I Am a Girl from Africa

by Elizabeth Nyamayaro

  This connection with fellow Africans affirms my belief in everything Africa has to offer the world, fueling my passion to bring Rwanda’s exemplary model of female leadership to every country and every woman who seeks to lead and create change. I get the chance to test my theory when my UN Women colleagues in Uruguay mention that this small South American country of 3.3 million people is gearing up for elections; I seize the opportunity and immediately jump on the next plane.

  It is the middle of winter when I arrive in Uruguay’s capital city of Montevideo, but the weather is mild and pleasant; leaving the airport we drive along the coastline and its sandy white beaches. The city is noticeably quieter than New York City; there are fewer skyscrapers and more art deco buildings, and the winding streets are lined with small museums and quaint colonial homes.

  Arriving at the parliament building, an impressive neoclassical structure, I am greeted by a female member of parliament. “It is really unacceptable that women make up less than 13 percent of Uruguayan parliament,” she says. “Today we are determined to make history.” Her excitement and hope are contagious. The country’s vice president is present, and the room is packed and buzzing with close to fifty women’s rights activists, female politicians, and members of parliament.

  For the past year, these groups of pioneering and passionate women, backed by the support of UN Women, have been working tirelessly to ensure that the country’s upcoming elections will, for the first time in history, be governed by a national quota law guaranteeing that 30 percent of the seats on the ballot be filled by female candidates. Their efforts have paid off, and today they will present the signatures from their petition to the country’s vice president, with the hope of the law being adopted.

  I can feel the energy in the room, and along with it an undercurrent of anxiety. There is so much at stake here, and everyone present feels the weight of this moment. The passing of the law must succeed; otherwise it will be a very demoralizing setback that will significantly delay our progress in Uruguay. “All of us here are from different political parties, we are competitors. But we realized how important this moment is, that we are stronger when we work together, so we set our differences aside for our equality and our county’s future,” one of the impassioned activists tells me, and I think again of ubuntu and that “when we uplift others, we in turn uplift ourselves.” I know this to be true, and I long to see it come to fruition here and now.

  When my colleagues and I finally meet with the vice president for a bilateral meeting after the petition’s submission, I make a bold suggestion: “Your Excellency, there is a huge opportunity for Uruguay to make great strides toward gender equality with the adoption of this law. It would be an incredible signal to the rest of the world if the law became permanent after this year’s election.”

  A few months later, Uruguay goes to the polls, and the results are impressive. There is significantly higher voter turnout of female and young voters than in previous years. Most importantly, the 30 percent rule of representation is adopted as a permanent standard for all future elections in Uruguay. It is inspiring to see that by working together, the women in Uruguay have created real and lasting change for themselves and for their country. I feel proud and humbled by the work we have done to contribute to this historic milestone.

  Still, I keep thinking about Rwanda. Surely there has to be a way to accelerate progress for other African countries to follow Rwanda’s phenomenal example, I think. The equation is simple: when women lead, the lives of women and girls dramatically improve. When I share these thoughts with Phumzile, she says, with her usual determination: “We must send a signal to the world that African women can and will lead.” Over the next months, my colleagues and I work with the African Union and the government of Germany to launch the African Women Leaders Network (AWLN), a network of over one hundred former, current, and aspiring female political leaders across Africa, empowering them with the resources, networks, and mentorship required to build political campaigns and run for office in their respective countries.

  I search for more answers. How can we rapidly accelerate progress on gender equality around the world? How can we reverse the false notion that in order for women to win, men must lose? I know that gender equality is not a “zero-sum game,” with one gender conceding power to the other. Equality means just that—being equal. As a child of the African soil, I also know through ubuntu that no one is truly equal until we are all equal; that real and lasting change happens only when we all work together, for the benefit of everyone. I start to wonder: How can we use ubuntu to create solidarity among all genders in a way that benefits all of us?

  If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.

  —African proverb

  12

  I take a deep breath, scan the packed room, and feel my heartbeat gallop away. I can’t believe that we are finally here, gathered in the UN assembly hall, which is absolutely packed. I am intimately familiar with this room—the yellow chairs, the name placards, the people mulling about dressed in their best attire and traditional outfits—but today the room seems different, and so do I. This is not just any meeting; this is the culmination of literally thousands of hours of work. Creating change is certainly not easy, but I have never in my life worked so hard, and with such significant resistance, to see a project come to life.

  I’m exhausted and it all feels like a dream. Is this really happening? I worry that I will wake up to find that nothing has changed; that I am still working to convince our leadership team, our staff, and our partners of the wisdom and possibility of this vision. It has been an arduous journey, and though I’ve received intense pushback as well as fantastic support from my colleagues, doing so has taken more time and energy than I could have imagined. As I continue to marvel at the rows of people gathered here, I feel the full extent of my exhaustion settle in. I am a mix of bone-tired and ecstatic with relief. There have been many times when I have felt like giving up, but now here I am. Here we are.

