You& Rape by Rape Crisis Cape Town Trust.

You and rape booklet

You and rape is a booklet that was published by the Rape Crisis Cape Town Trust.


In 1992, the Natal Midland Black Sash, the Rape Crisis Cape Town Trust and a number of other women’s organisations from Cape Town and Pietermaritzburg started a public education program. The program was designed to assist rape victims to deal with their trauma, as well as assist them get justice.  While running this program, it became apparent to members of the Rape Crisis Cape Town Trust that there was a serious educational gap when it came to rape. Many victims did not know their rights, how to report this injustice to appropriate legal authorities, neither did they have the required support to deal with the psychological and physical trauma. So member of the above trust decided to compile the information that they had gathered over the years from the experiences of rape survivors, communities and organisation they had worked with.

Although this booklet may have information that is only pertinent to people living in South Africa, ie the statistics, a great deal of the information in you& rape is relevant and helpful.

I have attached a copy of you& rape below.

For the English version:You and Rape

For the Xhosa version: You and Rape, Xhosa

For the Afrikaans version: You and Rape, Afrikaans

Just in case the above PDF files do not open, use this link:

All copyrights and legal privileges are reserved to Rape Crisis Cape Town Trust.

Survival Psalm.


I saw this poem online a few months back and it really touched my heart, so i decided to share. Survivors psalm is a poem that i think is powerful and helpful to rape victims.



CROWN MYSELF& #100daysofencouragement!


“Whatever you are physically… male or female, strong or weak, ill or healthy—all those things matter less than what your heart contains. If you have the soul of a warrior, you are a warrior. All those other things, they are the glass that contains the lamp, but you are the light inside. “(Cassandra, Clare: Clockwork Agel)

*These next few posts are inspired by those of you who are struggling in this thing we call life, those of you who have clinical depression, bi-polar or any other mental illness. This is also for those of you who have experienced some form of trauma, those of you who feel lonely, and those of you who feel misunderstood. Whatever your vice is, I’m here to remind you, YOU ARE PRECIOUS, BELOVED AND ORDAINED FOR A GREATER AND BETTER PURPOSE! PLEASE DON’T GIVE UP! JOY AND PEACE DO COMETH IN THE MORNING!

HAPPY NEW YEAR BELOVED! We are three weeks into the New Year and I can’t help but infuse myself in the deceptive mask of the New Year. It’s similar to the smell of a new car or the smell of a new born. It’s beautiful because it symbolizes a new beginning, a new chapter, a new leap into the future. To a certain extent, this reigns true about the New Year. Although you made it to 2016, the problems of 2015 will still follow you into this year; in addition 2016 will bring with it, it’s own challenges and tribulations. So then what do we do about this? How do we keep our heads above water? How do we encourage ourselves? How do we stay positive while people and the environment around us, just keeps eroding our crowns?

Well the answer is pretty straightforward. The key is to jewel your crowns. I’m sure you are all sitting there wondering what I’m on about. Well, whether you believe in creationism, evolution, the big bang theory, we are born with an enormous and picturesque crown, filled with unique jewels. That crown is your essence, therefore your eternal truth!

During your formative years, your parents or guardians are meant to mentor you into believing in yourself, as well as teach you how to combat the various demons and challenges you will be faced with during your lifetime. This level of self-awareness, self-definition, self-validation and confidence should be formed and developed within your formative years, so that by the time you enter adulthood, you are not a feather being directed by the wind. However, even with the right amount of mentor ship and the correct support system, life can still throw you under a bus and shatter everything you know and believe, about yourself and the world.

In addition, not every single human being is fortunate enough to receive the right amount of mentor ship or any mentor ship from their parents or guardians. This forces these individuals to develop their shock absorbers, self-confidence and self-awareness elsewhere. Trust me, this is never easy, neither is it attractive. So given that we are all experience some level of hardship and fighting our own demons, why don’t we raise each other up? Why don’t show compassion rather than judgment and cynicism?

In the next couple of weeks, I will attempt discuss the various ways our crowns are eroded and potential ways to reverse this cycle. Some of the blog posts might seem rather radical and others might seem pretty obvious. In any case, my main aim is to encourage those of you struggling and also to a certain extent educate many of you about depression and other mental illnesses.

In addition, I have also started a #100daysofencouragement #withmisb on Facebook and Instagram as form of daily encouragement. PLEASE FEEL FREE TO FOLLOW ME AND LETS START A REVOLUTION!!

Lastly, I want to emphasize that I am not a mental health expert, neither I’m I licensed life coach, however in the last few years I have fought a good fight with depression, PTSD and various kinds of trauma. Thus I have acquired enough experience and knowledge to be able to impact you in some way. That said, I want to really use this opportunity to tell those of you struggling with mental health, trauma or any other illness, no one has the right to tell you how long your recovery should take. No one has the right to demean you emotions or experiences; AND NO ONE HAS THE RIGHT TO DEFINE YOU. LIKE I SAID IN THE BEGINNING YOU WERE BORN WITH A PRECIOUS JEWELED CROWN, NEVER LET ANYONE REDEFINE IT OR ERODE IT.

