The Debut Issue: Masc Off | Kenga Magazine

ON THE COVER

TEAM Publisher Arinze Obi Editor-in-Chief Desmond Vincent Design Director Jean Quarcoopome Media Editor Andrew Djan-Sampson

CONTRIBUTORS

When profiling or interviewing a star, there are certain moments when it clicks. When you simultaneously see them in the full glory of their stardom and the imperfect vulnerability of their humanity. With ENIOLUWA ADEOLUWA, who graces the cover of the debut issue, it seems every moment was the moment. African, Gen Z, blurring the lines of masculinity, a bright future in uncharted territory, is the IT boy and has been one for longer than the stereotypical moment. For this issue, we explore how he became Nigeria’s IT Gen-Z star, the change of masculinity and what he wants the future to look like for him and others like him.

Cover Model Enioluwa Adeoluwa Photography Adedamola Odetera

WORDS

MODELLING

Writer X

Zechariah Mako

Kwasi Duah

Mark Minga

Taiwo Hassan

Kivenzi Muange

Billy Kinyanjui

Gideon Botch

Joshua Chizoma

Charles Taylor

Melony Akpoghe

Adomako Aman

Onaolapo Odunjo William Zamundu William Muyayalo Munachimso David Gabrielle Emem Harry

PHOTOGRAPHY Delore Yao Kwame Kodah Paola Idrontino Chuchu Ojekwe

Make-up Aanuoluwa Ajide-Daniels

Grishon Njoroge

Styling Emmanuel Goodnews

Joseph Abbey-Mensah

Horace Mensah Jr.

JEWELLERY Märta Mattsson

COSTUME Paola Idrontino

Joe Mensah William Muyayalo Calvin Mends Dougan Mends Shammah Aja Milean Brown Adis-Ababa Solomon Kotey Neequaye

PHOTO COVERS

EDITOR'S NOTE

As we put together the issue, the team behind Kenga spent a lot of time looking up the definition of many words and concepts. One thing we never attempted to define for anyone else was masculinity. I believe that is because, at the core of it, there is an understanding that masculinity shouldn’t need to be defined by anyone external, anyone that isn’t us. It was this understanding and a curiosity about how it plays out in the lives of other people that inspired this issue.

For our debut issue, which we taglined MASC OFF, we are exploring and questioning masculinity in an attempt to understand how it affects the lives of Afro Gen Zs. Our cover star, Enioluwa Adeoluwa, a trailblazing Gen Z star redefining stardom in Nigeria, is a true embodiment of what Kenga is at its core. With his profile, we explore the fine intersection of being online, being a man and being othered. But that’s not where it ends, within this issue we see how masculinity affects what people get up to in bed, hear from people tired of ‘bro-ing’ it up, read the experience of a man who had his masculinity shaken because he has just one testicle, and so much more.

Much like the concept of masculinity, Kenga is a bit hard to define as everyone defines it differently. A media company, a publication, a cool brand, or whatever else just don’t come close enough to capture the essence and future of Kenga. We are so much more.

This is our debut issue and that in itself, is very exciting.

People working in tech say ‘it’s just day 1’ to show that they’re just starting and there’s still so far for them to go.

For us, it literally and figuratively is day one. This is the beginning of a mission, a moment, and a movement.

Desmond Vincent Editor-in-Chief

CONTENTS Masc Off

1

Cover Story: Enioluwa Adeoluwa

3

Your Heart Speaks to Me When You Won't

8

I Wrote a Poem About a Man

10

Ashton Laurence: Finding My Masculinity in Music and a Makeup Kit

12

Love Thy Member

16

Soft Guy and the Masculine Hysteria

24

How Being a Plant Dad Changed Me

27

Good Guys

40

Crafting My Own Kind of Masculinity

45

The Masculine Urge to "Bro" Bros

49

Mono-Testicular: How I Found My Manhood in a Ball

55

Cheyenne Muvunyi: Making African Skincare and Haircare Unisex

61

Tamia's Almost

66

The Right Time

68

Under Still Waters

78

Travis Obeng-Casper: Designing Fashion Excellence at the Intersection of Genders

85

Masculinity and Sex

91

photo: Andrew Djan-Sampson

Kenga:

THEMED story

Masc off

by William Zamundu

What if masculinity was not a bar to reach but rather a bar to mould.

Then in order to mould, we must learn to moult.

And not to fear the process, for it cleans the dirt and leaves the gold.

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erhaps, if we saw masculinity in this way then the conversation on the topic would open doors to “masculinities”, and the many faces that represent what it means to be a man.

I see myself as quite the emotional person. I am straight forward with how I feel and am most comfortable when those emotions are outwardly expressed. My art often makes use of vulnerability; so people tend to see me as an open book. And although is it never as simple as that, these are the outstanding traits of my masculinity.

I thought I was like this because I was raised by a woman functioning as a single mother. I was constantly surrounded by aunties and slept many nights on the church bench during overnight women’s prayer. In a world where masculinity and machismo are bound by arranged marriage, it made sense to me that my expression of vulnerability was a female trait that I somehow inherited.

The thing is my story is not so uncommon. A large percentage of the African men in my environment were raised the same. By mothers, elder sisters and aunties, but our expressions and values linked to manhood sit on opposite sides of the seesaw.

So, what was the distinguishing factor? I now believe that it is in the way we learnt values and built our characters as children.

To my knowledge, rarely was my gender a justifying factor for any reprimand. It was not “boys don’t do this…” or “you are becoming a man so...” Instead, I was told “because this will make you a better person”, or the fan favourite “children of God do not behave this way”. This neutrality allowed me to dis-associate my gender from my sense of self, my values, my character. Although I do consider myself a man, it is the accumulation of these points that construct my masculinity.

“Then in order to mould, we must learn to moult" Moulting is the process of an animal shedding old feathers to make way for new growth. In the same way that life is ever changing, your masculinity should not be immovable.

In spite of my mother’s greatest efforts, the greater author of my masculinity was the world around me. The social norms of everyday life, media portrayals, bias in education; these points are the hammers to the hot iron. They moulded my perception on what it meant to be a man. The criteria to meet, the red lines to not cross and relationships to have and avoid. In retrospect, childhood was a confusing time.

Children are bombarded with information, points of views and models to follow that don’t quite fit the mould. At the same time our bodies are changing, emotion and relationships flare. Although seemingly armageddon, it is not all bad. It is the way life is, part of growing up and finding yourself. It eez what it eez!.

Notice how we are encouraged to discover our bodies through puberty, sports and sex. Our emotions through relationships, love and heartbreak. Our passions through hobbies, groups and classes.

We are constantly doing the patchwork that will be our identity. A mosaic of different cloths, loose threads and open tears. It is who we are.

But never are we encouraged to explore masculinity, not intentionally anyway. Unofficially everybody goes through the process of testing masculinity. We imitate the older boys, play nice guy or bad boy, we have male friendships, some intimate without being sexual. However, explore too loud and you are thwarted with a hammer of shame, discouraging young boys to ever explore more.

In this regard our communities need to become more tolerant of the process of moulding. It takes time, looks ugly, seems messy. We need to trust the process and believe that young boys will be able to determine what is for them and what is not.

Remember, it eez what it eez.

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Kenga:

THEMED story And not to fear the process, for it cleans the dirt and leaves the gold.

Riverbank gold miners wash the soil that has built up on the bank to find the gold hidden between the other residue. If we took the time to work through certain areas of our minds, we would come out all the richer.

I quickly reached a wall in my unintentional exploration and could no longer grow in my masculinity if I didn’t intentionally educate myself, but where to start.

Patriarchy and Feminism were trendy topics in my circles, but were also intimidating. The aggressiveness of the debates on the topics especially online didn’t help. Fear was the overwhelming feeling at first. These were obscure concepts that I knew of in passing and seemed to challenge the very foundation of my faith and values. And although it did just that, the bark was a lot louder than the bite.

The process was a slow and treacherous one, but also a restorative journey. My faith truly became mine; values reflected my aspirations and not that of my community, and my foundation became stronger because I took hold of what I was building. Understanding these two ideologies ultimately allowed me to redefine masculinity. Identifying how Patriarchy puts imbalanced requirements and expectations on me, specifically as a black African man, and how Feminism is an ideology to correct that imbalance while empowering women to participate in designing the world they live in.

As you can imagine, this paradigm shift caused clashes with friends and family that did not see things the way I did, but overall, it was a freeing feeling. This is because Masculinity is often an umbrella term to describe things we don’t have the words for. After doing this intentional work, I now had the vocabulary to define what masculinity was for me.

This vocab was the key to a library of resources like: JJ Bola, that walked me through redefining Masculinity as a African living in the West; Kojey Radical, explaining to me what my blackness means; Or “Kiffe ta Race” with Rokhaya Diallo and Grace Ly that talked me through the intersections of oppression especially of race and gender.

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Intentionally educating yourself builds the vocabulary and character necessary to effectively navigate the many faces masculinity will take in a lifetime. Cleaning the obscurity out of the soil to find the gold.

photo: Andrew Djan-Sampson

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Kenga:

Cover story

Enioluwa adeoluwa

by Desmond Vincent

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Kenga:

Cover story

4

Kenga: wo years ago, Enioluwa Adeoluwa didn't know he was about to hit big.

Adeoluwa, who at the time was studying for a theatre and communications degree while working as a content creator in a fintech company based in Lagos, was relatively popular, of course. But he wasn't what you call a household name.

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Then, 2020 happened. The global pandemic forced many to turn to their screens and social media to find community and document the reality and novelty of being locked indoors due to real-life historic and awful moments. Many turned to Instagram and Tiktok either as creators or consumers; Adeoluwa was one of many. However, it wasn’t till November 2020 much later did Adeoluwa really go viral. A video of him putting on lip gloss while wearing a durag and speaking a mix of English and Yoruba as he complained about indecisive admirers went viral. Today, that video has around 18k views and a new star was born.

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Cover story

I always thought the traditional banks and companies would be the ones that wouldn't want to associate themselves with me.

Today, Enioluwa Adeoluwa has 492k followers on Instagram, 755k followers on Tiktok, a late-night show, and has worked with MAC Cosmetics and multiple multinationals. However, Enioluwa still believes he is just starting.

Enioluwa is among a new wave of Gen Z creatives in Africa who are helping redefine what creativity can look like, especially as a man. Working as a beauty influencer as a man in Nigeria has seemingly appeared as one of those things that seemed out of reach.

Who would take your advice? Who is your audience? Who would want to work with you? Enioluwa battled with all these things when starting out and even after doing so.

He knew he wanted to make it, but the road was primarily uncharted; there had never been anyone like him to reference.

Regardless of all this, Enioluwa knew the only way he would do it was by being himself a hundred per cent. And he did so— the result -unprecedented success.

