Chimamanda wrote an article about depression. It was a beautiful piece, an intensely personal one that rang true on so many levels. But she didn’t want it published, and so it got pulled off the internet. I wish she’d reconsider, though I get where she’s coming from. Depression is a very private battle, and fighting it in front of the world makes it so much harder.

I’ve been feeling rather strange the past few weeks. Well, it actually started last November, but I’ve kept it undercover – even from myself – until now. Of course anyone that knows me knows there’s something wrong when my blog goes quiet. I need to write as much as I need to breathe, so when I’m not writing, it’s usually because something is seriously wrong.

I can usually spot my depressive episodes. Not this time. This time the depression had a make-over. It didn’t creep up like it usually does, shrouded in silence and nothingness. This time, it was dressed in red. It zoomed towards me clothed in rage and hunger, and inexplicable whirlwind of emotion and not-enough-ness. I felt inadequate, and that made me angry.

For weeks I’ve been storming around with a scowl on my face, slamming doors inside my head and not quite knowing why. I’ve noticed that in a lot of this year’s photos, I have this ugly frown on my face, which either means I’m growling more … or taking more photos. I’m always tired, and my feet hurt all the time, which made me think I was getting fatter, even though my workmates say I’m actually losing weight. I feel overwhelmed, overstimulated, and unsatisfied, yet there’s nothing on my to-do list to warrant it.

Then today I met someone I used to care about … and felt nothing. The encounter lasted minutes. I used to spend hours talking to him, suddenly he had nothing to say to me, and I had nothing to say to him. I hugged him, because it felt silly to shake his hand. I smiled at him, because it seemed appropriate. He smiled back. I tried to see whether the smile had reached his eyes, but the sun was too bright for me to tell. He talked about my hoodie and my hair. Then he walked away.

I wanted to look back, to see if he was alone, to see if he was rushing towards another girl. Luckily, my pride wouldn’t let me. Instead, I went and stood in line for the matatu. And instead of doing the smart thing and playing Candy Crush, I asked myself why I felt nothing. Which – naturally – unleashed all the feelings I’d suppressed during that one-minute-meeting. And the clearest one was loud, raw, unfounded bile.

Once I got to work, locked myself in the bathroom, had a good cry, washed my face, and came back to my desk, I thought about Chimamanda’s piece and realised this was a new phase of depression. The exhaustion I feel despite 8 hours of sleep, the lack of interest in anything, the unfocussed buzzing in my head, the vague desperation for something new – anything new, the conviction that nothing I do is enough and so there’s no need to try.

I wondered what the issue was, because there’s nothing specific to be furious about, and yet I am. I blamed it on my hormonal cycle, yet three cycles have come and gone and the rage goes unabated. I’ve quantified it, telling myself I just turned 33 but have no house and no car and am therefore unsuccessful, but I count my blessings – a well-paying job, a loving family,  awesome friends, my happy pre-teen child … and I realise that can’t be it.

I’ve even tried to blame it on a man, looked around, found none, then blamed my anger on the absence of a man. But that’s never really bothered me before, at least not on this scale. A couple I know has been arguing for a year, having one little spat after another. I advised them to find out what they were REALLY arguing about, and they did.

So in my case, I needed to find out what I was really angry about. And the answer is … nothing. So when I read Chimamanda’s article and identified with her anger, I realised that maybe my anger was just the latest weapon in my depression arsenal. Maybe my deep dark space had realised I’ve learned to ignore the void, so it came back dressed in something else, just to get my attention. And maybe now that I recognise it for what it is, this baseless anger will go away.

I write about depression a lot, so I did a quick search on my blog and noticed something interesting. Most my depression posts are between November and February. The statistic rings true from 2008 to date. I didn’t have a blog before that, so I can’t be sure, but I suspect the pattern goes back much farther. I read about a condition called SAD – Seasonal Affective Disorder. Yes, I see the irony, and yes, it made me smile.

