By Gershwin Wanneburg

Welcome, fellow Afro-kwea lovers!  This is the first installment of my Afro-kwea literature mission. I decided to embark on this mission after my recent disappointment with how we are viewed in other parts of the world. My goal is to read solely Afro-kwea books for at least the next year. Aside from my anger at the dismissal of African lives elsewhere, this ambition was also motivated by a new wave of homophobia that has spread across the continent — and indeed in other countries. It’s hard to say who inspired whom. 

My goal is to counter this intolerance by doing my bit to increase our visibility. 

It is a strange and unsettling feeling when you realise that you are an endangered species in the place you have called home your whole life; the place you have dedicated your entire productive life to.

It is similar to discovering that your lover has strayed from the affair you considered sacred. Was any of it real? Will you ever love again? Will anyone ever love you again? You question everything, oscillating between rage and confusion, thought and feeling, unable to define the dizzying, disorienting looseness, which is especially troubling when you have made a career out of describing things with words. What triggered the betrayal? Was it something you said/did? Some innate flaw that renders you unlovable? Is this shortcoming irreversible; or the love simply unrequited?

Truly, the feeling of being rendered homeless in your own home is a mind-bending, soul-twisting feeling of being cast away, put out, left defenceless, and deliberately, for dead.

For the past twenty years, from my post on the tip of Africa, I have recorded the stories of my immediate and wider community. Trawling through my journalistic archives recently, I came across stories about the transition from apartheid; the HIV/Aids pandemic; crises in neighbouring Zimbabwe and, much further afield, the Congo and Sudan.

My output documents a troubled continent, to be sure, but also one that is trending, albeit ever so gradually, towards democratic rule. Perhaps it is my residual 1994 optimism (or my refusal to accept that we have strayed hopelessly from those euphoric days) but any news of strife in these parts still catches me off-guard. Africa is vast, but I cannot help but consider every inch of it part of my neighbourhood — blame Thabo Mbeki’s poetic pan-African aspirations for sullying my mind in my easily inspired 20s. 

For all these reasons, I was stung when the news broke from the other side of the continent in May that President Yuweri Museveni had signed off on legislation that outlaws homosexuality in Uganda. According to Human Rights Watch, the new legislation compounds existing prohibitions on same-sex relations. For example, it introduces capital punishment for “aggravated homosexuality.” It also increases the prison sentence for attempted same-sex conduct to 10 years. LGBTQ activists and donors of human rights organisations could be jailed for 20 years for “the promotion of homosexuality.”

I was the proverbial baby ejected from the bath, despite my relative safety and comfort as a queer person in Cape Town, known as the pink capital of my country. I am grateful for the safety and freedom that our liberal attitudes here in South Africa afford me. So, why did Uganda, thousands of miles away, leave me sleepless, with an almost physical agony? I found myself in a constant cloud of grief. And so did my gay siblings. “If that happens in South Africa, I will become a terrorist,” one of them declared.  

I have examined these feelings for weeks and this is what I have concluded. 

Aside from the obvious sense of compassion and kinship for our queer community in Uganda, what occurred to me, quite frighteningly, was: If it can happen there, it can happen here. Already we have seen prominent politicians like Helen Zille mimicking Trumpian/Republican Party slogans about anti wokeism, a harbinger of what could come if we do not ward off these ideologies before they take root. In case you didn’t know how far the political pendulum has swung in South Africa, Zille was the same woman who revealed evidence that the death of anti-apartheid activist Steve Biko was not an accident, but caused by injuries inflicted by security officers while Biko was in prison in 1977.   

Several other alarm bells have been ringing loudly, from the direction of the right, many of them from the Democratic Alliance, the main opposition party to which Zille belongs. Recently, the leader of the Democratic Alliance, John Steenhuisen, compared his party’s political ambitions to those of the fathers of apartheid, the National Party. 

Meanwhile, former DA leader, billionaire businessman Herman Mashaba, has started his own political party, Action SA, which he has used unabashedly to promote his anti-immigrant views. 

If you ask me, in a country where about 70% of the population consists of fairly conservative Christians, it is not too far a stretch to believe that other minorities could become targets of this kind of vitriol, especially as opposition parties battle to unseat the African National Congress and upset its post-1994 dominance. We have seen it happen elsewhere; in fact, just across the border in Zimbabwe and Botswana, where other leaders have used homophobia to rally support for their flailing regimes.

These considerations aside, opposing anti-democratic tendencies anywhere is the right thing to do – for all our sakes. Not only that: it is the pro-African thing to do. Along with climate change, gender equity, anti-poverty strategies, homophobia, transphobia and other forms of discrimination are counter to everything that our best leaders have strived for since the independence movements of the 1950s and 1960s. No matter how many roads, clinics, schools, and power stations we build, collectively and individually, we will never reach our fullest economic, political and human potential — inscribed in so many declarations and speeches since 1963 — if we do not respect the fundamental rights to life and dignity of LGBTQ folk. Emphasis on the latter — folk, people, kin, our very own. 

 My Afro-kwea diary: #1

I started off by reading the second edition of a collection of short stories, which has become a classic of sorts over the past two decades. Here are my thoughts on this fascinating anthology.

Queer Africa 2: New and Collected Fiction, edited by Karen Martin and Makhosazana, published by Mathoko’s Books, 2017

From the moment I opened this book, I felt a deep sense of familiarity and gratitude. The familiarity stemmed from both the language and settings, which I instantly recognised even though I had not personally been to many of the villages and cities. There’s a certain domestic quality about these stories that instinctively resonated with me, perhaps because I recognised in them the way that English has been shaped by the communities reflected in these narratives, the same way that we have indigenised English where I come from. 