Gonna leave you with one of my favorite songs. ENJOY :0)

African fingerprints

I came across this poem that I wrote for one of my African studies courses in second year and I was gobsmacked at fact that the debate about African Literature being taught in African institutions is still contentious and unresolved. Below, is my two-cents about this issue!


African breathes, Africa sings,

Africa laughs and Africa cries

Yet all this unified motion is nowhere to be seen.

Why are our fingerprints always overshadowed by Western intellect?

When will our fingerprints dominate the global intellectual cuisine?

Why? Oh Why? Have the thoughts of our ancestral brothers and mothers been manipulated by our Western scholars?

They write, we cry,

They write, we sigh

They write and the more our continent’s persona dies!

Run! Africa Run! For this global bureaucracy is hard to overturn.

Once your African universities are overrun!

We will have nothing but international words to learn.

Write! Africa write! Let them words flow over the global coast like the River Nile.

Fight! Africa fight! Fight until our continental rhetoric drowns out the Western philosophy.

Rise! Oh dear Africa rise! So that our universities may rise above bureaucratic domination.

Dream! African dream! So that we may break free, from the very shackles that distorts the daily struggles of our people.

Print! Dear Africa print! So that from generation to generation we can dominate the global tertiary education.

african footprint




“There was never a night or a problem that could defeat sunrise or hope.’’ (Bernard Williams)

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard the above saying throughout my life,  and how much it used annoy me, yet I had no idea what it really meant, until very recently. The first time, I really heard it, was the year I was raped. Someone said:

“Maryanne, no matter how dire your problems seem, the sun will always rise and set, that should give you comfort!”

This really infuriated me. How in the world was this supposed to comfort me, let alone anyone else?

To be honest I lost my cool and gave that person a piece of my mind. In my opinion that had to be the most condescending thing I had heard. I mean, if you really think about it, what does it even mean, when someone says the sun will always rise and set?

Were they trying to say that my problems weren’t big or important enough?

In hindsight, I not only understand what Mr Williams meant, I’m a walking analogy of all the different variations of his saying. Why you ask? Keep reading and I’ll tell you.

Problems are just bumps in the road, they are not everlasting: Anyone who has ever experienced hardship, trauma and to some extent depression, can attest to this. When you’re in a jam, you feel as though the world is about to end and there is nothing you can do to stop it. You forget the good times and only focus on the conundrum you’re in. I’m here to tell you that whatever it is you’re going through, it too will pass. It may not pass today, or tomorrow, or next week, or next month, but it definitely will pass. It took me 6years to overcome the trauma of being raped, but I overcame it. It wasn’t easy and to be honest, you never really get over something that traumatic, but you learn to stop letting it rule and define your life. So like Mr Williams says just as sure as the sun shall rise, so will you overcome you’re problems!

sunriseSunrise means hope: Beloveds, every sunrise brings with it a new beginning and a dazzling ray of hope. I know when you’re in the midst of a difficult situation you lose all hope, especially when you are depressed, you’re overcome by despondency; but the truth is you are not alone, we all go through this feeling but as long as you keep fighting, there is definitely hope. In fact to be honest, it doesn’t matter how horrible the situation is, or how depressed you are, there is ALWAYS HOPE. Let me say that again, THERE IS ALWAYS HOPE.

Secondly, I know from experience when you’re depressed you beat yourself up about opportunities you missed or opportunities you wasted. You convince yourself that you messed up too much, that there is no way you will be able amount to anything, or get into that program or get that job you want, because you don’t deserve it. The truth is, never doesn’t exist, it only exists in your vocabulary. The minute you grace yourself with a little bit of forgiveness, you start to realise how powerful and strong you are. You begin to see that ray of sunshine and hope.  Alas! That sun rise you’ve been longing for and were too scared to ask for will help you overcome the darkness in your soul and mind’s eye; just like the sunrise, you’re greatness and destiny can’t be hidden forever. It may take you a little while longer to see it and acknowledge it but once you’re sun rises it can never be subdued!


panic-attack5“You educate a man; you educate an individual. You educate a woman; you educate a generation.” (Brigham Young)

Education has always been my lifeline. It has always taken precedence over everything else in my life because it determined my value. This premise is very fallacious because human beings are multi-faceted entities thus an individual’s value cannot be summed up by one facet. This may seem very obvious to some of you, but this is something that I’ve only come to understand recently. As you can imagine, the acknowledgment of this fact would have saved me a great deal of time, pain and energy, but then again what is life, if not a learning experience? 

July 2009 marked the beginning of my self-hatred and the gradual breakdown of my buoyancy. A Tet offensive had begun, and my spirit and soul were collateral damage. My quintessential being was crumbling by the minute.

Kenya has been described as the cradle of mankind but for me, it was the cradle of tokoloshes for many, many years.