SAD generally attacks during the western winter. But … our winter is in July, and we don’t have snow during Christmas in this part of the world. So much as I’ve been called the blackest white girl, I doubt that’s what my SAD-ness is about. Maybe my end-year depressive episodes are more triggered by birthdays and reflection, that annual session of counting down what I have (and haven’t achieved – I’m a December baby). Either way, Njaanuary is over, so it’s possible my blues are too. Maybe I just haven’t noticed it yet. I wonder if chocolate and red flowers will help. I’m more than open to finding out…

♫ Mirrors ♫ Justin Timberlake ♫

In Mandera, 28 people were pulled off a bus and executed. They were on their way home for Christmas. 36 more were pulled out of their tents and shot dead. Their crime? Being different from their attackers. It seems in today’s world, any difference can get you killed. Being male, female, black, white, Christian, Muslim. In the wrong part of town, it can get you raped, hurt, humiliated … murdered.

I’m not going to rail against hashtag politics. As a (formerly avid) social media practitioner, I recognise the need to feel useful, to feel like I’m doing something. I understand the longing to add my voice to something important. To tweet, facebook, write a blog post. I get that, and I do it all the time. But it’s hard not to wonder if all the typing effort is useless.

Today, I thought about the schoolgirls that were kidnapped in Nigeria. Despite our best efforts, our keenest intentions, our highest profile celebrity endorsements, nobody has brought those girls home. In fact, according to the man that allegedly took them, they have converted to Islam and are now the ‘happy’ wives of their abductors. Some of those girls are as young as 12. And they look it.

My child is 12, and when I saw those photos, I wanted to share them just to show the horror of what is going on. But I stopped. I thought about it being my own child, abducted from her school. A child I may not have seen in six months. A child that may have me worrying constantly, torturing myself with images of what they might be doing to her. Then I imagined going online and seeing a picture of my child, dressed in a hijab, being marshalled as somebody’s wife.

In moments like that, it’s hard to believe that God exists.

And yet I must, because the alternative is to give in to the evil of the world. I have to believe that God is somehow watching over all those girls, and over all the other girls, boys, women, and men that are suffering sexual violence over some deranged human’s twisted ideals. I have to believe that somehow, some way, those girls will find their way back home, and that they can start to heal from the brokenness of these six months, knowing that they survived and they are alive.

I have to believe I can do more for those girls than just write pretty blog post.

Closer to home, two women have been stripped for ‘indecent clothing’ and our president has blamed a mother for leaving her child with uncles that raped her. I can’t even discuss that, because it’s far beyond anything I can fathom. Some of the ‘strippers’ were arrested and their cases are currently in court. And the government formed an ‘anti-stripping’ task force. That’s all good. But, again, I have to believe that I can do more than write about it. The trouble is … right this minute … I don’t know what ‘more’ is … so all I can do is say a prayer for that little girl, and for everyone everywhere that is hurting.

The question is though … what else can we do? The online population (for the most part) represents the educated enlightened portion of the planet. We do have opinions and a need to voice them, and maybe if we put our minds to it, we might come up with ways to do more than type, vote, and like.

I admit, I’m a little curious to see where this kind of a discussion could go. What do you think can be done? The President said security is our responsibility. Maybe we can’t barge into the bush and grab those Nigerian girls from their captors, but what can we do here and now in our own country to make things better?

I’m not talking about politics or ribboned marches – I have little patience for that. I’m talking about practical, tangible solutions that may or may not involve #serikali. Your thoughts?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D51_GQqVfSk

I haven’t talked about women being stripped in Nairobi because I didn’t know what to say about it. No, that’s not true. I knew exactly what I wanted to say. I just didn’t think it was appropriate. Because nobody has a right to strip a woman. Ever. Period.

And yet …

And yet I constantly talk to my almost-teenage daughter about clothing choices, and the consequences of those choices. And on the day the first stripping video came out, we had another one of our talks. I can only hope it sank in.

In some ways, I have a pretty simple view of the world. A man’s role is to provide and protect. A woman’s role is to nurture and support. That’s why I got the womb and he got the penis. Of course we can help each other in those roles, but in the end, our roles are still our roles.

And this is where the problem comes in.

I’m a single mum, and I left my baby’s father by choice. He was violent, abusive, and unfaithful, things I still haven’t forgiven him for, even though I sometimes think I have. After many years together, I made the difficult but necessary decision to leave. It was ugly, and it was dramatic, but it had to be done. To save my life. And to protect my child.

I’ve been blessed, because unlike some single mothers, I’ve had it fairly easy. The earlier years were harsh, risky, terrifying. But right now I have a well-paying job, a nice, comfortable house, and a healthy, happy child. Life is good for us.