Enioluwa tells me he is still trying to adapt to fame when we talk. "Right now I'm learning, you know; it's a phase." Adeoluwa tells Kenga. "At the beginning, you're trying to get famous and you get famous, then you try to sustain the fame. Now you're thinking how can I get more famous; reach more people. But it's a different life not just for you

but your family and friends as well they have to be comfortable with you but understand that there are some things they can't just do with you anymore. You're now a public figure."

"I always thought the traditional banks and companies would be the ones that wouldn't want to associate themselves with me."

Adeoluwa tells Kenga. "I'm a man wearing makeup, doing beauty stuff on the internet. Even when I became popular, I assumed the traditional companies wouldn't want to be associated with me. I was shocked when they reached out and today, I've done multiple

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Kenga: campaigns for them."

But success has its drawbacks. For Enioluwa, a man whose existence and career subvert traditional expectations from a man, it is commonplace for him to deal with offhand comments and dedicated bullies. Enioluwa's fast-growing online audience worsens this.

"People are often commenting very offensive words on my social media, asking why I am the way I am etc." Adeoluwa explains. "A lot of it seems like people demanding I explain my existence, why am I here and trying to force me to act the way they think I should with their words." But Adeoluwa is used to comments about him not acting in line with what people expect a man to act like. He would hear his teachers make side comments and call him names as a kid. "I don't think I even considered it as bullying, and I just shrugged it off."

Adeoluwa laughs. "There were instances when I had teachers in my secondary school say things like 'woman wrapper.' at me."

Cover story community and scene. I also want to open and launch my own beauty brand here in Nigeria. There's so much that I still want to do."

But he doesn't want this success just for himself. Adeoluwa believes the lack of more Nigerian and African men in nontraditional career paths comes partly from a lack of successful predecessors to look up to.

"A major reason there aren't more men in spaces like the beauty and makeup industry are the stereotypes." Adeoluwa tells Kenga.

"But also because people do not see other men who are in the beauty and space that are successful so they wonder why they should go into it. And I think that's a fair reason.

People want to know they can do things they are passionate about and be successful and that's human."

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When I ask him, Enioluwa Adeoluwa tells me he doesn't quite have a concrete view of masculinity, but that doesn't bother him. "I don't have a proper idea or definition of masculinity," Enioluwa explains. "I'm not the type of person with a concrete answer to what femininity or masculinity is. It's all about how you access it. I think everyone gets to define or define it how they want."

But despite this, Enioluwa doesn't quite agree that Gen Z is out here trying to change or redefine masculinity. He believes young people like him want to be given the option to be whoever they want to be.

"I don't think Gen Z is trying to change masculinity." Adeoluwa shares, "We aren't actively out here on a mission to change masculinity. We just want representation; we want to see men that behave in a way different from the traditional way men are shown or expected to behave. " Enioluwa, in true Gen Z fashion, is mainly undisturbed even by the bullying. He knows himself; bullying, especially over social media, flows like water off a duck's back.

The future perhaps enthrals him more.

"The future holds so much, there's a lot I want to do. I am thinking of going international and I'm serious about it. I am looking for brand ambassadorship. I'm focusing on penetrating the international

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photo: Paola Idrontino

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Kenga:

poem

Love like ours smells like brunch on a sunny Sunday, sounds like jazz on a freaky Friday night and feels like warmth on a Monday morning.

Our love is brave.

It's unapologetic and pure.

Our love is shiny, colorful, and free.

Our love is ours.

You let me in with the door half-open.

With your patience, you take the time to learn my story, while I learn yours from the little you let me see.

Still, built from the ground up, our love is ours.

The touch of your hands, so strong, so rough yet so warm and gentle.

I love having my hand in yours.

Your voice, Your voice is deep and heavy, reassuring when you tell me you love me yet scares me when you raise it.

Still, I love when you call my name.

Your heart beats fast when you are hurting, when you are excited, stressed, nervous, scared...

When I hold you, it slows down.

Your heart relaxes when I rub my hands through your hair.

How do I know this? I lay my head on your chest, your curly hairs scratch my cheeks as I turn my head from side to side...

When you won’t

by William Muyayalo

Your heart speaks to me …but I want to listen to your heart, so I stay.

I stay because your heart speaks to me when you won't.

Your heart tells me words you are too afraid to say, paints me pictures you won't show, and whispers to me the deepest fears that rest within.

That's how I know you.

I know you love me.

I know this because you name playlists after me, you send me memes every day and you cook my comfort food when I'm down.

I love the way you love me.

They say actions speak louder than words.

You fight when you are angry; you are quiet when you are hurting; you use your strength to break things.

It’s scary at times but I love it.

I love it because this is how you let me in.

There is a space I saved for you.

The feelings I feel are unmatched.

I dare you to open the door a little wider; I dare you to shout the words your heart whispers to me; And paint the pictures your heart describes for me.

The colors of our love shine brighter in the sun, I dare you to come out and see.

Your heart speaks to me when you won’t, But why don’t you give it a rest and imagine how free it must feel to let your voice speak your truth.

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photo: Andrew Djan-Sampson

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Kenga:

poem

i wrote a poem about a man

by Billy Kinyanjui I hope he identifies as a man, still, after I wrote how It’s such a scary thing to be a man right now “It gets worse before it gets better” The man moulded for war and provision and leadership Squinted his eye and curled his upper lip In the narrow eyes, I saw Atlas, furious, I’d stolen the world from his shoulders with a single line, His line of responsibility, which he learned at age nine He needed to be in control of the situation, the way he needed to cry...to die, Taught to be competitive, before he learned to lie “Your generation has no men” He answers after I ask of the men now and then “Do you like being a man right now?”

To this, and many more, men don’t speak of no more I wrote a poem about a man, Who didn’t know what made him so.

And while we contemplated this dilemma Of him chopping off his little pecker, Changing his pronouns, loving so as to truly live, We each realised, in our own time, Men are not of what they are But of what they suppress, deny, long for, from afar And the longing is a science With feminine items labelled as hazard for all to see We sigh together and understand without speaking As men do, our telepathy failing I hope he identifies as a man, and if not it’s cool My expectation of his future should be the easiest to shrug off I hope it will be practice, for when we’re better off And men have more to their personality, Than the false reality forced down our throats I wrote a poem about a man Because no definition of one has been accurately done so far I hope I identify as a man And proud to do so, however I am.

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photo: Grishon Njoroge

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Kenga:

Interview

Ashton Laurence: finding my masculinity in music and a makeup kit

by Arinze Obi

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Kenga:

Interview

Fierce, Flamboyant, Theatrical, Whimsical, Ethereal and Enigmatic is what this fast-rising creative is often described as. Ashton Laurence, the eyelinermonarch, is a 23-year-old Afro-Caribbean creative entrepreneur currently based in Nairobi, Kenya. We sat down with him to discuss how he uses music as a creative outlet of expression in order to entertain, empower and enlighten the world through his androgynous interpretation of Black Queer Excellence.

What does music itself mean to you?

Honestly, music is my heart and soul. It’s my go-to when I need to remove humans from my system. It’s my form of therapy, when I perform it, actively work on it, or just listen to it. There are some nights when the release of tears is necessary for just going through life. You see, I’m very pro-crying, and music really helps me do that. It’s cathartic.

Would you say you found music or music found you?

I’d say it’s a mix of both really because without the creator, there’s no creation but the creator is still independent of the creation. Growing up, life has always been a music number for me from the busy streets in Nairobi to the jingles in the matatus that drove around my estate.

These were things that always filled up my spirit when I was a child. My mum was also always singing around me, taught me nursery rhymes and hymns. She also even plays the piano and the recorder. So all of this exposed me to a whole new world. But it wasn’t until I was 11 that my dream shifted from moving to Kyoto to draw mangas, to just writing music instead.

When did you know it was time to pursue music professionally?

I really think it was when I was 11. I’d gotten the chance to go over to the UK in 2010, my mum’s homeland, during the time but the revelation only happened one evening at my aunt's house. While my parents, my aunty, and my cousin were having ‘adult conversations,’ I asked to use my cousin Natalie’s phone. I went on to YouTube and was playing random songs. ‘Camp Rock 2: The Final Jam’ had just been released, and it was a highlight of the summer of 2010 starring Demi Lovato and The Jonas Brothers. I was singing out loud, when my cousin goes: “I think we might have just found the next superstar in our family.” I was like 11, and I didn’t know anything so I

didn’t take it seriously. But then on, I started writing songs actively when we got back to Kenya after that trip. I enjoyed the process of writing songs based on songs I’ve been listening to on the radio, and studying my favourite artists to learn things like what makes a perfect hook, what makes a great melody, and so on. So I consistently put in the work from that point, and wrote as much as I could, even though I kept it a secret at first. That was because I didn’t want people to judge me for not being a gospel artist, for example.

But as I grew older into my teen years, I felt this was serious, so I felt compelled to sink my feet deeper into the waters of music.

How receptive has your audience been to you expressing your artistry through makeup as well?

First of all, turning into ‘the eyelinermonarch’ was an interesting journey. It all began when I used to watch people on the red carpet. The girls would look great, wearing all these fancy dresses, having gorgeous hairstyles, and wearing makeup. I'd found all of that very exciting!

But then every other guy was just in a plain black suit and tie. I always found that very boring. So as I discovered more of myself, owing to the fact that I underwent an artist development program at Sauti Academy, I got to understand more of myself musically and as an individual. Music gave

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I didn’t want people to judge me for not being a gospel artist, for example.

me the opportunity to stand out and do something unique. I randomly had eyeliner on at a few gigs, until people started to refer to me at other events as “the eyeliner guy.” I felt that since this was already a thing, why not own it? And that’s how ‘eyelinermonarch’ came to be.

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Kenga:

Interview

In terms of how people have received it, I’ve seen that a lot of people are intrigued at first, for how bold I am, and then also how skilled I am, because some of the looks I do on my eyes come out pretty fire. But then there are also some characters who don’t really understand why I’d choose to express myself like this, and talk about how it’s too girly and how I need to 'tone myself down'. But then, it’s ironic because their faves really do be wearing makeup.

Makeup is one of the most polar opposites to conventional masculinity. How are you able to reconcile the two?

