Lesbians and prostitutes

Despite Ghana’s democratic credentials, as the locals like to call it, a particularly virulent strain of homophobia runs through Ghanaian society. This is revealed in the absurd newspaper story below and in yesterday’s parliamentary interrogation of a female activist who has been proposed for the job of minister for Gender, Children and Social Protection. Parliament has to approve the appointment and jumped at the chance to drive her into a corner with a line of questioning that was steeped in self-righteous hypocrisy. The minister-to-be, Nana Oye Lithur, a stout woman with a disarming girlish smile, is accused of promoting gay rights because she will not publicly condemn homosexuality; in Ghana, homosexuality is generally agreed to be repugnant and not condemning it simply unacceptable. Oye Lithur argued it is her responsibility to defend basic human rights for everybody, gay or straight. “Homosexuality is a societal issue which I believe we should discuss, debate and deliberate upon and come to a conclusion as to whether we want to accept it or not,” she said. Today, on radio, church leaders and lawyers stumbled over themselves to call her a liar and a coward. Ghanaians tend to take the moral high ground on everything, using God and ‘African values’ to ward off reprehensible western practices like smoking, homosexuality and allowing women to voice an opinion.

And now, the pride of Accra, the city’s most popular weekend destination, a haven of unabashed consumerism, is seriously under threat. From the Economic Tribune:

Lesbians take over Accra Mall

One of the greatest challenges facing the managers of Accra Mall is how to deal with lesbians and prostitutes, who are using the shopping center as a fertile ground to practice their illegal trade. One major area where such lesbians and prostitutes advertise themselves is behind the doors of the various female washrooms situated in the mall. As soon as one sits on the water closet, the first thing that catches one's attention is the writing scrawled by many hands behind the door.

The contact numbers and the names of the lesbians are written on the doors with blue and black ink. Apart from lesbians, some prostitutes have also written their phones numbers behind some of the restrooms for business.  Some of them read: “Are you a lesbian? Call Lydia on …. for a chat. If you are a white lesbian, call me on… for relationship,” among others. 

“It is difficult to identify prostitutes because of the crowd that shows up on a daily basis,” said Michael Oduro Konadu, marketing officer of the Accra Mall. “Most young ladies who parade themselves on the corridors are prostitutes either waiting to be picked up by their clients or looking out for men seeking sexual adventure. Lesbians and prostitutes are posing great challenge to us, but we want to assure our customers that we shall deal with the problem as soon as possible.” 

Dispatches from the frontline

Last week in Mali, an excited crowd of journalists packed into rented 4x4’s to see what was happening at the frontline, hoping for signs of war and scenes of combat, craving the adrenaline rush of being the first to enter an inhospitable danger zone. What they found instead was bored Malian soldiers smoking cigarettes in the shade of a tree or washing their feet before prayer as taut French troops made it clear the rebel-held towns were sealed off from nosy reporters. Some colleagues sat down to Twitter about likely military strategies and the prospect of a protracted guerrilla war that would take months if not years to win; others berated the French for being ‘typically French’, code for lacking joviality and displaying an ostensible indifference to the urgent needs of the press corps. Meanwhile, their Malian helpers discreetly chatted up their bosses’ competitors to see if better gigs could be had now or in the near future, peddling their expertise and knowledge of local languages. After waiting for days in towns with nothing to offer but ramshackle bakeries, bottled Coca-Cola and curious village kids riding donkey carts, they became suspicious: surely the military were doing something sinister -- conducting acts of revenge perhaps? It all sounded frantic, and rather pointless. Judging from boastful Facebook posts, suddenly we were all experts on Mali. Yet no one really knew what was going on, and no one knew what was going to happen, least of all the fact that the French army would pretty much sweep out the Islamists in two weeks.

 

Then the dirt road to Diabaly finally opened to the press, and relieved residents told stories of gunfights and fear. Film crews focused on burned out pick-up trucks; there wasn’t a whole lot else to see. Nearly everywhere else, life carried on as usual. The region is marked by an amazing feat of engineering called the Markala dam, which was designed in the 1930s by French colonialists to create tens of thousands of hectares of farmland. The French wanted cotton; the Malians now produce rice. The canals are used by women of all ages to simultaneously scour the dirty dishes, wash clothes, and entertain the babies. In Mali, household chores are always done together, never alone. This, not the frontline, impressed me most.

Mali's army feels vindicated

"A couple of years ago there was an incident when a subordinate refused to obey the order of an officer. The officer was beside himself with anger, shouting, threatening to kill the guy, but the guy said: 'I don't have to listen to you, I paid 300,000 CFA to get myself into the army!'. That's how it is: once somebody accepts your envelope, you don't owe him respect anymore. Corruption eroded the army at every level. Sure, each year parliament approved the defense budget. The money was there -- on paper. In my department for example, we were allocated five million CFA ($10,000) per year. But we received 300,000 CFA ($600). The rest was taken by my bosses in Bamako. In 20 years, the government never bought new military vehicles or new weapons. Our rifles were more than 20 years old. We had nothing."