My room was filled with darkness and tokoloshes. I tried to distract myself by watching some episodes of a TV show on my laptop, but it was barely making a dent in the darkness, let alone saving me from myself. I was so preoccupied with the release of my first semester results that I was working myself into a cycle of severe anxiety attacks. My chest was stiff, my heart was palpitating, my blood vessels were constricted, my vision was blurry, actually it was almost obsolete, my whole body was shaking and I was sweating profusely. The battle was between my mind and my mind. The winner would control my body, outer perception, self-worth and resilience.

Any depressed individual can tell you that depression and self-loathing are synonymous. You spend half the time alienating yourself from society and the other half, trying to run away from your mind. Your pride tells you not to infect others with your disease but your heart longs for someone’s loving embrace. Depression as you can imagine is an uphill battle, now couple it with severe anxiety, and you have the perfect death cocktail.

The battle had begun. Oxygen was on the offense and had congregated in my nasal cavity. The first military advancement was unsuccessful; to be honest it put the Bay of Pigs fiasco to shame. A new offensive had to be launched to save my body from utter annihilation. Oxygen launched a ballistic missile down my pharynx into my airways. My ribs held a steady line of defense, they remained constricted and heavy. As the missile worked its way down my respiratory system, a shadow of excruciating pain covered my body. At this point, any normal person would have passed out. As the missile reached its target, pits of fire ran down my trachea. My trachea was set ablaze and the inferno was so strong, it sent electric vibrations down my spine that resembled the exhaust pipe vibration of a McLaren Mp4-12C. Although my anxiety attack only lasted a couple of minutes, it felt like I was under attack for a day or two.

For those of you that have never had an anxiety attack, let’s try a little exercise. Take a very deep breathe, hold it and pinch your nose (Please do not do this for too long, as you’ll harm yourself). Now close your eyes and imagine you are being forced to fight Manny Pacquiao in a boxing arena filled with thousands of people. You’ve never fought anyone before, so you’re not only an amateur, you’re an amateur whose about to get your ass whooped. Adrenaline has your heart palpitating, your chest is tight and your mind is being suffocated with detestable and violent thoughts. The crowd starts hurling insults at you, the room goes dark and those insults start floating in front of your eyes. You start yelling back, trying to defend yourself but the harder you protest, the louder they get and the more breathless you become. Now Pacquiao represents your biggest fear and the crowd is your mind. Anxiety attacks are trigger by different things for different people, the severity and duration of the attack depends on how quickly you’re able to counter your negative thoughts and control your breathing. Individuals who’ve had anxiety attacks can tell you, it truly is mind over matter!


If you had or have been having anxiety attacks please seek medical attention.

As you can imagine, I barely slept the night before the release of the results. I only fell asleep at half past two am. I was infected by one nightmare until half past eight in the morning. I dream’t that I had to go to my department to obtain my results, which had been published on the notice board. As I stepped out of the elevator, I was immediately surrounded by every single UCT students and lecturer. They all heckled and laughed at me, as my transcript was full of DPR’s. They told me I was a failure; I would never amount to anything and my lack of intelligent was the reason I got raped. Now obviously, none of those students knew my grades, neither did they know I had been raped. In addition, I knew I had bombed that semester, but there was a huge delusional part of me, that was praying for a miracle. I hadn’t managed to write any of my assignments, let alone hand them in. This meant I wasn’t allowed to write my exams; but I was still holding onto the delusion that managed to pass all my exams.

As I said above, July 2009 marked the destruction of my self-worth, what I did not tell you is, it also distorted my perception of reality. The minute I saw my results in black and white, I began to think of myself as a failure, and therefore began to behave as one. I had been captured by the formidable tide of self-doubt and I was directing my own requiem.

TOKOLOSHE CRADLE (read with caution, as content is intense, especially if your a rape victim or individual panic/anxiety)



From the moment I landed at Jomo Kenyatta International airport (JKIA), I knew I was in my rapist’s home turf. Although Kenya was also my home turf, it did not hold the same level of protection for me as it did for my rapist. My rapist was safe here. He couldn’t be tried here; he had family and associates here, who probably knew about this. I am certain that the little prick, bragged about deflowering me. I’m sure in his sick, twisted head he values that act like he would an international award. I know what you’re thinking; you’re thinking I also had the above support system. Some of my family and friends also lived here, but they only served as a metaphoric support system. In order for them to offer their support, they would need to know what happened to me, which they didn’t. So like Edmund Burke said: “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men should do nothing.” In this case, the only thing necessary for him to triumph was for me to say nothing!

That said, six years down the line the irony present itself. Now when I land at JKIA and walk around my country, I strut around with the pride of a mother. I gave birth to my renaissance and expelled my pain. Now with every step I take and every move I make, I exude greatness and embrace the endless possibilities ahead of me. The irony is, the louder I roar, the smaller your influence becomes!

I’m no longer afraid of being the wretch of the earth; rather I choose to be the flame that enlightens the masses!