I believe that for me, this all started consistently during the pandemic after doing a Deepak Chopra and Alicia Keys meditation series on ‘The Divine Feminine’. That series showed that there are two polar energies that exist—the divine feminine and the divine masculine. But what happens is that we tend to glorify one side because of the assigned sex roles we have at birth, forgetting that both energies are complementary and are actually both needed for one to live a properly balanced and wholesome life. So where this comes into defining my masculinity and potentially that of a lot of people is where it’s clear to me that makeup is art; it’s a very artistic outlet for creativity. Even though a lot of makeup people get pigeonholed because of its association with sexuality and femininity, we’re starting to learn that with things like a concealer, you can blemish out a lot of dark circles after sleeping badly, lip balms are essential for lip care to prevent chapped lips. Also, a little eyeliner and ‘kohl’ have been used for hundreds of centuries by, most notably, the Egyptians because it was believed and proven to be protective for the eyes from the Sun's glare beyond it just being decorative. I think that because of postmodernist beliefs, we’re dissociating ourselves from certain things that really shouldn’t be gendered—like makeup. So for me, I just focus on ensuring that by being myself, like my authentic self, other guys are able to feel okay to just be themselves, whether they have makeup on or not.

Do you think you’d have been able to express yourself in this way if you were born into an older generation?

I’d say yes and no. Yes, because icons like Michael Jackson, Prince, plus a bunch of kings in ancient Europe were known for wearing makeup, donning gender-non-conforming

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Kenga:

Interview outfits, wearing heels and so on. Yet people were okay with them having all of these on while being themselves. But I’ll say no though if I was to be subjected to living in Kenya as I am now. Because while growing up in Kenya, it was quite unheard of for guys to be actively engaged in something like skincare let alone makeup. But now we can do that and so much more.

Tell me, what’s your favourite makeup accessory?

I’m tempted to say lipstick because few things beat a good red lipstick. But I’d say eyeliner, obviously. Give it to me coloured, give it to me glittered, and I’m a happy child. But absolutely nothing beats a sleek, black liner.

What piece of makeup do you think more guys need to explore?

I don’t know if it counts as makeup, but I’d say lip balm. Because some of these men be out here having chapped lips, you know? I don’t think they’re drinking as much water as they should. I’ll definitely recommend lip balm any day. But I’ll also add to that a simple eye pencil because it gives the eye more definition and even mystique. A lot of guys I know actually have really nice eyes, so just a little eyeliner here and there, you know? And BAM! What do you love the most about being Gen Z? I think our awareness, our collective consciousness, our boldness, our assertiveness, our confidence, and our gogetter energy. Without these things, we wouldn’t be much of ourselves as we go on to change everything the way we have so far.

What do you hate the most about being Gen Z? We’re quite headstrong, which often translates to stubbornness to a lot of ‘older’ people. With them having to accommodate us, most of them think we’re arrogant and stuff even though we’re really just being ourselves. But then again, sometimes, being disagreeable is great to really get to know people and what they opposingly think to seek understanding. Also, nothing is new under the sun. Every new generation always has something to say about the older generation, so this part isn’t particularly unique. History continuously repeats itself.

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Personal story

Kenga:

Love thy member

by Kwasi Duah *

he 2021 billionaire space race was an interesting phenomenon. Beyond what it said about inequality, public reaction did reveal another concept of quiet significance. We all heard and enjoyed the ‘He must be compensating for something by launching a massive phallus-shaped object into the sky’ jokes. Now, this is not about bemoaning the sad fate of the world’s richest men. But it is about narrative that men make up, or more subtly, must make up for having what society deems to be inadequate manhoods. I know firsthand how this narrative distorts a man’s selfesteem, and to all men who have felt the same way: this is for you.

My penis is well, complicated. It is neither short nor thin, and not that any of that matters anyway. But somewhere in the middle, as if to affirm my political ideology, it takes a sharp turn to the left. I have always remembered it this way and for much of my life, I had no reason to think about it. Then come high school and the communal baths. It was the staring, like I was carrying the world’s eighth wonder between my legs. Then it was followed by the jokes. One guy actually coined the term “Oliver Twist” to which I must applaud him for his creativity. But very much like the fictional character, I wanted more; more sensitivity from society, friends even, and I got none. I remember these same guys mentioning this to girls in the school who would also laugh along. In most of these situations, I would either be quiet or laugh awkwardly along. I could not appear to be bothered by it. Being sensitive was not to be tolerated as a man.

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I guess I underestimated the effect of this problem on me for a while. I noticed later that I had an obsession with measuring my penis, and obviously rounding up to the inch. And as it grew in size, I began to draw validation from the slowly more frequent praise of its size that accompanied the comments on the shape. Hearing and knowing it was slightly bigger than the

average was the only thing that made me appreciate it, and with each of such comments came a rare sense of pride. This pride fell when it came to being intimate with a new partner. I dreaded the undressing part - the first reveal. The most I would say about it to a partner would be shrouded in humour, meant to protect me, in the form of something like “I actually have the best tool for getting to all your nooks and crannies”. They would laugh and I would feel comfort. And when during sex, they expressed that they were overwhelmed by the size, I would feel that rare pride again- a feeling I knew I should feel all the time, but only felt when my penis was described as having one feature society determined to be of value. I knew I should appreciate the only penis I had no matter what, but I just didn’t, at least not until someone else validated it. That is when I felt like a man worthy of the name. I felt this way for way too long, even contemplating surgery at a point to eliminate the bend that prevented it from being ‘perfect’. Thank God I did not go through that and someway found a way to love my manhood the way it is.

To appreciate their unique penises. The worth of a person is not in their manhood, or anything so superficial. We need to drum that in our social psyche. Because at the very least (if the attribution is indeed true), we for sure cannot all afford to patch the problem with massive rocket ships. * used as a pseudonym

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We place too much of what it means to be a man in our penises.

I believe the source of this problem is twofold. Firstly, we place too much of what it means to be a man in our penises. Being a man is so much more than having a penis and even less, a certain type of penis. Just like short, tall, thin, and thick people are all equally valuable humans, so are penises of all sizes and shapes equally valuable.

Secondly, we wrongly prioritise external views on our penises, most likely because we believe our penises exist to serve our partners. That is false. Our penises exist for our own pleasure and function, and it is by our own choice that we choose to share its pleasure with others. So if you are a man reading this, take a look down there and tell that piece of wood between your pants that “You are unique, and perfect just the way you are. I love your shape, length and size. You are mine and I adore all of you”.

We must find a way to teach boys and men

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photo: Andrew Djan-Sampson

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photo: Grishon Njoroge

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photo: Grishon Njoroge

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photo: Grishon Njoroge

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Kenga:

Interview

Soft Guy Masculine hysteria and the

by Melony Akpoghe

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asculinity, as a gender, has been guarded preciously from any sort of 'feminine' contamination or infiltration right from its construction. In a way to maintain

cherished masculine traits, men continue to invent various toxic, harmful, and absurd stereotypes to guide the performance of the masculine gender as superior and dominant.

From the fifteenth century outrage against male masturbation and fornication hinged on the belief that men needed to preserve their "oyster soup" and "essence" designed to make them smarter and stronger, to more recent bizarre "codes'' packed in books and how-to articles guiding men on how to be "real men", "beasts" and "alphas", it is astonishing how seriously these guys take it. For instance, in a post describing the qualities of a real man against those of the "nice guys", real men are advised to avoid the "dreadful habit of complaining about aches and pains'' or "the indecisive attitude of choosing to let the lady make all the decisions."

To maintain these traditional defences of masculinity, normal human practices and emotions are banned if reasoned as too female or too gay. No guy wants to be the soft guy who behaves "like a woman," simps for women, or even takes care of his personal hygiene. Grooming and self care are questionable acts, behaviours that mean that you must be gay and being gay in Nigeria is as dangerous as being a wanted criminal. Hardness is glamourized with lots of men scrambling to be The Hard Guy.

In a society as deeply retrograde as Nigeria, conventions are mandatory to be upheld. In the likely event of an aberration, the non-conformists are shamed, blamed, jailed, assaulted, or murdered.

Nonetheless, the existence of men who, in fact, are not defined by these toxic forms of masculinity is being recognized. Many men, today, are challenging pre-formed pillars of masculinity and breaking these toxic norms. These men are majorly described by the misogynistic society with expressions that imply that they have been "feminized". One of these terms include "feminine man". While the term is being sampled tentatively into acceptance, it still has its basis on problematic patriarchal ideals. This term supports the claim that these qualities shown by "soft men" are inherently feminine. It creates a dichotomy between the construct of a "manly man" and "feminine man" such that the "feminine man" is less of a man, the sort of

“

Surely, they see me as different and they know my way of expression is different, but they accept it.

man who has had his manhood diluted by weak characters of "femininity."

In a chat with Ibrahim, a hairstylist and beautician, he speaks on how he is perceived by many, met with demands of repression and how he occasionally battles anxiety because of it.

Most times, people become aware and conscious of many things about themselves when they're younger.

Was that the case for you? How was your childhood?

My childhood was pretty good. It was a less traumatic period of my life. I come from a family where no one has the time to enforce strict gender roles or regulate how a man is to behave. Surely, they see me as different and they know my way of expression is different, but they accept it.

They don't treat me as an outcast — it, really, is all love. My parents are not very enlightened about gender roles and all of that, but even my extended family doesn't treat me like trash.

Awwww, I'm really glad to know this.

Do you have any friends?

Yes, I do. I have more female friends than male friends. I've found that a lot of the masculine-presenting males are users.

They try to befriend me for ulterior motives that are beneficial to them. They are friends only when it is convenient for them. They only want to get stuff from me and most times would be ashamed to be caught around me. I mean, there are some that are better, but from my experience,

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Kenga:

Interview

many are assholes.

Have there been times that you've been physically affectionate towards your male friends, like try to hug them, etc? How did it go?

I'm always affectionate. I don't shrink myself. I don't try to reduce my expression for anybody. If you are not cool with it, I'd rather you not speak to me.

There's the usual homophobia surrounding this, the slurs and copious derogatory labeling.

Have you encountered any sort of violence because of how you present?

Yes. Very well. It's almost normal to me.

It's always from guys because they see me as dirt and are always trying to stay away from me at all costs. That's why I always walk with my shoulders high. I've subconsciously built a tall fence around myself as a sort of defense mechanism. I try to look unaffected. I remember one incident that happened in 2019. I was in my first year in the university, then. I was in the hostel with my friends then I got attacked by some guys. They saw me and thought I was weak and that they could do whatever they wanted to me.

That is so sad! I'm so sorry. I hope they didn't cause much damage.

It's fine, thank you. They were properly dealt with.

Good! In your relationships, have you had any issues with romantic/sexual partners who wanted you to act "tougher" or "stronger"?

Yes. I have had quite a few people who wanted me to toughen up in order for us to be together. I cut them off, though.

Someone met me last year and asked me to tone myself down before we could start going out. I shut that down. I don't need to toughen up, you need to loosen up!

Now, that's right! Have you battled with how you present, had a mental breakdown because of it — times when you hate yourself or question yourself?

I often have anxiety from it. Most times I like to be seen beyond my behavioural traits. I want people to actually get to

know me without being distracted, first of all, by my physical self. But it is hard.