  “Shinga,” I murmur, to remind myself that no, this is not a dream; in fact, it is the fulfillment of a dream. Around these semicircular tables sit a diverse crowd of United Nations dignitaries, including the UN president of the general assembly, Sam Kahamba Kutesa, and the UN secretary-general, Ban Ki-moon, both in beautifully tailored suits; our UN Women executive director, Phumzile; our newly appointed UN global goodwill ambassador, British actor Emma Watson; women’s rights activists, ambassadors, students, and UN staff. The hum of conversations and laughter floats through the air as the voices of the ushers cut through the chatter: “Sorry, we are at full capacity, but there is an overflow room next door. You can watch the event from there,” and hordes of people are guided out of the room. This is one of the largest crowds I have ever seen at a UN event. The thought makes my stomach churn with anxiety. It’s a make-or-break moment like none I have yet experienced. Right here and right now, all our hard work is on the line. And, especially for me, the outcome is intensely personal. I have given this my all.

  * * *

  It is September 20, 2014, and we are gathered at the United Nations headquarters in New York City, to officially launch a new initiative to advance gender equality called HeForShe. The murmurs in the assembly hall fall silent as the UN president of the general assembly takes the stage, then UN secretary-general Ban Ki-moon. As the secretary-general begins to deliver his remarks, I tremble with nervous excitement, remembering the bumpy, winding journey that has led us here, to this very public and electrifying moment.

  Six months after joining Phumzile as her senior advisor, she tasked me to design an innovative initiative that would help accelerate progress toward gender equality on a global scale. I immediately knew that we needed a transformative idea, and I thought perhaps the African philosophy of ubuntu could be a crucial component for an initiative’s success. I began to explore ways in which we could make the fight for gender equality more inclusive by inviting all other genders, in particular
men and boys, into the conversation.

  For centuries, the women’s rights movement has worked tirelessly to end the grave inequalities faced by women and girls in every country across the globe. The efforts of countless activists have paid off; thanks to their sacrifices and hard work, women’s rights are seen more and more as human rights, with more girls in most countries going to school, more women entering the workplace, and many countries passing laws that protect women and girls from gender-based violence. Yet despite all this progress, no country in the world has achieved gender equality; and at current rates it will take at least another one hundred years for gender equality to be realized, according to the World Economic Forum Gender Index.

  This is a deep source of frustration to many women who have dedicated their lives to the fight for equality, many of whom perceive men as an obstacle to their forward strides. I heard the same sentiments over and over during my consultative meetings: men are the problem; they are holding back women; men constitute the majority of the perpetrators of gender-based violence, raping and sexually harassing women, marrying underage girls, trafficking vulnerable women and abusing them; men oppress women in the workplace and pay female workers less than they pay themselves; men rule countries and create wars that leave women destitute and in refugee camps; men value women’s lives less, while expecting women to take care of the home and family, sometimes at the expense of their own dreams, and without financial compensation. Their views and perspective are understandable. How could you not expect a level of resentment when progress is this slow?

  There were others, of course, who held different views, and these voices encouraged me when I faltered or became discouraged. Like me, these supporters believed that achieving gender equality requires everyone working together to make the playing field level and fair. Despite some colleagues still insisting that I find a solution that would dismantle male privilege and flip the power dynamics in favor of women, that’s not what I had done. Instead, I decided to make men an integral, fundamental, absolutely necessary part of the solution, because I believe that they are part of the solution. I knew that when everyone was involved and everyone was invested in creating change, greater progress could be made, and more quickly. I understood the pain and frustration experienced by my fellow women, many of whom had been dismissed and mistreated by men personally. But I also knew all too well that anytime one gender dismisses or devalues another, it is a missed opportunity, a loss for all of us. I had experienced this myself, even painfully so, with my own baba.

  * * *

  One Friday afternoon, on my way to Epworth to stay with Amai and Baba for the weekend, I stop by the grocery store where Baba works to pick up groceries as Amai asked me to do. I am still a student at Roosevelt Girls High School. Baba wears a blue overcoat over a white shirt and his faded gray trousers fall only to his ankles, exposing dingy white socks and a pair of plastic brown shoes. He is his usual cheerful self, busy packing groceries for customers. His demeanor, as always, is calm and assured and he has a wide smile that lights up his face as he chats with each customer. He remembers all of their names and works hard to satisfy their needs, because, as he says, “the customer is always right.”

  I still don’t know Baba that well. I rarely see him. Like Amai, he is always at work searching for money, apart from the one Sunday a month when his Indian manager gives him half a day off. Then he is at home, where he spends hours sitting quietly on a wooden stool, his head leaning gently against the chalky, unpainted wall of the house. His eyes stare into the distance. I know him in that moment as a man lost in his thoughts, smiling softly and at rest. There is a peacefulness about him on those afternoons. It is as if Baba is able to manifest his own happiness, to visualize a happier future, one that no one else can see, one far removed from our immediate humble surroundings, one that I too have often dreamt of for myself and for my family.