There’s a powerful serenity that is engraved in most people’s familial home; the serenity is not intertwined in the structure of the house but in the enchantment of familial warmth, protection and support. A home is a home because of the memories made in it, and my familial home was founded in all the above; and above all this house was structurally sound to withhold any attack from my rapist and his supporters.  Herein lies my safe place, my true safe haven.

As I walked around the day after my arrival, 10th June 2009, I felt debilitating grieve. It was the first time I really felt the loss of my father. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve felt that the loss from the moment he took his last breath on this earth, but I never, ever, let myself really grieve. I mean really grieve! But that moment as I stared at our old family portrait in the living room, I couldn’t help but wonder if my life would have been different if he was still alive. I couldn’t help but wonder if his presence would have prevented my rape. I mean maybe I’d have chosen a different path, a different and safer country to study in, or better yet, I’d have known better and therefore never trusted my rapist or let him into my dome room. For the very first time in my life, I really resented my father for leaving me and I really hated my Lord from taking him away from me. At that very moment I missed the warmth and protection of my father more than ever; that was the very moment that I understood what it meant to be surrounded by people and feel very alone. I cannot emphasize this enough, any traumatic event that is not dealt with gives the victim an unexplainable amount of pain that leads to irrational fears and isolation. The more you isolate yourself the further away you get from reality.

My reality had become one of irrational phobias, hyper tension and hibernation. My room and familial home was the only place where I sort of felt safe. Unfortunately, I’m using the word safe very loosely. The first night I spent in my own bed, right opposite my mum’s room and right next to my sister’s room, was the best night of my life. I may not have slept for eight hours or even six hours straight, but for the first time in months, I had, had real deep sleep. No nightmare, well one, but it wasn’t that scary; very mildly horrific. According to sleep specialist, deep sleep stage is the stage where the body repairs and regrows tissues, builds bone and muscle, and strengthens the immune system. So clearly, deep sleep is a very important part of sleep. The next few mornings I felt so fresh and energetic. Unfortunately, this was very short lived, as the next week; I started having night visit from tokoloshe, at least I thought it was tokoloshe[2].

Every night I went to my room, I watched any and all series that could cuddle me to sleep, but this time instead of being able to clear my head from everything and forget about my issues, all I could see were these dark, evil beings in my presence and I could feel them as they attempted to come closer towards me. It’s like being encircled by iniquity. A malevolent energy that surrounds you during your darkest time and ignites all your senses on fire.

My Tokoloshe resembled my rapist to a tee. He had his dark chocolate complexion, with dark black spots and pimples all over his forehead, and this perverted smug look in his eyes. People say that eyes are the window of the soul. Well this soul, was pure evil.  Peeking into his eyes was like looking into the soul of the devil itself. In addition, every time tokoloshe was around my sense of smell was heighten. The whole room was reeking of expensive cologne that was meant to epitomize wealth and intense masculinity, but instead it felt like tokoloshe was overcompensating for something. I no longer laid in the comfort of my laptop, I now cuddled with my own version of Tokoloshe.

I want you to close your eyes, and for a few seconds recollect the fear you used to feel when you were a child and you believed there monsters in your room. I want you to focus intently on the fear, don’t rationalize it, just let it engulf you completely. Now imagine your lying in bed, surrounded by all your favourite toys, your blankie and night light. Your bed is surrounded by these figures that only have an upper body and float around the room, like a white feather would float towards the sun. All these figures look like the person you fear most, and everywhere you turn you see them. The light night light that was left on for you to keep away evil becomes your worst enemy; because instead of scaring those evil figures away it illuminates their vice a million times over. It’s an evil that cannot be described accurately but you can definitely feel it, in core part of your being. Now, imagine feeling that way every day of your life. That’s how a rape victim feels. A rape victim has an innate fear that convinces them that they will never escape their rapist, or the shame they feel, or ever overcome their pain. A rape sees their rapists everywhere they go. He’s in their home, car, office, supermarket, and church; all because his image is tattooed into their mind’s eye. A place where you can neither physically get to, nor  erase. It’s like your stalker is using your own body against you.

Looking back now and looking how far I have come. I can only cite my recovery to my God, family, friends and an awesome medical team.

I will keep saying this to yah. If you know anyone that has been raped or if you yourself have been raped, please seek help and find the courage to speak out. Silence only protects him and creates a ridiculous amount of fear and shame in your soul; and you are not the one who should be ashamed it your rapist. THEY ARE THE ONES IN THE WRONG NOT YOU!!

Lastly, please follow my blog  and share my blog post. By following my blog, you get regular updates sent to you via email, and by sharing my posts we raise awareness and BREAK THE SILENCE!