When I go out, at times, I don't want to talk, most especially when I go out to meet new people, because the minute I open my mouth to talk, the first question I'm asked is, "Are you a girl?"

Hmm. Do you think you're at a point where nothing fazes you about how you choose to present yourself?

My dear, nothing dey move again. I present myself the best way I can and as comfortably as possible. The insults and whatnot have been recurrent for so long that I just brush them off now.

“

Someone met me last year and asked me to tone myself down before we could start going out.

I shut that down.

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Kenga:

Interview

photo: Grishon Njoroge

I understand that you run a business that caters to fashion and the bulk of your clients are female. Plus, you're a hairstylist. Can you walk me through how you developed a love for it and how it reinforces your decision to be who you want and to do what you want?

Things concerning beauty are usually regarded as female things. So, of course, people see me, what I do, and make assumptions about me in negative ways. I really can't place when I made the decision to be a hairstylist. Lol. I don't know, I just decided that I want to be a hairstylist. I love making people happy

and being a hairstylist permits me to do that; it creates an avenue where I can be free to experiment with the things that I love. There was a time that I wanted to learn catering, though. I was really interested in becoming a bad ass chef, but now, I can't exactly remember what changed my spur. I am a man, I use the pronouns he/him, I love those pronouns.

Society really doesn't get to tell me who I am because of sappy notions of who men are supposed to be, what they're supposed to do, what career path they should follow. I'm very comfortable being who I am.

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photo: Yusuf Ahmed

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Personal story

Kenga:

How being a plant dad Changed me

by Onaolapo Odunjo

he concept of the normal is properly a variant of the concept of good. It is something society has approved. A Plant-Dad can be seen as different from the norm, but our counterparts, Plant-Moms, are seen as the norm: as amazing women with green thumbs with great instincts and patience to raise kids.

How reductive! Out of every societyconstructed term and its thriving negative effects on society itself, ‘masculinity’ is one of my least favorites.

Thankfully, it didn’t take too long for me to realize that for me to truly find peace, I would need to summon the courage to love who I am, and love what I love deeply and unapologetically.

t

I enjoy doing things that are considered different, like dyeing my hair and I am also looking forward to my first piercing. I have unconsciously accepted society’s definition of femininity and classified myself as a man with feminine traits such as these traits like being too soft, kind, sensitive, and tender to me this is good EI (Emotional Intelligence), and every individual needs this to be human. Sadly, most personality traits linked to femininity, such as most of mine, have also been unfoundedly linked to weakness and subservience But I know better. I have come to realize that masculinity is a colorful spectrum that allows us to portray ourselves in any form, devoid of a fixed personality. It allows us to be more than a rigid, unchanging thing.

I never enjoyed watching soccer growing up, I was never into the athletic world, but I was studious and a full-blown nerd from proudly wearing and showing off my anime merch collection to my videogames and now my plants. As a child, I was often told that I was “a bit feminine” because of my personality and my un-masculine interests.

For some reason, those remarks hurt me deeply. I then started trying so many ways

“

I have come to realize that masculinity is a colourful spectrum

I moved from the UK to New York in late 2019 and by March, COVID creaked in, I got my first plant after moving to Atlanta for a new job during the quarantine era, a new state 800 miles away from all the new friends I’d just made. Because I was alone and needed some companionship, I considered getting a pet but my friends promptly reminded me that I was too emotionally unavailable and physically absent to properly care for a pet. Paying heed to their advice, I chose to get a plant instead.

I started with getting plants that were notably easy to raise like a Pothos and a Snake plant. Then I got a monstera, followed quickly by a fig. What I didn’t expect while raising my plants was the level of connection and intimacy I developed with them and also with myself while tending to them.

My plants provided a cocoon of serenity and a sense of home to me, who moves around a bit too much. It became frightening at some point as some of my friends readily pointed out how I may have a problem because it felt like I was giving my plants all the love and affection I’m to reconstruct my persona to fit what is considered ‘normal’ for a boy, but this left supposed to give to an actual human being.

In my head, I thought ‘trust humans to try to me sad and in emotional shambles not enforce their perspective on others and understanding what my true wants and desires were since I started aligning myself ignore a person's feelings and needs. My plants would never do that. Even though my more to what was expected of me, rather relationship life is non-existent, tending to than what was truly desired by me.

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Kenga:

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Personal story

My plants provided a cocoon of serenity and a sense of home to me my plants helps keep me connected and sane. My plants aren’t boring. They keep me on my feet, literally, as I help nourish them so they can grow many inches long. Just how I like them to.

Nowadays, I always look forward to coming home to see how my plant kids are doing. I usually barge into my apartment saying, more like screaming, to them: “Daddy is home!” I know they can’t hear me, but still.

Their growth of new leaves boosts my serotonin levels like almost nothing else.

Few things relax me as much as my plants.

Watering and caring for my plants brings peace to me and I always look forward to it.

“We might think we are nurturing our garden, but of course, it's our garden that is really nurturing us” – Jenny Uglow Finding a new kind of love, for myself and for life, through my plants would not have been possible. It has helped me find a new kind of masculinity that fits with my ‘feminine’ tendency to care and nurture.

Furthermore, as a notoriously impatient person, my plants are also constantly teaching me the virtue of patience. Having to wait weeks for a new leaf to fully grow is very tiring for me, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I have to wait. A parallel exists in my relationship with humans; they also make me wait. But I’m now more able to be patient with them. A few of my friends have even commented about how my impatience is weakening very quickly. I no longer call them incessantly when I’m waiting outside a restaurant for them. This is because I’ve learned to focus on what’s within my sphere of control: myself. Do I keep waiting or do I just leave?

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Kenga:

Personal story

photo: Yusuf Ahmed

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photo: Grishon Njoroge

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Kenga:

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Feature

asculinity takes various forms. The Dior Masai Necklace by Galliano (1998), once worn by the iconic Madame Debra Shaw, takes its influence from the heavily beaded and wide collars worn by the Kenyan Masai tribe - both men and women alike, with traditionally stylized variation. Influences [origin] also stem from the collars worn by women of the Hamer tribe in Ethiopia - also equally famed for their lithe and graceful physiques.

For me, this piece is special, as it reminds us how the world has always looked to Africa within its complex heterogenous nature. Evidenced for example by the influence of African masks on Cubism - and the list goes on.

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We have always been the blueprint.

We are enough.

- Joseph Awuah-Darko

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Kenga:

feature

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photo: Andrew Djan-Sampson

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photo: Andrew Djan-Sampson

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Kenga:

Essay

good guys

by Joshua Chizoma

f

irst, you can't stand the muezzin's call. It encroaches into your sleep and teams up with your alarm to make sure you do not stay in bed beyond 5am. Bloody nuisance. But

by sheer insistence on showing up at the same time day after day, it forces you to tolerate it. Soon it becomes a house guest that has refused to leave, tolerable, not unbearable. It is the first thing that becomes familiar in this strange place you will get to spend the most crucial 9 months of your career.

You appreciate the steadfastness. Because this new place is a land of uncertainties.

The weather is cunning, bitingly cold in the morning, afternoon, and evening. You relearn what you know about sweaters, hoodies, and stockings — next to your white shirts and black trousers; they are the most important pieces of clothing you own. The food upsets your stomach, and you often cannot tell at the beginning of a meal if what sweets your tongue will worry your anus later. The schedule is rigorous.

You sleep to work, wake up to more work, rest at your own peril. Even though you are done with your university degree, and your university prides itself on the stress it puts its students through, you are learning to be a student afresh, carefully picking what works, what doesn't.

Each day is a test on your grit, on how much you can take, you can hold on.

Scores of people have gone before you, yet there is no discernible pattern of success or hack on how to beat the system. Stories abound of failure, or near successes, with a sprinkle of success stories here and there.

You who are a sucker for the proven, for the "this is how it is done and so should work this time" are thrown into a quagmire. What is more unnerving than knowing that regardless of your efforts, your result may show something to the contrary?

But even more uncertain is the business of forging new relationships in this new place —roommates, classmates, friends,

acquaintances, lovers. The last time you opened your life to such a large incursion of people at the same time was in your first year as an undergrad, almost six years before, so you are rusty. Your feet have grown less nimble, unfamiliar with the delicateness needed to balance acts to get you sufficiently liked, or at least not hugely disliked. Yet nothing is given because you know, from experience, that someone or a few people will still dislike you, regardless of how palatable you make yourself. It is the fact that you don't know who these people are or for what reason they will hate you that is tasking. You wish you could jump to the part where you already have established friends and foes so you can concentrate on the business of studying.

But at that early stage, you can only hope your roommates aren't shitty, that your classmates have good sense at least. Every other variable that would lead to the conclusions you want — awesome roommates, excellent lecturers, good grades eventually — is totally out of your grasp.

So that the muezzin is steadfast is a big deal. The call shows up, the rhythm lilting and comforting. In this world of uncertainty, having something to hold on to is a blessing, even if it is the constant voice of a stranger.

In your new room, everyone claims their turf. Their bunk. Their bucket. Their space. Even though the room is a square box with no clear demarcations, everyone knows what space is theirs, where they can get to, and no further. Reminds you of how lions piss all over their territory to ward off intruders.

There are already-established affiliations: A, B, and Y are from the same university.

You and E were already friends. D is the lone wolf. So he finds companionship in music. He rinses Kiss Daniel's Barnabas.

Every morning, headphones on but the music so loud you all nod to the beat anyway, he'd go about his business, pausing every so often to join Kizz on a few

“

Two months and you realize one thing: boys talk about girls to boys.

A lot. lines or to give a few dance steps. His music is the first extended hand of friendship. Then slowly, you see the lines getting smeared, smudged, little acts erasing boundaries so that the personal becomes communal. D produces a mirror, and everyone takes turns passing it around every morning. B is the official photographer, he uses your faces to testrun, and you guys are his mercenaries, sending his pictures to the different groups on campus. But A is the one who makes the most videos. He has an intuitive sense to know when to whip out his phone, when to steal a moment and trap it into a memory.

In the room, hailing is constant, and everyone collects a full dose every few hours. Everyone is a chairman or presido.

"E don tey when you spray me dollars, wetin dey sup?" E would randomly say.

"You too dey jack, first class bobo." "Guy, see as your native fresh." The compliments are forceful, nothing fanciful, just like boys.

Two months and you realize one thing: boys talk about girls to boys. A lot. It is the one subject that is taken for granted, that every boy has an opinion about. Stand outside and make a call for longer than five minutes, and someone will say, "Leave that girl alone make she go read." Get seen walking with a girl and someone will tease

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Kenga: you to shits about it. Coming back from classes, queuing up to fetch water, having a regular conversation in the room, at any one time, that a boy will be talking about a girl in the hostel is an almost sure bet, will be almost too easy.