The gratitude I felt was directly related to this sense of recognition. I felt grateful that the editors had recorded these stories because every African story recorded is another opportunity to affirm our existence. The fact that many of the stories are from countries where queer people are still outlawed deepened my sense of gratitude and joy. 

The book begins with an introduction that helpfully outlines the contemporary context in which it was produced: the struggles that continue to define the lives of LGBTQ people to this day. It reminds us that, even though these battles remain, and have in some cases worsened, that is not only a cause for despair. 

These stories don’t only record our existence. They record our defiance—the fact we refuse to be silenced; we will continue to find ways to tell our stories, to record our loves and our longings. 

21 September 2023

I’ve just read Is it Love that Has you? by Bishara Mohamed, which takes place over two periods: hot and arid season and rainy season. The contrast of tenderness and violence will stay with me for a long time. The story is about Sabrin and Ubax, two adolescent girls from Xamar on the coast of Somalia, who share a “secret lovership.” I enjoyed how the writer dropped in atmospheric touches about place and culture, but not so much the cliched descriptions of anxiety and teenage hormones — froze with panic, weak in the knees etc. Aspects of the story are slightly underdeveloped. Nevertheless, I wouldn’t mind a novel or film that explores the world of Sabrin and Ubax more fully.

22 September 2023

The Stone by Matshepo Thafeng. Set in the village of Bakgatla, home to an ancient stone that is “old and full of wisdom.” The kingdom has fallen on hard times after a prolonged drought. King Lamar, on his deathbed, sends his daughter on a rescue mission to the nearby Nongoma (it’s unclear if this is a reference to the real place). Some surprising plot twists that could have been refined a bit more, as with the language. One example of many: a character being “pulled and dragged” into a car. An interesting concept but slightly confusing and unresolved. 

25 September 2023

Tar by Michael Agugom

Not so sure about its queerness but I will say this: rarely have I been so entertained by a rodent! 

28 September 2023

Mirage of War by S van Rooyen

Two brothers, a doctor and a soldier, torn apart by war in the apartheid era. The soldier, Stan, recalls the terrors of the war in Namibia and details some of the violence he has seen and the names of the injured and fallen. His memories of his brother, both traumatic and nurturing, sustain the main character as he recounts the nightmare scenes of war. Hard to read in places, this story should definitely come with a trigger warning. 

2 October 2023

Maimuna Doesn’t Know by Wilfred Jean-Louis

A DL story about two gay men in Mombasa who relate the stories of the married men they are in relationships with. A few heartbreaking moments, especially as one of them describes missing his lover, but missing some elements.

My Body Remembers a War Cry by Zukolwenkosi Zikalala 

A campus love story about two boys from different backgrounds who seem to be heading to different destinies, too. A somewhat interesting portrait of campus culture and politics in post-apartheid South Africa. 

This Tomorrow was Christmas by Juliet Kushaba 

An unexpected Christmas guest leads to an awkward family gathering. I hoped the details about six-fingered Siima, who received a disturbing prophesy from a holy man, might lead to a more interesting conclusion but that wasn’t to be.

Stowaways by Alexander K. Opicho

Not perfect but fascinating. A Kenyan father has saved up just enough money to cover his daughter’s college fees. On their way to enroll her, they experience a series of dramatic events that cover the breadth of political and ethnic tensions in contemporary Kenya, not to mention the family dramas at home. 

Wednesday 4 October 2023

Staying Afloat by Unoma Azuah

Funny and strange. Part weird job hunt story/part odd love story. Young Ihuoma loses her job in a bookstore after the owner runs into some sort of financial trouble. She soon finds a job at a newspaper but not before a disturbing/amusing encounter with her new employer. But there are even more whacky moments once she secures the job. Enjoyable but maybe one too many narrative leaps.

Going Home by Alistair Mackay

Two South African expats reunite in New York. One white, one coloured. They attended the same high school but were not exactly friends. They share an awkward encounter as the past resurfaces.

Thursday 5 October 2023

Awure Ife Ran by Rafeeat Aliyu

Noura’s friend Gigi arranges for her to meet a Babalawo to help her find true love. She’s given a chant that is supposed to help her fall in love with the first man she meets after using it but that doesn’t quite go according to plan. 

Friday 6 October 2023

Nine Pieces of Desire by Idza L

Wow. Just breathtaking. I don’t want to reveal too much but here’s a line from the protagonist, Mariam, dealing with her mother’s grief over the death of her sister. “Mama doesn’t like tears. She prefers her sorrow dry.”

Monday 9 October 2023

Pampers by Olakunle Ologunro 

A youngster is anxious about gay sex. Is it true what the boys at school say: Do your intestines fall out afterwards and do you need a diaper to prevent that from happening? Enter Nohoum Amadi, an exotic boy from Mali. His name reminds the protagonist of “dust-covered, long-forgotten library books.” The two instantly fall in love/lust. 

Thursday 12 October 2023

My Dad Forgot my Name by Victor Lewis

Shoo. If you’re into that kind of thing, I guess. 

Monday 16 October 2023

Aqua Speaks

Thando finds herself isolated in so many ways. She is far from home, one of few women working on a forestry plantation in Cape Town in area that is both beautiful and isolated/isolating. Everything about her seems to offend her colleagues and those she comes into contact with in this fraught environment. Even the local sex workers mock her when she tries to befriend them. Various narrative strands — memory, trauma, loneliness — are beautifully woven together with the pressing needs of the present.

Gershwin Wanneburg is a South African writer and editor, whose career credentials include Reuters news agency and the African Development Bank. See more of his work on Substack, on his website, his blog purpletolavender, and on Instagram at gershwinwanneburg.