribbean and African immigrants), and visiting hospitals to visit abandoned gay men whose families only showed up once they had passed on. I could not, and still do not understand how a family can abandon their child simply because of their sexual orientation.

It was at this time, and I believe as a result of a lot of pent up anger at the injustices I was experiencing all around me, that I came out to my family. My thinking was if they decided to abandon me (as I had seen many of my friends experience with their families) then I wanted to be in the space where I could speak directly to that, in case it ever happened. But I was surprised – and incredibly relieved – that my brothers were supportive of me even though they did not quite understand what I was experiencing at the time.

I began my journey back to Kenya in 2006 and finally settled back home in 2008. I had come back to support the beginnings of the governmental response to the HIV epidemic affecting marginalized communities including the ‘Most at Risk’ Populations (later to be renamed ‘Key Populations’ – sex workers, men who have sex with men and people who use drugs). My experience in the US provided me with some perspective to the growing voice of marginalized communities to the HIV pandemic – I felt I had something to contribute. I was also blessed to join in the growing voices of LGBTQI activists beginning to articulate and claim their rightful spaces as full citizens of this country. Eleven years later much has been achieved by LGBTQI and other marginalized communities in both the health and legal sectors.
This is why I woke up with great expectations on that Friday, May 24th 2019. I was optimistic because within this past decade, the LGBTQI community has had some incremental but significant legal wins, many of them made possible with the promulgation of the 2010 Constitution and its progressive Bill of Rights. In 2012, for example, a transgender woman was stripped naked by the police, in the full glare of the media. The court ruled her rights had been violated and ordered the government pay for damages caused. In a 2013 case that challenged the NGO Board, which had refused to register LGBTQI organizations, the High Court held that Article 27 of the Constitution protected ‘every person’ regardless of their sexual orientation. The Court further held that permitting discrimination on the grounds of sexual orientation would be against constitutional provisions of equality and non-discrimination.

And in another 2013 case, Baby A was born with both male and female genitalia. Hospital records indicated the baby’s sex by a question mark (?) and as a result, the child could not be issued a birth certificate or, concomitantly, an identity card. The court agreed with the petitioners that this offends the child’s rights to legal recognition, erodes its dignity and violates the right of the child not to be subjected to inhumane and degrading treatment as guaranteed in both the Constitution and the Children’s Act. It was a landmark case that provided for the first time relief for intersex persons in Kenya and ultimately led to the creation of the Intersex Task Force by the Attorney General’s office.

It was with this background of the successes the LGBTQI movements have had in their engagement with the judiciary, which gave me hope that early Friday morning. But halfway through the reading of the judgment, it became clear to all around that things were not going well. When the judges stated that majority views – ‘public opinion’ – must at times prevail in rulings such as this, we knew the case was lost. The judgment made it clear that in Kenya, the existing Victorian-era colonial penal codes are here to stay.

This decision brought up many emotions for me as a gay man over the age of 50. The High Court’s conservative negative ruling basically invalidating the existence of LGBT people in Kenya was not only a body blow to many LGBTQ individuals in Kenya, but truly had me going back to 32 years ago, where shame and self-hate ruled my life. To be told, officially, by your own country, that you do not matter and in fact you do not exist and your issues are not real, is very difficult to hear. The ruling seemed to not address the pertinent issues brought up by the petition but used as a platform to preach to queer Kenyans about Kenya’s cultural and religious values, things that were simply not being challenged in the court.

The reaction of the LGBQTI community has been one of devastation. We are part of this country. We work and contribute to the nation’s development. We will continue to challenge laws and a society that is intent on excluding us from our rightful place as citizens of this country. We have however shown great dignity and resolve and intend to continue our long journey for recognition, the same as has happened in other struggles in the past, including for our own country’s independence. Our uhuru will come.

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Reflections

Genesis: A Revolutionary Dance

I greet you in the name of Maya Angelou, Nina Simone, Micere Mugo, Thomas Mapfumo, and Bob Marley. I greet you in the name of dance, song, story, and poetry.

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Genesis: A Revolutionary Dance
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A friend comes up to me and tries to convince me how art is unnecessary:

A luxury for First World countries, but apparently for us who are still developing,

It is only hindering

Unlike the Sciences, business studies, and engineering which are actually Doing Something

“Building”, according to him,

“The arts are simply a frivolous pastime”

And I should have known by his first line, it was already past time to shut down his lip

Damn. The whiteness runs deep

I do not understand whether it is extremely sad or deeply infuriating:

This heavily colonized way of thinking

Erasing chunks of history

Dumbing down my destiny to unnecessary

You see, I am here to tell story

And in this story, this type of thinking is my enemy, choosing to unsee my poetry

Telling me as a black African woman I should put my mind to better use

As if I do not use the tears and injustices against my people as a muse

To speak to what we could be above and beyond what we are

As if dance, poetry, song, and story are not the only balm working towards healing continental scars

As if the sky is anything but dark at night without the stars

If you come at me with art is unnecessary, more so in a developing country

Ayii yawah! May the ancestors judge you accordingly!