And if there were an area boys are most altruistic, it is in helping another boy land a girl. B tells you this myth of a group of boys in his university hostel. If one guy starts talking to a girl and is not making headway, they all would pitch in. They'd take turns texting the girl from the guy's phone, each person contributing a line, urging the girl till she crosses the finish line.

As you pay close attention, you notice the subtle differences in how they talk about the girls. The ones they like. The ones they'd like to fuck. The ones they hate.

Language, ever the unraveler, unknots their intentions any time they open their mouths.

You realize that boys only talk about girls in non-sexual terms if they either admire the girls, they are friends with them, or they genuinely like them. When a boy talks about a girl he only wants to bed, the language is brutal, they’ll call it lashing, or smashing, or fucking. And there is no saving a girl from body shaming if a boy hates her.

The reason for this fervor, this intense need to center girls in every conversation, eludes you. That, until the day a girl compliments you in class. She says, "Hmm, you smell really nice. Subtle, not very harsh or anything." Then she takes your book and writes down her number. "Here, text me when you get to the hostel. Snap the perfume and send it to me, I want to buy it."

“

This is how boys show love: someone gets a makeshift weight lift. tightly-knit schedule. He'd talk to his girlfriend every day about everything, and you chuckle at the "Babe, you know what happened in class today?" You note his girlfriend's voice, how he comes alive whenever he hears it, and the seriousness with which he discusses the little things with her. And it doesn't bother you when he makes those calls, the rest of you face front and do not chook mouth.

It is a shame because his is the kind of handsome everybody agrees on. Nothing like that beauty is in the eyes of the beholder nonsense. Even though he gets the most compliments, and girls randomly tell him he is fine, he does not stop telling everyone that he is in a relationship. He is insistent with this, and his actions wear the same garb as his words so that you all grant him this concession. So, in this place where all the boys are single, even the married ones, you all agree that he is booed up.

A is almost going steady, which is to say that he starts talking to one person consistently. He goes to night class three nights in a row and then falls sick and does not hear the last of it. He has a lunch date with this someone, and you ask, "Isn't this the sweater you wore the last time?" He shrugs. He no like stress.

Essay D is the smoothest. Fine boy, check. Good boy, check. Smart boy, check. He strikes up friendships with girls the easiest. But B is the real deal. He wears his facemask all the time and sits at the back of the class.

Girls go crazy over him. The air of mystery, you think, is the first attraction for the girls, and they always want to take off his mask.

It reminds you of all the romance novels where the hero is a handsome, brooding man with a shady past. And yeah, B is handsome underneath the face mask, the girls soon discover. But he is dedicated to Jesus and is nice in a non-threatening way, which, surprise, adds to the intrigue.

As for you, you are just you. Dead guy.

This is how boys show love: someone gets a makeshift weight lift. It rests under the guava tree just at the entrance of the hostel. A small congregation forms around it each evening. Soon, there is a committed number of adherents showing up each evening to "chop iron", test the limits of their strengths, and sculpt the bodies they want.

The weightlifters bear on their bodies the evidence of working out. So it feels like home when they reunite with their irons.

"You will not understand," One boy says as he lifts, muscles bulging, eyes scrunched shut. Someone is keeping time, counting as his hands hang in the air, the weight suspended above it. "It is to me like the way these guys who smoke weed behave. I no fit function if I no chop iron." He smiles as he brings down his arms. Someone else takes his place, and the cycle begins again.

They take turns, grunts, and sweat and sweat litter this ground zero.

The skinny boy is easy to spot. Because, well, he is skinny. And because he just stands and watches and cheers the loudest.

You are giddy with excitement. The thrill gets to your head, fills it, and makes you as weightless as a pillow. The book is too hot as you walk to your room after class.

"Guys, guess what happened today in class?" You say as you step into the room.

"I got a girl's number with zero effort!"

“Bad guy,” they say as they crowd around you.

The pairings start to happen. E was in a committed relationship before here, but his girlfriend is a constant presence, the one person he makes room for in his

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Kenga:

Essay

Then one day, he decides to try to lift the weight. Ground zero is silent as everyone recognizes the solemnity of that moment, the initiation of someone into the brotherhood of the weight lifters. A comrade stands behind him, close enough to whisper into his ears, his hand on the skinny boy's hand. Aaron and Hur, one person. It takes a while, a lot of grunts, and tons of encouragement, but the skinny boy's hand lifts. A cheer goes up, and the boy wears a tired smile that beams the most. The boys clap him on the back, and this is as closely intimate a public display you'd ever see.

As you leave for the first vacation, you realize that you are lucky. By a stroke of luck and by the hand of allotment, you are found in the midst of good guys. And good is relative. It is amoral, because the things you hear in that room, the things you guys have said, will make your mothers blush.

Good also not in the presence of undying altruism or in the absence of a mean streak.

Because when a contraband boiling ring is found in your room, you all denied ownership, shifting culpability to B, who'd bought it. Even though there had been an unspoken understanding that you will claim the ring and any punishment that came with it. But good in the sense of the sum of the whole being greater than the parts. Good in the sense of solid, trustworthy people. Good in that you know no one of them will willfully throw you under the bus, or at least, it would be the last resort. But more importantly, you are grateful that they are kind and thoughtful when it matters. So there's no fight about anyone playing music loudly or using someone's stuff (things you've heard your neighbors fight about) or altercations where anyone threatened to fuck any other person up (things you'd heard your neighbors say). The room next to you is a volcano on the verge of eruption. But the fights disappear too. Quickly. As though with intent. Mediation is not sought for.

Apology is not asked or tendered. Scars form over new wounds, prone to breaking open again.

By the time you guys are ready to leave, things have changed significantly for you.

Two men have been added to the room.

People have moved bunks. And the loyalties have deepened, especially between the six of you. B hardly stays in the room. But each time he comes back, he

photo: Andrew Djan-Sampson

tells you guys of how he's missed you, how the other room is not as friendly, as accommodating, which makes you wonder why he goes there all the time anyway. Then one night, as he preps to go over to the other room, he pauses and says, "I love you guys." It is full of nothing and many things at the same time. Which is why it sounds odd to you. Statements like that, from one guy to another, are usually heavy, fraught with years of toxic masculinity and the things men are not supposed to say to other men. It is partly because B is a church person. So, it would be impossible for anyone in the room to input anything indecent into his words.

But it is also because of the sincerity of his words, how he says them and means them.

So, E says, "We love you too, man," and B walks out of the room.

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photo: Grishon Njoroge

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Personal story

Kenga:

crafting my own kind of masculinity

by Arinze Obi

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wo days before I turned 10, my father left.

No, he didn’t die or do anything dramatic. He simply sat my sister and me down in the room we both shared, to tell us that he was separating from our mother and that we needed to decide which of our parents we wanted to stay with moving forward. What a dilemma to be confronted with at such an innocent age!

At that time, it felt like my whole world was being pulled from right under my feet. Not because my father was leaving and I was scared of what I’d do without his presence. Not that. I wasn’t going to miss him. He wasn’t much of a presence in my life, even when he and my mum were together.

My world came crumbling down because my mother was completely unravelling. At just 9 years old, I’d quickly learnt that few things are as soul-crushing as feeling utterly powerless when someone you love dearly is going through a kind of pain so personal and intense that you can’t possibly do anything to help or protect them.

I felt very shaken because my mother, the one person who I’d seen my whole life as a pillar of unrelenting strength, had just had her entire life torpedoed by a man she’d loved and was left to pick up the pieces by herself while raising two children. Even though I was much younger and even more confused by the entire separation than my elder sister, I felt the need to protect her and my mother as much as I could.

Having had to take up such a role at such little an age, my earliest conception of masculinity was firmly grounded in being a protector and a defender. It was only many years later that I came to realise that I didn’t need to do all of that. All those years, I’d failed to realise that my mother was already very powerful on her own, and all she needed was her son, her little boy; not a kid burning himself trying to carry a cross that wasn’t entirely meant for him.

“There is nothing stronger than a broken woman who has rebuilt herself.” — Hannah Gadsby You see, I must admit that when my father left, I was secretly happy. My happiness came from knowing that his departure meant that I wouldn’t have to have a conversation with him that I dreaded far greater than Hell itself.

At the time, I knew I was gay. I mean, I’d always known. That knowledge was my own prison because I kept wondering what my father would think when he found out. The thought of that terrified me to my bones, but not enough to rewrite the script on my sexuality. I was particularly worried about my father’s reaction because, compared to my mother, I felt he would respond more violently to the news. I wasn’t ready for that.

So his departure extended the runway I had to figure out my own sexuality for myself at my own pace and on my own terms. This proved to be a blessing as I got to also learn about the softer sides of myself that I knew he would’ve cringed at. I got to accept and appreciate that I’ll never be a ‘hard guy.’ That’s just not who I am. More importantly, that’s not who I ever want to be.

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Personal story

Kenga:

“

At just 9 years old, I’d quickly learnt that few things are as soul-crushing as feeling utterly powerless when someone you love dearly is going through a kind of pain so personal and intense that you can’t possibly do anything to help or protect them.

There’s this association between ‘masculinity’ and ‘hardness’ that transcends the conceptual and seeps into the physical. Men are expected to be emotionally hard, characterised by their relative stoicism and emotional detachment, as well as physically hard, characterised by their maintained fitness and controlled composure. I didn’t subscribe to any of that.

I was always a man who feels, and very deeply too. My mother taught me how to feel and not be crippled by my emotions, rather than suppress them and have them eat me up inside or limit the extent to which I express myself.

Growing up without my father allowed me to explore and follow interests that were fully and authentically my own. I was grateful that I didn’t get to be socialised by my father into liking ‘manly’ things I didn’t care about like football, as I know most of my fellow boys were by their fathers and just generally other men in their lives. I got to explore singing, dip my feet in acting, and even fiddle a bit with knitting.

I also got to travel. I travelled much wider than I would’ve if I was under the instruction of my overly nationalistic father. I got to immerse myself in other expressions of masculinity in countries and cultures that were far different from mine. Some parts of my selfconstructed masculinity felt at home in these foreign lands in ways that they just couldn't in Nigeria. To my very core, those spaces made me feel seen. They also made me feel free.

Free to bask in my queerness, free to confront my internalised self-hate, free to address my suppressed daddy issues and, most importantly, free to find love. Those spaces allowed me the courage to let myself be loved by another man. But before I could do that, I had to confront the negative associations I’d made with any form of love from a man. I had to unlearn my trauma.

Trauma is an inescapable part of growing up male in Africa, particularly when you grow up a different kind of male. The worst thing about trauma is that it is transferred from generation to generation. A generation of boys raised without experiencing parental love from their fathers grow up assuming that to be the norm and, in turn, raise another generation of boys who are soaked in paternal lovelessness. The ripple effect this has is too great to ignore.

