Why? Why rile me up?

Bwandungi — Thu, 28 Aug 2008 00:31:26 +0000

Sigh.

Here I am again, fighting the urge to take my hands out of my mouth so I can say what is bothering me.

I’ve given up on african men. There will NEVER be a time when they think of women (black, white or inbetween) are anything but subjects of their fantasies and tools to use to make their homes, have their children and get out of their way.

Enter Hilary Bainemigisha.

Image hocked from New Vision

His Editor demands an article or column or whatever it is he presents, and the article Fantasising about female athletes falls out of his brain through his computer and assails us.

Forget the lack of focus in his piece and the less-than-enthusiastic barb at the Ministry of Sports. Let’s focus on the eye catching title and the second half where he places himself in bed with one of the athletes. No… hold the puking. You won’t have to do that!!!

According to this man, female athletes sacrifices her femininity when she trains her body and develops it into the lean and muscular fat burning machines we’ve come to associate with them. Forget strength, agility, hard work, healthy living and the undeniable vibration of life that emanates from these hard working women. Because female bodies are not attractive unless they are soft and doughy, just like the oestrogen filled men we see every day.

There was no story about their hard work, about her background, what obstacles she had to overcome to get where she is, a breakdown of the race in which she participated. No. Unless she’s the subject of his mental jerk-off she’s not worth mentioning.

Her beautiful body is ignored because “…Her face had a mournful expression that tore it into ugly postures of a manly nature…” his fantasy world fades into oblivion because he’ has focussed on her face. Disappointed that his ultimate end hasn’t been reached in this little fantasy he’s carrying on, he declares that he hates masculine women and female boxers.

Case and point mofo.

If a woman doesn’t fit his ideal fantasy mate, then he declares hate? A strong word? A misused word? Probably, but if you listen carefully you will find this particular sentiment echoed around brothers.

Why can’t she be lauded for her prowess on the field rather than in the bedroom? Why is interest piqued simply because he imagines himself spending hours with her bouncing around and pleasing him like the big chested stars of his hidden movies? Why can’t he describe the race in which she ran, the other women she competed against, what other races she might have competed in?

At this point in his story, she has ceased to be a human being with a history, except for the very brief moment she starred in his fantasy. She is an instrument. A tool for his pleasure. And when his pleasure ceases, she is no longer relevant. He declares his hate, mentions his mother’s breast (allbeit in between the lines) and ends his story/column/whatever.

And this is called journalism. And this is the Africa our leaders are calling us to return to. To work for men whose mentality is no better than this and have ourselves belittled and abused whenever we no longer satisfy their need to sexualize us.

Thanks but no thanks.

And now, to put focus back where it is due, here are Constantina’s stats and a little background on her.

Getting Twisted

Bwandungi — Tue, 31 Jul 2007 02:09:18 +0000

Can I just say this?

Truth be told, I didn’t always love it. There were countless Sundays after my Mom had brushed and combed my hair into submission, that I balanced a carefully sculpted coiffe through Sunday School, play and countless children’s fingers Mom would always ask what I’d been doing all day to get my hair that messy. All I wanted was a pony tail like all the other girls were wearing.

It has been many years since Mom took care of my hair. I wore it natural for many years, then relaxed, in braids, wore it for 5 years in dreadlocks and then cut them all last year so I could find a job. Turns out I didn’t need to, but it was time for change anyway.

The struggle continues. Every weekend I have to allow my hair to breathe, I have to drench it in all kinds of exotic oils and then I have to twist it up to protect it from the elements. It’s a lot of hard work and seems to consume a lot of time and effort. However, when I stand in front of a mirror and see the texture of my hair, the way the wiry nature holds together to form beautiful twists, I can’t help feeling a little pride in my heart. I have beautiful hair and it is beautifully nappy!

I loved growing dreadlocks. I loved the effort it took every Sunday to wash and condition and twist. I look forward to seeing what my hair can become.

That is almost what this blog became about. But for now I’m going to try something else. I hope you’ll be able to come with me!

I'm jus' sayin' » honor

Why? Why rile me up?

Getting Twisted