Unfortunately, I do have days when I think I want a husband. And at moments like that, I wonder if I qualify to have one. After all, I don’t cook, I rarely clean, and I’m not having any more children. So … can I really ask a man to provide and protect me (and my child) when I’m not willing to make him dinner or have his babies?

That video up there *pointing* is supposed to be all about religion. It’s supposed to remind church types (and mosque types, and temple types, and other types) that protecting women is part of their duty to God. When I bumped into the video on whatsapp, I didn’t consider the religious aspect. What I saw was a woman being attacked and a group of men coming to protect her. And that’s what touched my heart.

Because over the past few weeks, two women have been stripped by men for ‘indecent clothing.’ A third woman was sexually assaulted in a matatu because of her dress, and a three-year-old girl was raped by two of her uncles in some twisted attempt to punish her mother. All this was done by … men. And caught on video. While other men (and some women) watched.

This isn’t the first time this has happened. I’ve heard of women being stripped before. Even at Embassava. I guess it’s just the first time someone caught it on tape and shared it online. So when I saw the video about religion protecting women, all I saw was the woman on the verge of attack, and the men that built a wall around her with their bodies. They protected her, the way all men should protect all women.

Of course once the video got on YouTube, the nasty comments started. Some women felt the video demeaned us, depicting us as fragile little things that need men to come rescue us. Some men felt the video was sexist because it ignored the violence against them. After all, statistics say a man is far more likely to suffer violence than a woman.

Let me just address that first, play devil’s advocate for a second. A comment like that probably comes from a man who feels belittled by the women in his life, who has watched women all around him succeed while he suffered frustration and want. Let’s say a man like that sees women as strong and domineering, and feels no protective instinct towards his mother, sister, daughter, female boss. Because without that context, a man who watches that video and makes a comment like that … is nothing but an idiot and a jerk, the kind of man that gleefully and publicly strips some random woman.

Now. Let’s consider that sexual violence leaves much deeper scars than physical violence. That the average man is both bigger and stronger than the average woman. That stolen stuff can be replaced but stolen sexuality can’t. Then let’s consider that in the average situation, if a man was bothering a woman and another man showed up, the harassment would probably stop. Because THAT is what this video says to me.

Of course the woman in this video isn’t ‘indecently dressed.’ She’s not drunk, or rude, or bitchy, or mouthy. She’s not walking in a risky part of town, or wandering around in the dark. She’s not intimidating men with her success. She’s not ‘provoking’ the interest that these men have in her. Her only crime – because it is clearly a crime – is being female.

And it’s not just about stripping women at bus stops. It’s about raping children. It’s about abducting school girls. It’s about groping workmates. It’s about catcalling strangers just for not having a dick. In all these situations, if some men had built a wall around these women, the attacks would have stopped. Immediately.

Now, back to my earlier point. As a woman who’s done with babies, who pays her own bills and lives off take-out, who will probably never wash her husband’s underwear … am I worthy of this kind of provision and protection?

Well, we live in a changing world. The kind of world where I can go to work and provide for myself and my child. The kind of world where I could walk out of a bad relationship and thrive. The kind of world where some of the world’s best chefs (and parents) are men.

50 years ago, as a daughter born in rural Africa, I would have stayed with that man until he killed me (and my child). 50 years ago, even if I had run away, I would have had no way to look after my baby. 50 years ago, I would have cooked, cleaned, and shared my man whether I liked it or not, because that was the only option for me.

Today, my daughter is confident, educated, happy, and by God’s Grace, safe. She has every opportunity I can give her, and she knows she can do, have and be anything she puts her mind to. I’m hoping and praying she won’t make the same mistakes I made, especially when it comes to men.

So, yes, I can fight my own battles, and I have taught my daughter to fight hers as well. Yes, I am powerful and wonderful and capable, and I’m not waiting around for some knight to come and save me from myself. That said, I still have a womb and the hormones that come with it. I still have a nurturing instinct that I exercise on my child, my brothers, my friends.

And I still feel the need for protection from a penis, by a penis. So I hope that we can go beyond hashtags, beyond protests, beyond mini skirts, and get all our men to realise it’s still in their nature to protect us. Because if they do, then nobody can hurt us anymore.

♫ I’m alive ♫ Qqu ♫