Story

Married Feminist

When I was getting married I received two sets of advice. In one meeting, I was advised to create a life outside my partner, to have my own friends, my own hobbies, to not self isolate, to be part of a community. Apart from keeping a sense of self, I was advised to be the Manager of the house.

In another meeting, I was advised to have both feet in my new home- to Leave and Cleave is what they called it, not looking back and expecting to run back home if things got tough. The two women also shared opinions about whether to contribute to the household expenses, what garments to wash or not wash, to always be available and lastly, “When was I planning to have children?”

“Oh, no. Not yet. I will decide when”, I had responded naively. Lost for words and mouths half open, there was silence in the room until one of the women finally found her voice- she found it in a shaky, uneven emotional state- “Well, for me, I would expect my daughter to be pregnant the day after she gets married. I mean, why not?” I could see that it was a very sensitive subject. A few weeks after my wedding, there were rumors that a certain bride did not want children… I wonder where those came from.

My own views about marriage were shaped, like all others, partly by what I had seen and partly by what I wanted to do differently. Marriage was like a rite of passage. Something that my parents had done and something that I associated with growing up. I had read many fairy tales as a child and they all had something in common- a vague notion of ‘happily ever after’. There were no details of how they created that happiness. I guess we all just filled in the blanks of what that meant to us.

I had shunned the customary bridal shower having attended a few too many. In two of them, the brides who already had children, were being coached on what went where, all while using code words. I could not tell who was lying to who. Besides, the talks had all been about duty. Not once, in any of these talks had self or even happiness ever been mentioned. Even the one thing that could have escaped that label, still got listed under chores.

I hoped for a lot more love and happiness than what the older tenants described. Having been exposed to a good level of school, I was constantly taunted by the evil word ‘equality’ and confused by the mystical world of ‘submission’. It felt like such a difficult pill to swallow that we were required to get smaller and smaller until we were invisible to satisfy a feeling of dominion [is it dominion or leadership that the husband is supposed to provide?] in our yoked partner. Some women, when they were finally recognized in the equation were very excited to be referred to as ‘necks’. “Do not worry, you are a neck. You turn the head.”

There is a long history to that analogy. Such was the nature of our female ancestors’ relationships with their masters/husbands. Women believed that they secretly pulled the strings behind the curtains- through charms in beads and pots and perfumes, subtle deceits, exaggerated displays of naivety, the allure of displayed powerlessness and dedicated servitude. In these indirect ways, they moved Master’s hand in their favour- they were the neck.

A few hundred years later, females are now found everywhere, not just in the kitchen and the bedroom. This means that many times they have to make big decisions, some times they have to step on toes, and sometimes they even lead men in the formal business arena! Worst of all (depending on who you are talking to), they are taught by wrong elements in society that they are just as good as their counterparts- their brothers – the male species! We now have women who talk and who think that they too must be heard. We have women who want more than just duty and the emotional and physical wear and tear that comes with it.

In spite of the societal changes, there remains a disproportionate level of training between women and men for the institution. Women are being trained to be wives and men are being trained to be, men. And yet it seems that the household of the present day is more a partnership than an absolute monarchy. The immense contribution to society by women’s domestic roles is only now beginning to be realized and credited. Some men are benefiting from having someone to talk to who understands the formal work atmosphere. Men are beginning to let their inner guards down and are letting their wives in. Some wives are contributing to the household bills. Covenant or contract- maintaining the household- the nuclear convergence of man and woman remains important but complex.

Some women have [passive aggressively] posted cryptic statuses directed towards their married friends saying, “Women! Marriage is not an achievement! Stop treating it like it is! ” And it is not. Not the first few minutes at least. Walking down a rose strewn aisle is not a ‘marriage achievement’ in itself – it’s an achievement in decor and ambiance.

I thought marriage might be an extended date night without curfew. It is not. Some have called it a friendship. This is wise; because who would not want to have a friend beside them when they close the door behind them. But most of the time, we do not marry someone who is biologically platonic to ourselves. We usually, slip and fall, into the strong arms of the hero and are whisked away to safety. We can only hope that the Prince turns out to be a friend.

I

On Camera

“Smile, you’re on candid camera.”