Because you have not done the work to know your history

And one simply has no right to dismiss art as inconsequential to the freedom fight

So today I bring you the forgotten histories

Like the griots who have come before me

From the beginning: Genesis

If God created the world with words, then creation lies on the tips of our tongues

Revolution sits in wait for a song to be sung

A poem to reiterate how freedom has now come

Genesis.

In the early 1960s, 300 years after the Dutch subjugated South Africa

A man known as apartheid’s father, Hendrick Verwoerd, became prime minister

The earth wailed for this broken nation

In this period of black subjugation, oppression, degradation, and shattered dreams of emancipation

One man, Vuyisile Mini, composed one song to a silent symphony

The ground responded collectively…

Bringing in the people’s harmony,

“Ndondemnyama ve Verwoerd”

And the people collected the song and started singing, “Ndondemnyama ve Verwoerd-

Watch out Verwoerd, the black man is coming! Your days are over.”

Reiterated decades later by Miriam Makeba and Hugh Masekela

The song became the people’s prayer:

Chanted on lips, music the tool of power whispered through chattering teeth

Vuyisile Mini was named a rebel organizer and was sentenced to death by the apartheid powers

They say he died, head held high… a martyr

Singing, “Ndonemnyama ve Verwoerd” with fire

And this is what music does for the revolution

It is power on the lips of children

Ask the sons and daughters of South Africa as they sing,

“Freedom is coming! Tomorrow!”

Song is power, “Amandla!”

Genesis.

In the early 1940s, two decades after the Harlem renaissance of the 20s

Led by black poets, jazz musicians, and writers in American society,

Leopold Senghor sat in his room writing poetry

After two years in Nazi concentration camps, captured while fighting French wars

He now armed himself with African words

Having received the highest distinction as an African in French education

This man who would become the first Senegalese president did not simply sit in his achievement

Instead he wrote poetry

Critiquing the Frenchman’s philosophy

Questioning the idea that Africans have no civilized culture or history

Mourning assimilation’s intention to eradicate the collective African memory

This one man whose civilization and history was considered crude sparked into existence the continental movement known as Negritude

Black Self-love. A whole damn mood!

Genesis.

In 1910 colonial Kenya

Lived a priestess from the people of the Kamba known as Syotuna

When she was younger, she had been a warrior

But now a widow, age had begun to catch up with her

But still within her was the spirit of a fighter, her soul burned fire

The colonial regime had driven her people out of their lands

Hiking up taxes, tying their hands

Forcing them to slave their way for some white man’s pay day

Syotuna’s spirit could not simply sit and wait

So she challenged her people’s predetermined complacent fate

Choosing to fight for her people instead of leaving it to chance

Her weapon of choice, as unconventional as it sounds: Dance

The Kilumi dance was sacred to the Kamba women’s history

Syotuna realized she could use it to weaponize her stories

So she danced, sang, and chanted her memories

Reminding her people of their past warrior glories

Spitting on the colonial regime’s atrocities

Freeing her people from their mental slaveries

Soon the dance of Kilumi began to pick across the lands as children and women attempted to mimic

Syotuna’s thrusting hips, so free and unbridled

The colonizers called it demonic

And the ancestors must have laughed at this fearful tactic

The more they danced, the more the Kamba rebelled

The white man’s fear propelled their last move:

Syotuna was exiled

But not before the revolution of the Kilumi dance spread into the hearts and minds of the young Kamba revolutionaries left behind

Genesis.

If I were to sit around this fire and tell you the stories of all the artist revolutionaries throughout our collective history from the beginning,

Genesis.

We would spend eternity

So for now I merely greet you in the name of these and others from our ancestry.

I greet you in the name of another warrior dancer, Mekatilili.

I greet you in the name of another music freedom fighter, Fela Kuti.

I greet you in the name of Maya Angelou, Nina Simone, Micere Mugo, Thomas Mapfumo, and Bob Marley.

I greet you in the name of dance, song, story, and poetry.

I greet you in the name of revolutionary history.

I greet you in the name of Love.

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Reflections

The Kenyan Media and the Queer Stories Of Our Lives

I hope that soon when I encounter media coverage of LGBTQ issues, it will recognise and acknowledge that there isn’t one single narrative to our ‘gayism’, which actually isn’t even a proper word.