  Amai says that for a very long time, Baba couldn’t find a job because he had no education. He spent months walking from house to house in the city’s nicest neighborhoods—Highlands, Avondale, Borrowdale—pleading for a job, any job. Finally, one day, a British family hired Baba as their gardener. They didn’t pay him much money, so he taught himself basic English by forcing himself to speak English with the family each day. He used his improved language skills to find a better job as a milkman. When that job didn’t pay Baba much money either, he once again searched for ways to improve himself and his situation, quickly learning how to politely engage with his customers and ensure their satisfaction. He used these customer service skills to secure a better job in a grocery store. He aspired to be a cashier, but the Indian man who owns the store, impressed with Baba’s charm and customer service skills, agreed to hire him only to bag customers’ groceries. Even though Baba was initially disappointed, he counted his blessings and accepted the job. At least now he would be able to make a bit more than at his previous job, and also enjoy the status and comfort of working inside a building, away from the blistering sun.

  I steal another glance at him, as I occasionally do when he is in his contemplative state, and think to myself, I hope that, just like Baba, I too will always find a way to create my own happiness, no matter my situation.

  After he’s finished helping customers, I follow him to the loading dock, marveling at his unique and easily recognizable gait: perfect posture, straight shoulders, his feet bouncing lightly as if he’s not just walking but dancing to some secret music in his head. We sit on the metal platform, and with his wide smile still illuminating his face, Baba hands me a cold bottle of Fanta.

  “Thank you,” I say, then take a sip. Baba is always warm and kind, but I don’t talk to him that much, so I busy myself taking small sips of my Fanta, feeling slightly awkward.

  I am surprised when Baba says, “Aaaa, I am so proud of you, Lizzy.” He has never said anything like this before, and I feel a sudden rush of annoyance and anger.

  “Why did you leave me in Goromonzi?” I blurt out. The question startles both of us. I feel heat in my face, as if I might begin to cry.

  Baba’s wide smile fades a bit, and for a moment he is quiet before saying, “To save you, Lizzy.”

  “You abandoned me!” I am unable to hide my emotions. “How is that saving me?”

  “Huhhh, our situation was serious-serious, Lizzy. Your amai and I had no choice.” Gogo says that people always have a choice to do the right thing, so I let Baba know what Gogo taught me. Frankly, I simply don’t believe him.

  Baba nods, looking thoughtful. “Eeee, the story is long-long, Lizzy. When your mother fell pregnant with you, we were both so young.” He explains that he was one of twelve children, and his mother’s favorite son. His mother, he tells me, saved the little money she made from her crops to send him to school, because he was the smart one in the family. He was expected to finish school, get a good job in the city, and then take care of the rest of his family. When Amai got pregnant with me, everything changed for Baba; he had to drop out of school and find a job to support Amai and the child he would soon have.

  “My mother was very upset and disappointed with me. She never forgave me,” Baba says, choking up. I don’t know anything about Baba’s family. Gogo said we were never to talk about Baba and his family, so we didn’t. It is painfully clear to me now that Baba’s mother, and then Gogo, wrote him off as a useless man. They didn’t want anything to do with him anymore, and because I know what abandonment feels like, I feel for him in this moment, even though for so long I have blamed him and Amai for my own suffering. No wonder I didn’t know how to imagine Baba’s role in my life, or even how to talk to him when I was living with him and Amai in their home. He clears his throat, and I watch his face and eyes travel to a dark place. I put down my Fanta and listen carefully.

  “Us, we tried living with my family, as is tradition, until you were born, but there was not enough food,” he says. “Me, myself, I tried to find a job, but eeee, it was not possible. And my mother, she became more an
d more upset; she even stopped giving your amai and me food. You, Lizzy. You, you were just a baby and you were hungry and crying all the time, but Amai couldn’t feed you because she was now thin-thin and so sick from hunger that she had no milk. Then you got very-very sick.” He pauses and swallows hard. I feel heat in my chest, imagining this—angry that his mother would refuse to give him food, and that she would allow Amai to starve, a feeling I know far too well.

  “My mother wanted nothing to do with me. She wanted us gone, so she chased us from the village. Huhhh, it was do or die, so we ran, leaving you behind with Gogo. Us, we had no choice, Lizzy.”

  Again, this business of not having a choice! Forgetting all my manners, I snap at Baba. “Do you know that I almost died? Do you know that, Baba? Gogo had to beg for food or I would have died!” I flush with anger as I yell, remembering the story of how Gogo chased away death when it came looking for me.

  “Me, I am so sorry, Lizzy. Us, we wanted so much to take you with us, but we had nothing. We had no food and no money to feed you. I was afraid you would die. Right then—I promised myself and I promised God—that me, I will work hard and find enough money. I promised to one day bring you home. And now, here you are, Lizzy. You are home with us, and your amai and I feel truly blessed. I am so proud of you.”