[1] image of tokoloshe



My heart is haemorrhaging from the events taking place in my beloved spiritual homeland, South Africa. I lived in South Africa for over seven years; I embraced the landscape, culture, and became embedded in their way of life. I swear, in a different life time, I could have been South African. Although I miss South Africa as much as I’d miss a beloved family member, I am utterly appalled at the level of violence that some South Africans have been reduced to. My heart bleeds because I am ashamed of their behaviour but also because I understand their emotional disposition. Like many African countries, South Africa is plagued by neo-colonial thinking, instead of embracing the ideals of black consciousness; we’ve chosen to embrace western ideals. Steve Biko argued that the downfall of the black community would not be colonialism, but rather, the robotic adoption of capitalism, the desertion of our heritage and the abandonment of communalism. My African people (when I refer to Africans, I mean every individual born and bred here, not just black individuals), we are consumed by greed, illiteracy, envy, laziness, impunity and finger pointing. Africa was built on the social contact of ‘we the people’. This communal social contact was more important than the, I canon.

For the last three weeks I have sat back and read social media messages condemning the surge of violence in South Africa. I have noticed that none of us have taken a step back and examined our own moral compass. Which of you feels that you have upheld a higher moral compass than the individuals practicing Xenophobia? Which one of you can really say that they have never had negative thoughts towards or spoken against immigrates in your respective countries? If you can answer these questions correctly, then feel free to cast the first stone. If not, hold onto your hats!

 I’ll start off with white South Africans. How many of you believe that the African continent will never develop because the political leaders are black? How many of you wish you could live in Orania, i.e, in complete isolation from all the other races? How many of you, have found yourselves critiquing all black people, publically or privately, based on stereotypes? How many of you, have thought you are more intellectual, more articulate, more hardworking, and therefore more deserving of civil liberties? How many of you, even appreciate the fact that you enjoy privileges that a lot of Black, Coloured, and Indian South Africans dream of? How many of you still think that kaffir is an appropriate word to refer to black people? How many of you have discouraged or disowned a parent, son, daughter, aunt, uncle, grandchild, friend or colleague from dating or marrying a Black, Coloured, mixed race, or Indian individual? How many of you are happy to express your affections between the sheets but not in public, because you’re ashamed or petrified of the social repercussions that might befall you? Lastly how many of you, have thought or said in the last few weeks, Ah look at those dumb black people destroying our country again?

I cannot tell you how many times I have heard or read such remarks from white South Africans. Nowadays I laugh, because I realise these remarks are fuelled by ignorance and irrational fear. The irony is, a great deal of you who hold and practice these views, have contributed to the xenophobic attacks taking place today. You may not have thrown stones, lit a match, or displaced foreigners, but everyday that you’ve discriminated against a black individual; you have contributed to the hatred they have towards their own skin colour.  You’ve assisted in pushing them towards a corner of violence, as they believe that is the only way they can break free from their shackles. So before you point fingers at them, ask yourself what you’ve done to transform the future of South Africa? What have you done to overcome the psychological barriers that Joe Slovo spoke of? Do you identify yourself as a ‘Jon Smith’, Afrikaner, English, or South African first? I suggest that you measure yourself up to your high standards before you argue to be better than your black neighbour!

Black South Africans, you’ve also contributed to the issues at hand. How many of you can say with absolute certainty that you’ve never thought or said something sexist, tribalist, racist, homophobic or Xenophobic? I’ve also read a great deal of social messages from my black brother and sisters, and the sentiments have been the same. We all condemn the violence acts that have been done to foreigners but none of us, in my opinion have the right to belittle the emotions those South Africans. It’s been twenty one years of Independence and the civil liberties that were promised have not been delivered. How many people have received the RDP houses they were promised? How many people have been screwed over by the lack of service delivery and yet are still expected to pay their taxes on time? How many of you have worked your butts off and still cannot afford to give your children a better future than you had? Listen I agree that none of these or any other issues can excuse the surge of violence, however ignoring the root of problem would be as foolish as their actions. Remember Madiba said that no one man or woman was born hating another, hatred is something that is taught and learnt.

Secondly, I have heard a great deal of black South Africans complain about the racism in their country, however some of you also contribute to the problem. Some of you also show and express utter revulsion at interracial relationships. Some of you also express racist remarks or think them. I’ll say to you, racism is racism, whether it is expressed by a white person or black person. Like I said above, you are part of the problem and have contributed to the animosity that we’ve seen in last few weeks.

Thirdly, I understand that you and the national government entered into a social contract and you expect them to not only protect, but provide those civil liberties but that does not mean that the government will hand you those things on a silver platter. You have to work hard to get what you want. Life is not a bed of roses, neither is it a venue for you to steal, intimidate or kill another human being. Those very foreigners that you’ve attacked have been screwed over by their governments as much as you; but rather than turn to criminality they have chosen to work for want they long for. In addition those very foreigners you’ve displaced not only pay their taxes, contribute to your economy, create employment for many of you, but they are a perfect reflection of you. They look like, suffer like you and dream for better, just like you. So rather than hate, why not learn from them?