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The Kenyan Media and the Queer Stories Of Our Lives
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My earliest encounter of the word homosexuality in the Kenyan press was in the 1980s and 1990s thanks to the magazines Drum and True Love, which were published out of South Africa at the time. There was the Dear Dolly advice section, which offered advice on relationships and what I thought then were ‘adult’ things. The mainstream press occasionally carried out an ‘expose’ on areas of Mombasa Island that were notorious for homosexual activities. When it came to TV, I remember there was a couple of male sex workers who were used as the standard representation of all things gay. This seemed to suit the narrative that all gays were sex workers and effeminate. Any queer reporting had to be sensational, and inevitably leading to an AIDS-related life or death.

Even today, in most cases, whenever there is a ‘gay issue’ that cannot be avoided, the pictures used in the local media will be of cut-off jean shorts or the most dramatic photo that can be found off the wires. It’s all aimed at creating the ‘hawa watu’ (these people) feeling. ‘Gayism’ – a term that doesn’t exist in the English language until our newsrooms birthed it – is rarely portrayed in a way that normalises same-sex relationship or depicts queers’ identities in a positive way.

I cringe when I remember the Standard’s coverage of the UK-based Kenyan gay couple who got married back in 2009. Once the story was picked up by other media houses, they hot-footed to the unsuspecting parent’s home in Murang’a, and sought a reaction that was anything but shocking. No one really cared to ask whether she even knew what homosexuality was.

Do we ask the same of women in heterosexual relationships?

“The responsibility for the news rests with consumers as well as producers, or rather when we accept and repeat statements, we too become producers of the beliefs that shape this world. It behoves us to do so with care.” The majority of the media houses are guilty of regurgitation of the lie that homosexuality is illegal and that Repeal 162 was about gay marriage. This has not stopped the public to from asking the same media houses: ‘if homosexuality is illegal, then why are gay people allowed to walk around freely in the country?’ The gay marriage line has kept being weaved into stories even after the petitioners of the case repeatedly stated the case was not about marriage. Sadly, we have become a public that simply consumes without question. Media audiences in Kenya are severely malnourished! There is a lot more reporting than real journalism from our media houses. One might even say there is a lot more misreporting than reporting taking place. And this extends beyond ‘hawa watu’ issues.

Sadly, many notable stories on LGBTQ Kenyans or allies are falling off the radar of our media houses and being picked up by the foreign press. I must say the Daily Nation is in the habit of covering LGBTQ Kenyan stories through news agencies like AFP. I could be wrong but I have not seen a local interview done with Rafiki film director Wanuri Kahiu on any local platform. The film remains banned in Kenya. Another banned film is Stories Of Our Lives, and producer Jim Chuchu told me that no local media house approached their team for an interview even as the movie was receiving accolades and screenings at film festivals across the globe. There are writers who are getting recognised for the queer literature that is being produced in this country. Junior Nyong’o’s non-binary but very stylish fashion sense has led to questions about his sexuality, instead of being applauded for its uniqueness. They aren’t even letting him shine!  There are visual artists whose work portrays queerness in a way that celebrates us as Kenyans. Work is being created that is showcasing our varied tapestry as a people and narratives being created that are ours, Kenyan. But journalists who have been trained to report on the issues by LGBTQ activists point the finger at their editors and editors in turn are in fear of the media owners. Plus, there is also the fear that covering a good queer story or even humanising a queer might be seen as an assertion of queerness. And what is wrong with that?   Why can’t stories be told without being moralised? Doesn’t the Kenyan reader, listener or viewer deserve the right to make their own judgement?

Chinua Achebe in his essay, Spelling Our Proper Name, says, ‘The telling of the story of black (insert LGBTQ) people in our time, and for a considerable period has been self-appointed responsibility of white (insert patriarchy or moralists) people and they have done it to suit a white (insert patriarchy or moralists again) purpose, naturally. That must change and is indeed beginning to change, but not without resistance or even hostility. So much psychological, political and economic interest is vested in the negative change. The reason is simple. If you are going to enslave or colonize somebody, you are not going to write a glowing report about either him before or after. Rather you will uncover or invent terrible stories about him so that your act of brigandage will become easy for you to live with. ‘

Our media for many years was lauded for being the most vibrant, ‘free’, daring at one time, and most professional in the region.   And many editors, journalists and even photographers paid the price, some with their lives, for choosing to fight with the pen and protect the integrity of the fourth estate.   Fortunately, we no longer see arguments about homosexuality being un-African or a western import, because ‘hawa watu’ are us, Kenyans of the soil. It is increasingly difficult to sustain the ‘western influence’ argument. There are fewer images of stereotypical gay bodies used to depict gay narratives. There is more discourse. However, it needs to be a discourse that honours the strength of the Constitution and the dynamism of our Kenyan human-ness. I hope that soon when I encounter media coverage of LGBTQ issues, it will recognise and acknowledge that there isn’t one single narrative to our ‘gayism’, which actually isn’t even a proper word.

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