Written by Gbemi Trabaye
Some memories never fade. January 2017, I was 18 years old – sitting in the backseat of a white Toyota as my parents drove me up the winding roads to what would become my new home, University. The car was very quiet, 5FM playing on the radio, and my father, in the most typical West African fashion, glanced partially over his shoulder whilst keeping focus on the road and said, “Ehhh…you know you look good, right? So just be careful” – and my dear friends, that was the only time I ever had the slightest conversation about anything remotely connected to women, relationships or love with my father.
This goes without need for mention, but growing up in a religious Nigerian home came with very unspoken but known rules – pre-marital sex was evil, relationships are time wasters, and the devil was the chief engineer of both. Naturally, there would be no discussion of either. For me, as the youngest of four, the rules of engagement had already been long written and set. Nonetheless, this wasn’t going to quell your boy’s curiosity. All the questions were mine to answer, and the misunderstanding – mine to clarify.
My journey of discovery would take a very typical path – television, guesswork, and that really unfiltered and troublesome older friend that we really had no business hanging out with as young boys – talk less of taking any advice from, but as the story goes – here we are.
As I reflect now, I understand my parents’ thinking around the matter. The decision to not openly engage on sex, relationships and bodily autonomy was seen as a form of protection – if I didn’t know – they thought – I wouldn’t enquire, but the reality was that I did enquire, a lot! The problem with vacuums is that they’re always going to be filled, and mine was filled with pop culture – specifically hip hop culture, and terrible advice!
At 13, I would get accepted into a relatively prestigious boys’ school, six hours away from home. This is where things get hectic. For the first time in my life, I was completely free – well, “free”. The boarding house was unlike anything I had known, one massive building with more than three-hundred boys – from overly excited fourth graders all the way up to mischievous matrics. Two hundred rooms – so you always had several other dormitory mates. Each corridor had its own unique characteristic – different accents, perspectives, backgrounds, and magnitudes of mischief.
This is where I’d pick up the bulk of my views – my earliest ideas around women, relationships, the definition of what constituted the “right partner” would all be shaped in these halls. Looking back, I recognise how crucial these years are for any child, especially boys. This was 2012, and views around consent, intimacy and relationships in South Africa
weren’t mainstream at all. The political landscape and climate at the time worsened things. Jacob Zuma, President of South Africa at the time, was often in the headlines. Unfortunately, it wasn’t for matters around policy reform, foreign investments or operational governance, but instead – for sex scandals and polygamy. These multiple marriages, permitted by customary law, were often discussed in ways that blurred the lines between where culture ended and patriarchy or power began. For a teenager navigating early stage adolescence – the underlying message that filtered through public discourse and private corridor-conversation was clear: sex was to be presumed – not requested. “This just couldn’t be right” – said my young mind, and I was determined to investigate this further.
The true cost of silence in this context is immeasurable. It demanded that I, like many others, were forced to stumble through adolescence without the right tools for communication – causing one to lack proficiency in the language of desire. Sexual and reproductive health and rights aren’t just abstract policy issues – but everyday realities, shaping how one views their body – their responsibility to others and the importance of open dialogue, regardless of how awkward it could initially feel.
Attending an all boys’ school and living there for 90% of the year meant that encounters with women were few and far between – and whenever those encounters actually occurred – they were cinematic, like a Hollywood blockbuster. Picture Denzel is Mississippi Masala. If you haven’t watched it yet – do the right thing! Anyway, each glance and connection at our socials and dances were theatrical – lacking the necessary substance and vulnerability needed for true discovery. Women were more of an idea than actual people – we projected desires and made assumptions, but we lacked understanding. True engagements around intimacy or love were rarely covered, instead, as boys, false-bravado was the movement of the day – trading in authenticity for performance. Some may argue that this was a good thing, after-all – we were teenagers in high school. I disagree – because teenage boys eventually become adult men, and lessons never learnt early.
In my view, this vicious cycle is sustained by silence – hence the very specific topic focus. This cycle would change drastically though, in 2019 – with the massive national outcry following the gruesome rape and murder of Uyinene Mrwetyana in Cape Town. This case was particularly touching, not only because of how horrific and gruesome its details were, but also because of the victim – Uyinene. She had attended Kingswood – a school just 20 minutes away. I knew her, not personally – but socially. For the first time, to my recollection, the entire country was speaking about consent, sexual assault, and the deeply-rooted misogyny woven into South African society. The core focus was the role that “silence” played in perpetuating this culture – institutionally and socially. Social platforms, mainly Twitter (now
X), was in an uproar. Users publicly named alleged rapists – sharing personal stories, oftentimes visual identification of the alleged perpetrator, and their social media handles.
This was a unique shifting point, because it opened the proverbial bottle – igniting conversation around consent, bodily autonomy and responsibility. Conversations around patriarchy and reproductive rights were discussed within institutions – programmes were organised, curriculum was challenged.
For me personally, the world became my classroom. Research, observation and curiosity became my best teachers. However, I know that this wasn’t the case for many. The cost of silence has resulted in terrible mistakes for some, careers lost – families destroyed – and innocence snatched away. The lesson is clear – the conversation isn’t optional, it’s mandatory.