Now I will move to ANC, EFF, the Zulu King and institutions of higher learning.  None of you have set a good example. You, like everyone else, have also contributed to the state of this nation. To the ANC current political leader, you have continually refused to take responsibility for money that was spent in Nkandla. As the leader of the state, you are meant to serve the people not serve yourself. This is not the age of pre-colonialism where chiefs and kings could live in grandeur, while their subjects lived in abject poverty. The law of the land is to be respected and practised by all.

Secondly, you cannot condemn Xenophobia, when recent laws have shown that, you too are anti-immigration. The new immigration laws are against globalization and the principles of fair economic practice. I understand that you are there to protect the rights of your people, but so are other governments and we are still accepting your citizens in our countries. Like I said, you are part of the problem and you need to fix yourselves, before you can point fingers.

EFF, I have seen passionately participate in political discourse and I admire that sometimes, however respectable conduct must always be maintained. You cannot go around pointing fingers, while your leaders and followers destroyed public property in the name of oppression. You cannot continue setting bad examples in the national assembly and then turn around and condemn Xenophobia. Whether you are part of the opposition or government, you are there to observe the law and set appropriate examples.

In conclusion, we are all to blame for Xenophobia, violence and criminality that has taken place. I am Kenyan and I cannot stand on any moral ground, I have said tribalist, racist and homophobic things, but I own my sins and I have rectified them. What about you? Are you going to own your wrongs and start embracing Madiba’s dream?


Kenyan Turf. (read with caution, as content is intense, especially if your a rape victim or individual panic/anxiety)


We’ve all seen the posters or heard the catchphrases used to describe home. Some read home sweet home, or home is where the heart is, or a home is where hopes and dreams are built! In the past these phrases not only reflected my emotions towards my family home but they mirrored my feelings towards my motherland. Kenya was my cradle, my hope, safe place and my love. It was the place I’d learnt to walk, ride a bike, read and write, relate to nature and be whole. Kenya runs through my veins and is engraved in my heart! But in June 2009, it was the fountain of hell that my rapist ruled!

I arrived in my homeland at 7:30 pm on the 9th of June. Everything felt and looked different. There was a morose dusk that surrounded the Nairobi air. The morose dusk made my homeland foreign, the people seemed very friendly and happy, which made me very suspicious of them. I was certain these weren’t the same people I knew and loved, these were not my people, but my rapist’s people; this was a fact I had to digest and remember from now on. As I finished clearing immigration and walked out of the departure terminal, I saw all these bright faces staring at me. In reality they were there to meet their loved ones, but in my reality they were there to subdue me and complete my destruction. My heart started racing, my palms were sweating and my breaths were short and difficult to swallow. The panic attack was about to commence, if I couldn’t get my rationality in order. Oh Lord! Where is mum? Where is my protection? As my fears were raining terror on me, my mum was walking towards me. I spotted her and felt a sigh of relief. She hugged me and welcomed me home. There is something so precious and pure about a mother’s touch or rather any parent’s embrace. Her embrace felt like a soft touch over my heart, her voice was a calming force, my nerves were now as calm as a saint’s paradise. I was home! I was safe!

A few days had passed and home seemed to be a minor solace. On the forty winks frontier, home had added two extra hours, so rather than sleeping two hours a night, I was sleeping four hours. This was a grave improvement. Although, I still could not sleep without my laptop playing movies, and my night terrors were still severe, and I had very little bladder control; I still felt that my nights were better. In addition, rather than my nightmares being a replay of my rape, the nightmares were now about being attacked by my rapist in my childhood room, and this time my sister and mum were there to defend me and defeat him.

That said, I completely refused to leave the house and I had fits of tears. Most people believe and some therapists will tell you, that crying is healthy, as it acts as a form of release. I totally agree with this assertion, but for a patients suffering from untreated PTSD and depression, tears aren’t a form of release, but a smoldering branding of your anguish and torture. The harder you weep, the harder the pain beats you down! In all honestly, the only thing that could release me from my agony, was the death of my rapist. His death was not going to be short and painless; his demise was to be painful and very fulfilling. I imagined burning the hands he used to hold and stretch my legs apart with battery acid. Then I’d water board him until he explained to me why he raped me. I didn’t want an apology because I knew that wouldn’t mend my hymen, I wanted an explanation to prove to me that I wasn’t to blame. After getting my confession, I’d use a sharp and scorching tiny knife to cut off his boy parts, one ball at a time. As you can see, I wanted transference of my pain. Unfortunately, no matter how hard I wished evil thoughts on my rapist, the fact of the matter was he was living his life contentedly, and marinating in the affection of his EASOC followers. So for those of you who’ve been raped or experienced a traumatic event, your anger, pain, sorrow, and grieve are very justified. Anyone who tries to tell you any different has no right to define your emotions. However, VIOLENCE IS NOT THE ANSWER, VIOLENCE WILL NOT ERASE, NOR WILL IT ALLEVIATE YOUR PAIN! THE ONLY WAY TO BEAT YOUR TRAUMA IS TO WALK RIGHT THROUGH IT. ACKNOWLEDGE IT, FEEL IT AND BEAT IT! I really wish someone had reiterated this to me over and over again!

