I am always careful when I write these kinds of memoirs, because I know the weight of my words. The complexities of the human state are so, well…, complex. A point that was well articulated in Chinua Achebe’s 1960s novel, No Longer at Ease. I would urge you to get a copy and read it.
The black feminist movement pointed out that the dilemma of what they call being black, poor and a female. While I do not subscribe to general feminist theory, at least in its purest form, I can appreciate the moral complexities all these interconnected factors may pose. Mull on this for a while as I use the same idea as a springboard for what I want to say; being a black, poor man cannot be any less complex no doubt.
***
The air was electric and despite the heat of the hot African day the turn out for this particular event was massive to say the least. All around one spotted mothers with children in tow, gay men and women,youths, boyfriends with girlfriends walking hand in hand.
Of course all this made sense in light of the fact that this was a highly anticipated event on the social calendar, anybody who was anybody would be there from celebrities to average Joe and Janes.
We made our way in and I was extremely glad that we passed the long snake-like queues with some ease. Sure there was a queue leading to the entrance of the general standing section too, but it was better than the seated tickets by far. Finally once in the stadium I could look around and take it all in. “Mama I made it”, bussing in my slightly aching head; no sooner had the scorching sun finished licking my newly exposed legs turning them a darker drown, then the rain ensued with an equally punishing shower.
All through out the afternoon the pulsating crowd was on a high; everybody couldn’t wait to see the Carters, Bey and Jay. Artist after artist pledged their support and various speakers talked about the much needed intervention in Africa. Amongst these pertinant issues was the need to educate young women, the need to stop violence against women and children.
When my gazing of the stage was temporarily broken, I couldn’t help but wonder… Interrupted by hearing a raised voice to my left, I turned my head to see a rather obese, dark skinned man engaging in an altercation with a much smaller fair skinned woman who looked like she was part of the event organising crew. It appeared that the man was in an inebriated state as his partner attempted to bring his attention back to the concert. I could hear shouts of “v**tsek” and “don’t touch me, I’ll beat you up” departing from the man’s lips. I wondered why not a single man in the vacinity intervened at this threat to beat up a woman half his size?
***
I continued to wonder, and I clearly needed to swallow my optimism when another man refused to move out of the way for a young girl whose view he was obstructing. The man was employed by a security company. I watched him slap the very same girl so hard she lost her balance and almost fell on top of me, in front of all and clearly fearing no one. Of course imbokodo did not take this lying down and a group of us girls rallied together to deal with the situation.
Being an idealist maybe I just think too much and I should just leave it there.
So what does this have to do with the complexities of being human? Nothing, except that women still end up fighting their own battles and that lots of men got to see Bey slay that day.
Love and peace
Fi
The Chronicles of Nana 