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But I believe my generation will do better. Thanks to the internet, we have been exposed to a world beyond our locales and have been integrated from a very young age into the global monoculture, one that increasingly tilts towards vulnerability, intimacy, and self-love.

This is the generation I’m proud to be a part of, one that is bold enough to rewrite age-old narratives on identity by imagining a world where things aren’t defined in rigid binaries but in a range of spectra, as colourful as the rainbow.

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photo: Andrew Djan-Sampscn

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Kenga:

Essay

the masculine urge to “bro” bros

by Arinze Obi

i

hate the word “bro”. My friends know this. I don’t hate the word literally. I just hate how it’s used as a crutch for the platonic expression of male intimacy and fondness.

Let me first start by clarifying something. I fully identify as a cisgender homosexual man. But I can still be all of that and love my masculinity in its entirety without having any love for the word “bro”. I’m leading with this disclaimer to dispel any thoughts that liking the word “bro” comes with the psychological contract of being a man.

As a boy, I struggled to connect with other boys. I mean, we were friends by default of being schoolmates, going to the same church, or living in the same neighbourhood. But establishing a genuine connection with them was a bit challenging. My queerness had nothing to do with this.

The reason I struggled to connect with other boys is that I felt they just weren’t on the same wavelength as me in emotional expressiveness. They weren’t as endearing or as unguarded as the girls. Girls would call each other cute names, they’d be vulnerable with each other, and they’d compliment each other freely about how gorgeous they looked. But boys? Hmm. Just recently, I was admiring (more like gushing over) some random girl I’d come across on Twitter. And a male friend sitting next to me asked me: “Are you bi now?” I was quite shocked by the question, to which I responded: “Uhm, no. I’m thoroughly gay, but I’m not blind

to beauty.” And I meant it. I didn’t get why I needed to be sexually attracted to women to be able to acknowledge and appreciate their beauty and sexiness.

So I started to think: why are men not able to compliment each other on their appearance as openly and as passionately as women do each other?

Could it be that men are just not wired to be as expressive as that? Or could it be that we raise our boys to be able to appreciate the kind of beauty that tickles their penises? Or maybe our boys are actually able to express themselves as freely as that, but are cautious because of how they believe their words would be perceived?

Why are boys not able to say to each other: “You look gorgeous!” “I miss you” “I love you” or “I need a hug” without adding “bro” as a suffix? I mean, it’s fine to use that every now and then, but all the time? I’d imagine that the person being spoken to knows they’re male, so why the need for the gendered endearment.

My problem with the word “bro” is what it represents. It represents men’s reluctance to express emotion, intimacy and fondness without having a cushion to soften the mushiness of whatever they’re telling another man. I secretly look forward to a world where that word, in its current application, is phased into oblivion.

Well, it’s not a secret anymore.

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Kenga:

Essay

“

Why are men not able to compliment each other on their appearance as openly and as passionately as women do each other?

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photo: Andrew Djan-Sampson

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photo: Andrew Djan-Sampson

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Personal story

Kenga:

Mono-testicular: finding my manh d in a ball

by Writer X *

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Personal story

Kenga: know…I know that’s a weird title, believe me, nobody is more aware of that than I am, that was the last compound word you expected to come across today- of that I’m sure.

Speaking of compounds, a compound is a thing composed of two or more elements, this leads us to the topic of “twos” and if you’re late to the sharecircle, “Hi my name is Writer X and I am mono-testicular."

i

Yes…it is exactly what it sounds like… one testicle- ball if you will, What’s worse? I spent the majority of my life believing I was normal. I was never really one who placed much of their value on the physical or even on the girth, shape, or size of one’s tool- or so I thought. I remember a prepubescent me, backed into the corner of a bathroom stall in primary school, being taunted by my mates for this reason. With a half-baked voice I made my case with pitchy pride and careless confidence unaware of what awaited me 13 years later.

Now by 23, I had had my fair share of lovers, was in a stable, loving relationship, and had heard no complaints regarding my sexual prowess or ability to please my partner. Life was good. All was well. Until I picked an Uber home from work that happened to be dialed-in to a men’s health segment on the radio. I recall muttering faint curses to the dreaded heat of Accra when suddenly I heard, “No man should have one testicle, all men are born with two.”

As I listened to these men discuss how one testicle can be significantly smaller than the other, but its virtually impossible to have one ball. I felt a chill go down my spine as I felt those bathroom walls take shape in my mind, the taunts resounding- they were right, but this anomaly was all I had ever known. Too stunned to think straight I remember clutching the handle of the car door and just gripping it so tightly as I hyperventilated.

The minute I got home I confronted my mom, asking her if she knew about this, she said ever so calmly, “Oh…I always

just assumed you knew.”Apparently being born extremely premature, My body needed help keeping up with my organs, it was too much stress on my tiny body and unfortunately it was an organ I lost as a result while incubated. I felt like my whole life was a lie, suddenly I felt like less of a man -a failure of sorts, I also felt betrayed in a sense, I had lived my whole life thinking balls came in ones and twos.

and I am still as much a man, if not more after. My manhood did not lie in my balls, my manhood was whatever I defined it to be with my values, skills and my choices and I chose to carry that proudly, for I learnt that there was no one way to be a man.

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* used as a pseudonym

I felt somewhat inadequate, as though I wasn’t whole, I recall at a point asking all sorts of questions. What would this mean for my future? Do I produce a significantly less amount of sperm than I should? Can I have kids? What happens if I lose this ball as well? I had so many fears, I even began to spiral, wondering if I was man enough to begin with because I literally was missing something.

It was not as though I had lived with it and had to get it removed, I had never really known anything else aside from this one testicle. I didn’t even know if there were certain feelings and sensations I was missing out on, I wondered constantly if I would feel any different had I had bothpart of me always will.

It was not something I could forget either, “balls” or testicles were always addressed in pairs be it alluding to confidence, lack thereof or even in general. That fateful day, in the bathroom turned from a memory of me standing up for myself, to one of me playing the absolute fool.

I constantly wondered what my mates thought of me at the time and even now I sometimes wish I could take it all back.

It took me a while to come to terms with the fact that this situation did not make me less of a man, I had to see past my fears and insecurities and look beyond my organ...or lack thereof, for although I was significantly different, I functioned as a man should, beyond that I was a sum of many great qualities and talents and having one ball did not affect these qualities. I asked myself had I not heard that interview on that fateful day, would I have known I was lacking? Probably not, and if it never made a difference all those years…did it ever really? I was a man prior to knowing

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photo: Horace Mensah Jnr

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Kenga:

Interview

Cheyenne Muvunyi:

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Kenga:

Interview

Making African Skincare and Haircare Unisex

by Arinze Obi

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Kenga:

Interview

CHEYENNE MUVUNYI is the 23-year-old founder of Glow Force, a Rwandan beauty company that seeks to make healthy kinks and glowing melanin mainstream through their assortment of luxury organic haircare and skincare products. We had a chat with her to learn about her journey into the beauty industry and to understand how African men engage with beauty products.

Belated Happy Women’s Day! I’m curious. What does Women’s Day mean to you?

Every year, I get kinda shook that there’s literally a whole day to celebrate women.

Which is honestly just a reminder that there was a time when women didn’t have some of the privileges that women of today have. It’s a reminder of how far we’ve come, even though there’s still so far to go. I often say that the best time to be a woman is now. With that in mind, I try to focus on using the privileges I have now to not only be my best self, but to also help the women around me be their best selves.

What was your journey like getting into the skincare and haircare business?

So it’s actually a very long story, but I’m going to try to cut it as short as I can. So, several years ago, there was this thing called ‘The Natural Hair Movement’. It started in America, but then bled into other countries. Basically, it was a decolonial movement that tried to get us Black girls to rid ourselves of these European standards of beauty and embrace our natural hair. Even though I’d never altered my hair chemically or whatever, I didn’t take care of it. Also, the only hair products I knew were white people products which weren’t always compatible with my hair. So I decided to start learning more about Black hair. I started reading so many blogs and watching these videos on how to create homemade hair products for Black hair. I started seeing all these interesting recipes, and I tried to replicate them. They actually came out well. At that time, I did see the potential of it becoming a business, but I didn’t have any money to actually do anything. I think I was 13 or 14 at the time, so I would just kept it within my friends and family, who I’d make a few of my products for.

Wait a sec, you were researching hair chemicals and manufacturing haircare products at 13?

Well, damn. Okay, please continue.

So actually, I’d joined this Facebook group I found of people in Kigali who were interested in hair products. I’d post there about how I make these hair products for my sisters and my friends, and some people started to buy it. So I actually did start a business when I was that age. But then the demand got so high that I couldn’t keep up with it. The business closed because of that. That was also around the time I was doing my GSCEs in high school.

I just didn’t have time. So the business shut down, and I forgot about it.

Fast forward when I began university in 2017, I was going through a difficult time and my skin started breaking out like crazy! It was the first time that that had ever happened to me because I wasn’t someone who had acne-prone skin, cos I didn’t break out easy. So when that happened to me, I was like ‘OMG, I’m using Neutrogena and these other products but nothing’s working.’ So I felt I needed to go to the root, to the source of these skincare products.

“

The only hair products I knew were white people products which weren’t always compatible with my hair. So I decided to start learning more about Black hair.

I ended up mixing a few things that worked for me and started applying them on my face. As it started working, I remembered the business I created when I was 13.

Considering I was now in a better financial position to actually create something, I decided to start a business. And I actually did. And that’s how Glowforce came to be.

What challenges did you face when you were getting started with Glow Force?

The biggest challenge I faced was with funding. At that time, I was self-funding the business but it was taking quite long.

So I asked a few people if they would invest in my business, but nobody did. I was actually quite shocked because these were the same people who would use my products and would be like ‘these are amazing’ and ‘wow wow wow.’ But when I wanted to make it an actual business, they didn’t believe in the future of that cos they weren’t willing to invest in it. At the time, I understood that it’s their money, but I really just needed someone to believe in me. Eventually, my cousin Karen who also had a business gave me $250 for me to use for whatever I need to start the business.

That was basically my seed funding.

Do you know the current demographic breakdown of your clientele? What percentage are Gen Z? I actually always check these things. I love data because it helps me know how best to plan for my business so we can better serve our customers. Last I checked, Gen Zs make up about 37 percent of the Glow Force clientele. That is, people who are at most 25 years old. But the majority of my clients are actually millennials, who make up about 52 percent.

Interesting. And what percentage of your clients are male?

Hmm. I think it’s about 13 percent, last I checked.

Wow! What are your thoughts on that?