Anyway back to the story, like I said above, I completely refused to leave the house voluntarily. I was certain that anytime I tried to leave the house, my rapist would find me and rape me again. In Cape Town, I could walk out of my prison because I knew he had relocated to Nairobi, but in Nairobi, I could not risk such heroics. Unfortunately because my family did not know what was going on with me, I had to carry on like I was normal. Normal is a very subjective and expensive commodity, but rather than admit my shame, I chose to pay the price and sacrifice the little energy I had. This is how my mum and sister got me out of the house; and each time we went to the grocery store, or out for lunch, I was on high alert and my heart would thump like a repetitive alarm system. Going to church was the hardest thing because church was now a battlefield rather than I place where I found tranquility and truth. God’s presence was terrifying because I was convinced I would spontaneously combust. This irrational fear was supported by my catholic upbringing. Catholic’s, especially priests and nuns, have a very effective way of putting the fear of God in you, especially when you’re young. When I was catholic I thought God was angry and unforgiving, like he was in the Old Testament. Don’t get me wrong, I understand that the Old and New Testament form the entirety of the Christian doctrine, but God is not an angry divinity that delights in punishing his children, instead he is merciful and forgiving, and longs to know his children. Unfortunately in 2009 and a few years after, I was disinterested in his love or attention.  I was livid and ashamed, not to mention, positive God did not love me anymore. I mean how could he love me like he did before? I was soiled now.  I believed that God thought of me, the way I had been forced to think of myself. I hated myself and I was sure God did too. So without my spiritual father and a family in the dark, who was going to protect me from my rapists? Who was going to slay my monsters and unchain me from my suffering? These thoughts intensified my pain and tears. They kept me on my toes and took away any hope I had. So even though my family was near, I was still in the wilderness alone. This was emphasized the day that my uncle came to visit.

My Uncle has been one of my father figures since my dad died. Even though my mum excelled in being mum and dad, having my uncle and brothers around ensured I had brilliant male influences. My uncle was the first person to take me to Mombasa, he was the first Kenyan male to challenge and sharpen my political and social opinions. Basically he is not only a male figure in my life; he is also someone I can always lean on. So when I moved to the Cape it was agreed that I would meet him for lunch every time I was in Nairobi, which to be honest was most vacations; unfortunately June 2009 was going to be the hardest meet up with him. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was about 10 o’clock, I was in my room as usual watching a movie or TV series, when I started hearing voices. My first thought was that my mum was having a random guest, but the closer I listened, the more I recognized the voice. It was my beloved uncle. I was super excited for a few seconds, until my irrationality kicked in. Within 5- 15 seconds I had gone from happy to absolute fear. My first thoughts were:

“How I’m going to hide the truth from him? Can I trust him? Do I trust him enough to tell him the truth? What if I told him the true and he disowned me and blamed me?”

Before I had the chance to formulate an intelligent strategy I was being called to the living room. I hugged my uncle and tried my hardest to avoid eye contact. Eventually my nerves calmed down, my heart rate reduced and everything was fine. Unfortunately, mum needed to leave. My first question, was, is she seriously going to leave me alone with my him? Yes, I know what you’re thinking, of course she was, this was her brother who had done nothing but love and protect me since I was born. But believe me when fear rules your life, facts become friction and delusion becomes fact. Until today, I cannot remember if my uncle and I went out for lunch. All I remember is the utter trepidation I felt. The hammering that my heart did and the abundant stomach cramps I had. As I’m writing this, I can see how ridiculous my fears towards my uncle were but at that time no amount of fact could have overpower my fears. Looking back, I really wish I had, had the courage to tell my family sooner about my rape, as they’re support has been nothing but paramount to my recovery.

If you’ve been raped or experienced any form of trauma, I cannot emphasize the importance of support enough. You need to confide in someone. Leaning on the right people or person in your time of need, doesn’t make you weak; it only guarantees your recovery and lightens your load! Sometimes the only way to slay your darkness is by allow others to join your battlefield.

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The curtain covering the hymen!

Miniskirts were worn prior to the sixties, the exact date of the invention of this piece of fashion is unknown, but what is definitely documented is its popularization. Miniskirts were popularized in 1965 by Mary Quant.[1] Since then the mini skirt has been a go to fashion piece for women. Unfortunately, this piece of garment seems to be in the middle of recent controversial debates across the African continent. According to section of men, this garment speaks to the moral compass of the person wearing it, and thus deserves a particular response from them. In my opinion, this debate is a cheap tactic to maintain patriarchal rule over women’s bodies and their sexuality. 

Do men really control the curtain covering the hymen? Can morality really be held hostage by sexual categorization of women’s wear? Are miniskirts really against a certain culture?