"Our Generals aspired to be politicians. Those that weren't sent to retire, they are still in the army but they sit at home. They tend to their garden, haha. We don't want to listen to them anymore. They stayed in their big houses in Bamako campaigning for parties allied to the president while we were up north facing the rebels. And when the rebels opened fire, do you know what the hierarchy in Bamako said? 'Did you do something to provoke them?' I mean, seriously! Some men were given rifles without a striker -- rifles that don't work. Then the rebels attacked and captured an entire company. Everybody in the barracks, their throats were slit. Nearly 150 men. How is morale now? Oh, it's very good. We feel vindicated. The French have come and because of them, all the Europeans are sending equipment. Even the Russians are helping out. We weren't just complaining. People understand that now."

Mali

As a journalist I know better than most people that TV news reflects only a small part of the full picture, and often a distorted one at that. Still, boarding a plane to Bamako this week, I was apprehensive about what I was going to find. The Islamists in northern Mali carried out an effective intimidation campaign, forcing residents to attend the stoning to death of an unmarried couple and the public amputations of hands and feet of four smalltime thieves in order to make it clear they mean business with their talk of Sharia law. These cruel spectacles were well-publicized in the west. Add kidnappings of tourists, and grainy images of shoddily clad, heavily armed men riding the back of a pick-up truck with faces covered in black cloth, and Mali seems no Mali no longer, but a sad African version of Afghanistan.

As soon as I drove into Bamako, my nervousness evaporated. Little has changed except for the occasional soldier lining a main road and street vendors hawking French flags. Hundreds of thousands of people have fled the north for fear of what may come, but they remain invisible, camping out at the homes of relatives. The funky vibe of Bamako lifted my heart -- women wearing fantastically colorful robes made of hand-dyed fabric, ancient canary-yellow Mercedes taxis, red dirt roads, friendly limpid handshakes and easy chitchat with practically everybody one meets. I met a taxi driver happily complaining about the ills of democracy, which opened the door to corruption and theft, which led to the coup, which in turn resulted in the mess Mali finds itself in now. I asked if he thinks elections are necessary after the war. "Of course," he exclaimed. "Without elections we won't get money from donors, and Mali can't survive without donor funds." Others spoke about the innate deviousness of the light-skinned Touaregs, who are good-for-nothings with crime running through their veins and brought Mali to the brink of collapse by signing a pact with the Islamists. Many believe the Islamists are in fact not Islamists at all, but cocaine smugglers who seek to keep out the prying eyes of the state.

 

Twenty-year-old Fatoumata left her native city of Gao last year; schools closed when the rebels marched in. She moved in with an uncle while her parents stayed behind to protect the family home. Fatoumate spoke with her eyes focused on the ground, as a well-behaved northern girl does. When I put away my notebook, she relaxed. "I had passport pictures taken when I went back to Gao to see my parents," she said, chuckling at the memory. "Women need to wear a veil from head to toe. Otherwise you'll get flogged. Would you like to see it?"

Looking ahead, being better

Here's to the start of a new year that began almost alcohol-free at a gay housewarming party in Amsterdam and promises change on different levels, hopefully for the good. My first new year's resolution is to always remain patient with clumsy Ghanaian waiters and bossy parking guards who, as soon as I've turned off the engine, appear suddenly and demand I park my car elsewhere. I'm also determined to respect the peculiar brand of Ghanaian pride, and to not scoff at exaggerated pronouncements I'm expected to take at face value. Take my losses. Focus on the good things in life. Look to the future.

The funeral of John Atta Mills -- who, in keeping with a tested African tradition, had been trying to hide the gravity of his illness before he died -- propelled vice-president John Mahama into the role of father of a bereaved nation. He played the part graciously. With only six months to go before presidential elections, the timing could not have been better: it was short enough to steer clear of major policy decisions, but long enough to embark on some serious campaigning and position himself as a worthy successor of Mills. After months of fanfare, the polling stations finally opened yesterday. Ghana used an expensive digital system that was supposed to speed up the process but slowed it down instead because the machinery didn't always work as planned. Still, it all went fairly well. Some people began queuing in the middle of the night to make sure they'd get it over with by daybreak. Private radio stations are doing a remarkable job updating their websites with preliminary results as they come in, and it looks like Mahama is ahead in the polls. We'll know the results by Monday.

 

White saviors, and black ones

This is one of the most depressing aspects of Accra: billboards and posters that promise redemption from clean-shaven pastors smiling benignly at the downtrodden flocks. All-night prayer events are held in the suburbs almost weekly, and white Americans seem just as intent on drawing the maximum possible amount of money from little lost souls as the multitude of Ghanaian and Nigerian pastors crowding the country's evangelical churches. In my first weeks in Ghana, I thought it could be interesting to attend one of these meetings, but I quickly realized I would find it simply too disturbing.