Lying around, a cozy room with big heavy glass windows on the 16th floor overlooking an empty street and an apartment block, I watched for the second time, YouTube couple, J & N’s wedding video. They had become my favourite thing to watch on the internet- a tall dark-black beautiful Sudanese woman and a white good looking Australian photographer and videographer and their family. I had followed their vlog since the one about the birth of her first child. I had seen them eating at restaurants, visiting friends, attending a wedding. I had seen her cleaning (a lot), putting on her makeup, moving into their dream house, choosing the perfect tiles and kitchen lighting (Industrial lights – in black, not gold), drive their dream cars and have their second child.

Why can’t we just get married? I thought. With my back to his face, the screen in front of mine.

“What are you watching?” He asked, leaning over my shoulder. “Those guys again,” he sighed.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“They are giving you such high expectations.”

“Of what?” I retorted.

“Just, everything. You know. That’s not how things are.”

It had taken me from 6:00 p.m the evening before, snailing through the Jinja highway, wading through Jinja Town, dosing off as we drove towards the border, to 11: 00 am, the next day. At the border we had come out, surrounded by guns as the border police showed us the way out of the bus and with heavy boots inspected the interior. Away from the wet bushy shrubs on the left, we had walked, half-running to the migration building as the winding line piled on with more people. The Ugandan line was twice as long as the other one and our passports were being stamped with no sense of urgency or consideration for time, and with more stamps than if we had just arrived at the border of Netherlands. Finally, we were back inside the bus, in the dead of night, on a high way that carried on for hours, now racing past trees and an open landscape.

When we finally entered the city in the breezy morning hours- cars squeezing up against each other, slums, rubbish on the other side of a river-like water channel sweeping through, under a bridge. The morning rush hour made it two more hours before we could reach the bus park. By the time, the uber came to pick me, I was doubting my sanity. I had began crucifying myself a few hours into my journey with strangers on my first inter-country journey on a bus to a country I had never been to. If we all perished, no one would know my name.

The Arab man in the seat opposite mine was being interviewed by the man who sat and slept in the bus corridor throughout the entire journey. I had supposed that he was the conductor but he got out before the official bus stop.

“What were you doing in Uganda?” he had asked the Arab man.

“I have a woman friend I had…”

“Haaaaa!” the man excitedly interjected excitedly. “And how are Ugandan women, eh? Nice, eh? “

The Arab laughed shyly.

I shifted in my seat. Their conversation continued until it finally died down. The bus trudged on.

Westlands, Nairobi-

J & N, I had watched religiously until months before my own wedding. After I got married, I weaned off their marriage. Eventually, I was pregnant and eventually too exhausted to believe the happily balanced mum-hood that both she and another Nigerian and German couple projected. It had been about 6 months since I had seen J & N’ videos and when I checked again, it seemed that they had stopped filming. A few weeks later, they announced their separation. I was shocked.

What about, what about… everything?!

When the other half of J & N put out a video saying that, Nobody had really known what was happening behind the scenes. She gave us as much an explanation as she could, referencing something that looked so beautiful that was so rotten on the inside. I shuddered.

It confirmed my suspicion that most social media broadcasts were highly edited versions of the truth. I wondered too, about children whose every waking moment is behind a screen. What now unknown psychological impact lurks in the background waiting to leap out in their adulthood. What about us, the digital migrant millennial, for whom no moment exists unless it is captured on the [social media] for the world? What superficiality is filling the vacuum inside?

It’s amazing to see the shared world of broadcast- enjoying videos of other families, recaps of friends and strangers’ lives- they sometimes show you the kind of world you would want to create. But if every moment is captured, when do we get time to stop smiling. To argue, to disagree, to compromise, to apologize, to forgive, to make up. And when do we get time to know ourselves – not as the world sees us, but who were really are, without the camera effect.

I’m certain that holding a camera to my face constantly would prevent me from approaching the woman underneath- the one who some mornings walks around the house, sleepily, routinely, before the inner lights go on. And that would mean, I would miss the humble moments in between, the ones not captured, the mundane, the small, the true.

” I don’t want to have fun [only]on camera. I want to have fun in real life”

Simply Niki

Candid Camera was a popular and long running American hidden camera reality television series. Versions of the show appeared on television from 1948 until 2014. The show involved concealed cameras filming ordinary people being confronted with unusual situations. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Candid_Camera