Two Monday’s ago, I was skim reading current affairs in Kenya and my heart stopped when I read the headline: “Mothers in minis? Not in my school, says head.”[2] A male principle of an all boys high school in Kenya, had barred female parents from visiting their sons in school, because they were indecently dressed. He claimed:

“Parents should not embarrass their sons when they visit this school. There is no ‘my dress, my choice’ here,”[3]

“We have done it before and nothing will stop us from doing it again. As a parent, you must remain simple, humble and smartly dressed,”[4]

Honestly I am not only appalled that this man holds such chauvinist views, I’m an completely vexed that he has gall to express them in public, let alone implement these sexist views. The assertion and implementation of these views implies that men hold the power to influence the decisions that women make about their own bodies and sexualities. It implies that the garment covering the hymen speaks to the moral compass of said woman, which allows men to determine the fate of that woman, by aligning certain moral assumptions to her. Such assumptions support fallacious arguments that women’s clothing provokes a particular response from men, and that these women deserve the consequences laid on top of them. A number of rapists and serial rapist have argued that their violated women because of their of their dress code, according to them these women deserved it because their dress code implied that these women were accustomed to behaving in a certain way. Like my colleague Farai Sevenzo pointed out in his article, a letter to Africa:

“This line of argument gets us all nowhere very fast and fails to acknowledge that people who rape or are driven to drooling uncontrollably at the sight of a female thigh with which they are not well acquainted are provoked only by the demons in their own heads and pander to their basest natures.”[5]

Thus the principle of that school should have set due precedent for those boys and other young men, by helping them to understand that not only is a woman’s dress her choice, but real men should learn to respect those choices. In addition, he should have pointed out to those boys that it is their responsibility to control their urges and learn not to act upon those urges. Instead, his declarations have taught these sixteen year old boys that a piece of garment reflects a person’s morality. As seen above, he clearly states that a woman who doesn’t dress decently is not humble. After such an assertion, how are these boys ever going to learn to respect women, if their own principle is critiquing their own mothers? Like Rousseau said:

“… Social order is a sacred right which is the basis of all other rights. Nevertheless, the right does not come from nature, and must therefore be founded on conventions.”[6]

Are these really the erroneous ethics that we want to pass on to our children?

Secondly, the picture used to advertise this issue by the Daily Nation (A popular newspaper, in Kenya), was completely inappropriate and underplayed the issue at hand.


mini-skirtAre we really expected to believe that the above picture is a correct representation of the kind of attire in question? It is a well known and accepted assumption by many Kenyans and Africans, that miniskirts are any skirt that is above the knee, yes you heard me, any skirt or dress that shows a modest amount of thigh muscle, is indecent and unacceptable. So not only does the above picture demean women, it validates the utterances of the named principle. In addition, like the vice president of Zimbabwe was quoted saying:

“”Women used to wear nhembe (a short apron) but no one protested,[7]”…

“What matters are [a woman’s] morals, not dressing. It is her right,[8]

So after reading the above comments, I decided to dig into history and see what the fuss is about miniskirts. Why were miniskirts offending men so much if back in the day, women used to roam the earth bare breasted wearing beaded skirts or loincloths, or nhembes?

According to some authors, colonization not only had an adverse effect on our political and economic systems, it also changed our social order and principles. As much as I see the slight validity in that argument, I am of the opinion that this issue has been accentuated by the rise of globalization and modernity. The more that these systems thrive, the more women’s rights are asserted and respected (at least in principle), which loosen the noose of patriarchy. The assertion of women’s rights makes a certain sect of men feel like they are losing their rightful control over women and are thus being disempowered. I’m sure some of you think I’m over thinking this, but seriously think about it, if women used to wear more ‘offensive’ and indecent clothes in the past, and miniskirts existed prior to the 1960’s, why has women’s clothing become such a sore thumb in some people’s lives? Why do some African men, feel the need to argue that this way of dressing is un-African and against Christian morals?

The latter question should raise more eyebrows then I can count, because Africans have long argued that Christianity erased every ounce of African morals. Yet in this case, these very Africans have embraced Christian morals as their moral compass. The irony of this is the white colonialists, who taught us Christianity, are the ones that promoted ‘indecent’ female dressing among their own popularise. So in fact the very arguments that have been made against the above subject, just contradict each other. In addition, let’s not forget that Christ himself left us with the doctrine of not judging each other. I believe his exact words were, it is not our place to judge as that is God’s mandate.

So the next time you want to use religious rhetoric to judge women’s morals based on their choice of dress, remember the members of ISIS, who decided to kill some women for indecent dress. Their idea of indecent dress was that these women were showing too much of their eyes.

Thirdly, I urge sexist men of any nationality, to follow the example of their Turkish colleagues, who took up wearing miniskirts to protest the rape and murder of a young woman. The aim of the social media protest was to show that a attacking a particular person based on their dress choice is not an excuse. If men from this conservative country can unite and rise against such a fallacious argument, why can’t we?

What moral code do we as a human race want to be known for? Do we want to be defined by fallacious arguments or the respect and protection of the rights of women and children?

Lastly, I want to urge the Kenyan leaders and population to join me in demanding an apology from the principle of that school. Let’s demand respect for our mother!
















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