An African woman wrapped in religion

When it rains in Africa, it pours, literally buckets. I was driving down the street in Nairobi by the infamous Florida Bar when I saw a shadow of a person in front of the headlights of my car. It seemed to be a woman, drenched, soaked, plain wet, and it did not look like it was going to get any better.

I stopped my car, threw open the door and said "Habari!" She looked at me African women painting

and said "nzuri," which meant good but it was certainly out of habit and not a reflections as to how things were. She climbed into the car, and due to her wetness from the windows fogged and I did a rare thing in Africa, turning my window defogger on. I looked at her as she took the covering off of her head and could tell immediately by her skin color, shape of face, that she was a Somali.

"Where are you going?" She wanted to go to Eastleigh, the little Mogadishu of Nairobi. This area had been given to Somali soldiers during British Colonial rule and remained a bit of Somalia in Kenya filled with mosques, women covered in black and only a slit for their eyes, men with beards and names like Ibrahim. When walking around the markets you could smell spices, the smell of roasted goat on an open fire, the sounds of hawkers and the call to prayer from the minaret of the nearby mosques.

She wanted to go Eastleigh, not the safest place this late hour of the night. The last time I had been there during daylight, my car had been stripped in minutes of anything that could be removed. It certainly was not my destination of choice, but then could I just dump this person unceremoniously just a few feet from where I picked her up? It was too late for the Bus service to run, and I was out of cash on hand for a taxi. Off we drove, toward Eastleigh...

"What were you doing in town?" was my question to her. She told me that she came almost every night to the Florida nightclub and was hoping to find a man she could marry and then live with him. She said that life had been hard since she left Mogadishu, that she saw her husband killed when men came to her house, and they shot her in the shoulder and left for dead with her baby screaming on the floor.

She looked young, but she had lived a painful life at her young age. Now she was here, and even though she did not tell me, I could tell by the way she dressed that she was a prostitute, that she sold herself, just to get enough for food, rent, and a few other things, most of all support for her family.

She was wearing a miniskirt, a halter-top revealing her midriff and she had used a konga wrap around on top of her head to cover her from the rain.

Her name was Sophia, and she had come to Nairobi a year ago by plane, leading me to believe that at one time she had been wealthy for African standards. Yet I also knew that as a non-Kenyan, she could not legitimately work here and that was one of the reasons why she was in prostitution.

I looked over to her as I was driving and felt her inner pain; she misunderstood and asked me if I wanted her to come home with me tonight. I simply smiled and thanked her and told her something about being too old...we both laughed and I drove on.

As we did she did something strange, or so it appeared, she took the Konga wrap and used it as a skirt, taking another one out of her bag and using it to cover her head and upper body...I knew we were coming closer to her neighborhood and if she wanted to get into her home safely she could not remain dressed as she was.

I asked her if she was a Muslim, and of course I knew the answer, I also knew that she as a Somali was circumcised like all other women from her culture including some famous ones like the model "Iman." Yes, she was returning to her male dominated world ruled by fear and superstition. Where women like her would be stoned and buried in a shallow grave without any further thought.

By now we were in little Mogadishu, she gave me some final instructions and soon I was at the place where she lived. She asked if I could give her my address. I gave her my business card and she thanked me as she exited into the night. (Africans are into networking and will always ask for address and phone numbers and one will always receive a call in the future, part of the strong survival instincts)

As I drove back to my home on Ngong Road, many thoughts passed through my head. Were we not all like Sophia, putting on the coverings over our real self...living a pretense life in front of others, afraid of being authentic, the real us? I looked back over my own life, and how many times I allowed someone to bully me into acting in a certain manner because it was expected of me. How many times did I live an image a pretend and not the real me. Authenticity, how often did it escape me?

I also saw what religion does without Grace...here was a woman mutilated, numbed from feeling closeness with the person who was to be her husband and lover, because her society saw sexuality as an evil thing to be subdued by taking the pleasure out of it. Religion where God is a giant No, where people like Sophia had to dress in a certain way in order to find acceptance and safety, to conform to an image of what is right set down by someone else.

My thoughts went to women as a whole in the African society. I was in a country, where parliament had just overwhelmingly voted against the rights of a woman, allowing wife beatings to continue, where all over East Africa women were second hand citizens. Daughters not enrolled in school because there was no need to educate a woman who would just raise the children. Where women had to give out sexual favors to gain or keep employment. Where most girls were sexually abused by the time they reached 14...Incest being the hidden sin in Africa.

Yes, I could understand why Sophia covered herself, why she pretended to be what she was not...but the reality of it is - "don't we all?"...jon

Something opens your wings. Something makes boredom and hurt disappear. Something fills the cup in front of us. We taste only sacredness.

Rumi

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