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Kenga: So when I saw 13 percent, one one hand, I thought yikes. Because, you know, I would have loved an even distribution of women and men because Glow Force products are designed to be unisex. But, on the other hand, it also shows me that there’s potential for growth. There’s untapped potential. But I also have to acknowledge that most of my marketing material is mainly targeted towards women. So that’s why, low-key, I might be the reason why that number is that way.

Interesting. Why do think you focus your marketing mostly on women even though you’re striving for a more unisex brand?

The reason I tend to create more womenoriented marketing material is honestly because it’s easier. For me, finding female models is much easier than finding male models. But I know that’s not reason enough for me to not try to do better with my marketing. That’s because I know that people are more likely to buy a product when they see someone who looks like them using that product, especially with something like skincare and haircare. So if I create more marketing material that showcases men, I know for sure that that’s going to interest a few more men to try my product. It’s already part of my focus to do this, but honestly, right now, I haven’t put much work into that. But I will.

Your products do seem to be unisex. So other than the imbalanced marketing focus, why do you think men don’t purchase from you as much as women?

You’re right. These things are usually a cocktail of reasons. It’s almost never just one thing. I think it also has to do with mindset and culture, where there’s a bit of toxic masculinity that makes men feel like they don’t need to take care of their skin as much as women. I think there’s also the thing of some men feeling like their sexuality will be questioned, unfortunately, if they were to put on a face mask for example. Those are very powerful forces that stop you from doing something: if you feel like somebody is going to interrogate your sexuality or judge you negatively for doing something, you’ll most likely refrain from doing that thing.

So I think these things play into that 13%.

Interview To what extent do you think this disregard for skincare that some men have is a learned behaviour?

It’s definitely 100 percent a learned behaviour stemming from societal pressures and toxic masculinity that’s instilled in young men ever since they’re children. It’s definitely learned.

Completely.

What would you say is the thing you love the most about being Gen Z? What I would say I like about being Gen Z is that I grew up during the rise of the internet, cos I love the internet! The internet was able to expose me to a world beyond my community in a way that I feel no radio or newspaper ever could. So because of that, I think you’d find that most Gen Z are more knowledgeable, more open-minded and more willing to be unconventional and try new things. I think these are the things I like the most about being Gen Z.

I’d say that if you become gay after applying a face mask, you were honestly always gay. There is no cosmetic ingredient powerful enough to change your sexuality. That’s the truth. It’s very dumb for anyone to think otherwise. Like, people will be breaking out and having bad acne in the name of not being seen as gay.

It’s a very close-minded way of thinking.

It’s really silly at this point. And also, you don’t have to post these things, you know?

You can apply your skincare and haircare products in the privacy of your bathroom and you come out glowing. Who wouldn’t want that?

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What would you say is the thing you hate the most about being Gen Z? Definitely our impatience. We are far too impatient. This is all boils back down to the internet. There are always two sides to these things. On one side, we have apps like TikTok that have been ruining people’s attention span. But people tend to forget that before TikTok, we had Vine which had mostly videos that were 6 seconds long. These things conditioned us Gen Zs to these short bursts of pleasure, so we tend to forget that some enjoyable things take time.

As a business owner, this also affects me.

For example, people don’t take time to read captions. Even videos, if they don’t get that dopamine rush in the first 10 seconds, they’re swiping and moving along. So it impacts how I’m able to effectively market my customers. It’s annoying because most important messages can’t be communicated in just 10 seconds. So yeah, impatience would be the thing I hate the most.

If you could say something to the subset of men who consider skincare to be ‘gay’, what would you say?

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photo: Andrew Djan-Sampson

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Kenga:

poem

Tamia’s almost

by Taiwo Hassan

swear, i’m not writing this in regret. nothing here is ombrophobic - not these words, not each space in between, not me the metaphors that thrive on them. /you know, i wonder about the countless things distance can dissolve, the knots it can filter into strings. can’t you be that simple? can’t you be far from remnants of a harmattan wind, a sand traveler leaving footprints of dust on anything that breathes the potential for a miracle? in this poem, a man isn’t just a man. this vessel is also a reflection of lushness doubling as a transparent body with nothing but hunger at its hard depth. the day you left, i knew that to lose love is to be a state of disturbance, a cyclone of chaos, another formula for entropy, a loop of despair. plunge into this body, can you count the hopes that have drowned here?/ dangle a blade next to my skin and watch caterpillars try to grow wings. no one is immune to metamorphosis. I’ve learnt to harbor the pain in beauty to be the beauty, to be the pain. that’s one way to make sense of this breakage, this raging desire to taste fire and sing an ode to its flames. we all have a special type of thirst, but does one know what they truly need? even a healthy tree can be unsure whether to let go of a branch. ask its leaves, they will show you the tears in its bark.

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photo: Kwame Kodah

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photo: Kwame Kodah

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Kenga:

short story

the right time

by Gabrielle Emem Harry

i

am sure we can just blend the okro instead.” Ini said.

“Uncle Nsikan always grated it.” James did not look up from the grater.

“I’m sure it won’t make a difference.”

“It will.”

Ini kept quiet and poured the onions -grated, not blended- into the palm oil sizzling in the pot. Before James and before Uncle Nsikan, the pot had belonged to their mother. On one of his visits, Uncle Nsikan had taken it along with the leftover stew in it and half a loaf of bread “for the road”. Over the phone, their mother had laughed, but not before screaming at him for an hour. He always told her that younger brothers were supposed to steal.

Uncle Nsikan always took something for the road. A cushion from the parlour, hand cream from their mother’s bag, a pencil from James, a book from Ini. He always left something behind too. Something from the road. Sweet potatoes or huge tangerines, a parrot named Red in a blue steel cage or storybooks about a tortoise, a traveller like him.

And now the road had taken him, along with all the pieces of them in his possession.

“Don’t let the onions burn. I don’t know why you put them in the oil so early. You have to wait for the right time.” James snapped.

“Why are you so angry?”

“Because you should have waited for me to tell you what to do.”

“Is it my fault I couldn’t learn how to make it from him? I didn’t ask to be posted to Enugu for NYSC. You were just lucky that they sent you to Uyo.” “Please let's just finish cooking the soup.” James said in irritation, pouring the plate of grated okro into the oil.

“Maybe I should have just asked you to text me the recipe. Since teaching me in person is such a chore.”

“It’s not a chore.”

“You’re acting like it is.”

James turned to face Ini, wiping his forehead with his palm like he always did when he was avoiding something. “I just don’t like thinking about him.”

“Really?” Ini said. “I love thinking about him. I think about his useless jokes a lot. They still make me laugh. They make me sad sha. But they still make me laugh.”

James smiled tightly and poured water into the pot.

“Do you remember when-“ “I don’t want to do this Ini. This isn’t the time.”

Ini kept quiet. But he was tired of being quiet. It had been six months and he was ready to tackle the grief, but it was too much to fight alone.

“This is the time. My name is Ini. I always know the right time.”

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Kenga:

short story

James was silent, but Ini knew it had worked when he rolled his eyes.

“You used to hate that one.”

“I still do.” Ini cringed. “I can’t believe it came out of my mouth.”

“At least you didn’t say something about it being his time to go.”

“Someone told me that one o. They said ‘Iniobong, as your name implies, it was God’s time to call him home.’”

James twisted his mouth down in disgust. “I’m sure it was Uncle Augustus.”

“Who else talks like that?”

“I pity his students,” James paused. “You know Uncle Nsikan hated him?”

“I’m not surprised. He hated everyone who made life hard for Mummy after Dad died.”

“He was a good brother.”

“He was. And a good uncle.”

“I feel like I’ve been a bad brother recently.” James said, looking at his hands. Ini did that too, when he was ashamed.

“Recently?” Ini asked, dragging out the last syllable.

“Abeg.” James laughed.

“Do you remember Dad’s funeral?” James asked carefully, as if the words were a sharp knife.

“Not really,” Ini said, scratching his neck. “I remember some things. Tears, coconut rice, Maltina, rain.”

“Uncle Augustus had one of his talks with me that day.”

“What did he say?” Ini asked, rolling his eyes.

“He said he’d seen you crying.”

Ini hissed, “And so? An eight-year-old can’t cry at his father’s funeral?”

“That wasn’t his point. He said he’d seen you crying, and that it was fine. He said you were allowed to cry because you were a child, and the second son, but that I couldn’t afford to do unnecessary things like cry. He said you and Mummy were depending on me as the man of the house, and I had to be strong. Then he tapped me on the shoulder and left. That’s when the rain started.” James started to laugh but then abandoned it, “It almost felt like the sky was mocking me.”

“James, you were thirteen. You were a child too. And imagine him giving you a “man of the house” speech as if Aunty Esther doesn’t pay all the bills in that house.”

“I know it was nonsense, but back then it felt true. That’s why Uncle Nsikan was so confusing to me when I was younger.”

“How?” “He just seemed so…free. He knew himself so well. There are so many lies we tell ourselves about who we are and who we need to be and what we’re entitled to, and what we can endure. He taught me that you don’t have to tell those lies, or believe them. He taught me that sometimes silence is a lie. But now he’s gone, and silence is easier than confronting that.”

Ini stared at James for a second, then laughed abruptly, “That man hated silence.”

“He did,” James smiled, “If he wasn’t telling a story, he was singing a song.”

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Kenga:

short story

“What was that song called again? Menso Kededi!”

James groaned, “I got so sick of listening to Chief Inyang Henshaw. Our house was so quiet after Dad died. Mummy was always busy and then you went to boarding school.”

“You were the one who didn’t want to be a boarder.”

“I didn’t want her to be alone in the house. And the school fees were cheaper for day students.”

“Wait…that’s why you told her you wanted to be a day student?”

James waved Ini’s concern away, “I also didn’t want to be packed into a hostel with a hundred demons. I remember your visiting days.

The stench of your hostel? God forbid. And it was loud. Uncle Nsikan’s house was loud too. I didn’t talk to him a lot. I didn’t feel like it was necessary. At the end of my first month in Uyo, Uncle Nsikan told me that he couldn’t live in a house with a ghost.”

James paused for a second and they both tried to ignore the sharp stab of irony.

“He said if I couldn’t think of what to say, I could use other people’s words, so he gave me this huge black bluetooth speaker he bought in Aba, and told me I was in charge of music and could play whatever I wanted as long as it fit my mood. So I cut out the highlife and in the evenings while we made dinner, we would listen to Asa or MC Galaxy or Obongjayar or Show Dem Camp.”

“Wow. You never told me that.” Ini said, looking at his brother.

“It never came up.” James shrugged.

“Do you still have the speaker?”

“Yeah. Why?” Ini scratched his neck and squinted, “I feel like it’s too quiet in here.”

The drums started with the drums, but the trumpets seized control, guiding the lazy guitar and the pleading vocals.

James tapped three fingers on his knee to the beat of the drums, and Ini nodded along to rhythm of the guitar.

“I understand that you’ve been grieving,” Ini said “But you don’t have to grieve on your own. You don’t always have to carry everything on your own. Uncle Nsikan is gone, but I’m still here.”

“I know. I’ll stop avoiding your calls.” James said, sounding slightly embarrassed.

“Good. I can’t believe I had to lie and say I wanted to learn how to cook okro soup just to get you to let me into your house. You no try.”

“Wait, you were lying?”

“Younger brothers are supposed to lie. You know I hate okro soup.”

“You said you wanted to cook it for Mummy.”

“She hates okro soup too. Do you know you’re not observant?”

“But Uncle Nsikan always made okro soup when he visited. And we all ate it. Everyone liked it!”

“No, you and him liked it. Mummy and I always cooked Indomie later.”

“What the hell? My own mother betraying me? I’m calling her to confront her.”

“You should. You actually should. She’s been worried about you” “I will.”

“So who is going to eat that okro?” James asked after a pause.

END

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photo: Joseph Abbey Mensah

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photo: Andrew Djan-Sampson

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photo: Kwame Kodah

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photo: Andrew Djan-Sampson

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Kenga:

short story

Under still waters

by Munachismo David

he tangerine-colored sun was blisteringly hot today, casting dark, definite shadows of people and buildings on the floor. It was so fierce it seemed to cast shadows on words spoken, too. People sweated and shuffled in swift speed while clutching their purses, phones and belongings a little too jealously, as if they were guarding precious portions of their lives. Not surprising. It is Lagos; a sunny city with shady people. A bustling city full of bustling people and events: yellow buses and its loud and raggedy conductors yanking people's arms to fill up their buses; traders in garish clothes, trying to force their wares down people's throats; homeless children begging for money and given paltry treatments instead; shirtless hunky men that became so unattractive once they opened their mouth; people who just sauntered around in search of their daily bread. It is a city with endless possibilities. You once heard that a man who left his home, whole, for the day's hustle, went back to his house at the end of the day looking for his penis. It is a place where it is customary for the unusual to happen. But here is your haven — your cousin's one room apartment in Surulere. The beige color of the walls of the room is fading, the wire connection is faulty, and the edges of the carpet are chipped away; like something nibbled at by rats. The room is hot and stale smells hang heavy in the air. But you are here because you would put up with anywhere that is not Enugu. You needed to be here to understand this thing about you.

t •••

The mind has an incredible way of recollecting memories and thoughts as impregnable mental images and storing them away in its safe keep, pending a later date for reminiscing.

••• You remember growing up in Enugu — a city characterized with bad roads, landmark sculptures, industrious people and satisfactory food. It carried a zeitgeist of its own.

You remember Mother. The dauntless, bright eyed lawyer who was the stark opposite of timorous Father. Mother was also buxom and thickset, while Father was reedy. Mother was fair, Father was light chocolate like the color of chocolate and milk mixed together. They complemented each other. Their parenting went the same way too — Mother flogged, Father talked. Uncle Utonwa, Father's brother, once said to Father that Mother was the man of the house, not him and Father laughed, shrugged and asked, "And so?" Father's reservedness was like a thin long thread holding everything — Mother, you, his siblings — together, until death crept in and cut the thread. Every other thing happened in a twinkle — Mother was asked to shave her hair, she refused; she was called an ogbanje; when you asked her the meaning of an ogbanje, she said it meant a confident woman who stood her ground; Father was buried a month later.

Mother changed. Something, like a tight knot, within her loosened and gave way to a more easy going woman. She did not call you Dozie anymore, rather she called the name more subtly by adding nwa m to it — Dozie nwa m. She also became more religious and started attending bible study classes, started going early to the church where the dark bespectacled pastor screamed every hallowed Sunday, in thick sweat, of how God will make your life tight if you don't pay your tithe and how you will live a life of suffering when you don't give your offering. And Mother would always nod with pursed lips, after which she would go and kneel in front of the altar to receive the Holy Communion. The first time you tasted the liquid, it had an inebriating effect on you and you couldn't believe people drank that swill. She also became a little more anxious of everything, needing her pastor's validation in everything she did. It was as if she was living the life her pastor wanted for her and not that which she wanted, as if she was an audience in her own life.

••• You roll over on the bed, thinking and reminiscing, in order to find your lost self. Memories jumble over each other in your head; you try to arrange the events and flashing images in your head, in a sequential order.

••• First was your primary school — Air Force Primary School. The day Aunty Azodo, your form teacher, caught you and Chikadibia, the tall dark boy, laughing and pressing each other's buttocks in class. It was during break time. You can remember how she screamed; her shrill voice rang into the air and startled you. She then tugged you and Chikadibia by the ear into her office, where you knelt down for the rest of the day. She kept asking you where you learnt such a thing from, what kind of movies you watched but you didn't know what

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to say. She called Mother, who later came into the office and told you to go to the car. Anger always made her forehead crease. When she came out, her eyes were wet and her eyeliner had washed off. She just got into the car and drove off. You would never know what happened in that office because she never scolded you nor mentioned the event ever again. She just made sure you attended more bible study meetings in church and made sure you were the first person to come for Sunday school classes. One day, you overheard her telling the pastor what had happened in school and the loud pastor laughed and said that it was one of the signs of the devil that the Sunday school classes would take care of. This bothered you. The evil, red, children-eating devil your Sunday school teacher — Aunty Felicia — always talked about, was in you?

The next memory that hit your consciousness was when you kissed Obinna under the staircase in church. It was an overcast Sunday, with matte clouds which looked worn out from holding the rain. It was months since you showed your first sign of the devil. You just finished primary school. You and Mother were early to church, as wonted. Mother walked to the pastor's office, her shoe making the koi-koi-koi sound. "Go and pray before Sunday school starts," she said to you before she knocked and pushed his door open. You went down the zigzagged staircase and went into your Sunday school class where the Ten Commandments engraved into the wall marked the entrance. You saw Obinna sitting in an obscure area in the highly decorated room. He was tall, a little taller than his age. He was also older than you. He had a sackless face and had the same color with the brown pap you took most nights. You didn't know what you felt but you always wanted to be around him. You didn't grumble whenever mother woke you early for church because you knew he would be early too. You started walking towards him. He raised his head, smiled and beckoned you to come. You hastened your steps and got to him. What you saw was strange. He was touching and spitting on his penis which stood strong and hard. He winked at you and you couldn't resist that face of his. Your heartbeat took an irregular rhythm as your erection grew in your boxers. He smiled as he touched you and led your hands to touch his penis, it was hot and throbbing. You were confused but you left your hands there. He then led your hands up and down on it. At a point, he put the penis back into his neatly ironed trouser, zipped up, stood and left. You followed him.

He stopped under the zigzagged staircase, drew you close and kissed you. You felt a lot of things and the satisfaction overwhelmed you. The satisfaction was short-lived by Aunty Felicia's deafening shriek when she saw both of you. There was a furore in the church and condemnatory comments from every mouth flowed like a gushing river when they heard what you did. You didn't stay for service that day because Mother shoved you into the car and drove you home, fuming. When you got home, she stomped into her room and brought out the cane you thought she had thrown away when Father died. "It's not me you'll disgrace. I'll kill that devil in you before it kills me," she kept muttering under her breath, in Igbo, as she lashed you into nihility. Few weeks later, she sent you to the church's boarding secondary school in Nsukka, just as her pastor told her to.

••• Somewhere in your distant journey through these memories, you hear a piercing voice that jolts you back to reality. A deep furrow spreads across your forehead before you realize it was your neighbor, the lady whose moanings at night kept the whole building awake.

You roll your eyes. The details of your room become more evident. There is an inexistence of sound, in the room, except your own breathing and the ticking of the clock but it still irked you. You sigh and slip back into your thoughts.

••• You remember your secondary school. You remember how much you cried when Mother dropped you off and reiterated things you should and should not do — how you should pray and read your bible every morning before you go to class and in the night before you sleep, how you should take your studies seriously, how you should respect the school prefects and authority, how you should stay away from bad boys before they make you do what Obinna made you do. You just nodded and kept crying. She kissed you and folded five thousand naira notes into your hands. She held back the tears that stood in her eyes as she said, "Ebezina, i bu nwoke. You're a man."

You kept waving at her till her ox-blood Mercedes was no longer in sight, leaving a trail of dust behind — you now hate the smell of dust because it reminds you of this moment.

Boarding school was eventful. You remember your first bath in the bathroom — a long slanting hall with different open compartments, built in such a way everyone could see everyone. You remember the first time you went into the bathroom; with your SpongeBob towel tied around your small waist, the little bucket of water you carried in your right hand and your soap dish in your left. You stopped at the entrance, dazed with fear, when you saw different sizes of black penises dangling. Most of them were as big as Obinna's own, some bigger, others smaller. You counted your steps as you walked in, bewilderment etched on your face. You laugh now, as you remember this. You remember that that was where you first saw Chinonso. He was just as small as you were. You knew he was a newcomer like you because of the way he quietly bathed at a secluded compartment of the bathroom, unlike the others who bathed with so much frenzy. You walked past them and went around where Chinonso was. You also noticed how he carefully avoided the algae-infested wall and you did the same. You kept looking at him till his eyes met yours and formed something like an invisible force field that contained just the both of you, shutting out the noise from the bathroom; the world.

Hey, I'm Dozie," you said to him.

"I'm Chinonso." His smile also ignited something fluttering in you.

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Both of you bonded over the spurious stories you told yourselves every night after lights out on your bed or his, whispering stories you both knew were mostly false but it was the feeling you got from your skin touching his, pore to pore, that mattered and not the factuality of the stories he told. Both of you started doing almost everything together. Both of you created a world that was just the two of you. People always mistook him to be your brother because both of you had the same skin color — butterscotch — and the same impressively thick brows. It pleased you that you were the first person people would ask whenever they were looking for him. During visiting days, he always took you to see his parents, who would always welcome you with smiles and hugs. Their guest friendliness warmed your heart but you later stopped going to meet them because they reminded you of what your family would have been if Father was still alive.

You once took Chinonso to meet Mother on a certain visiting day. Mother was very delightful and pleasant, speaking Igbo at intervals, and laughing a little too much. But when Chinonso left after she told him to go and bring a flask so she could put food for him, she drew you close and said, "I hope this boy is a good boy and he's not like Obinna. Better make friends of God's children." That was the last time you took Chinonso to see Mother.

You, again, remember the way your heart danced when Chinonso drew two hearts entangled together, on one heart he wrote his name and on the other he wrote your name. When he gave you the paper during the afternoon prep, the smile on your face grew wider and wider till your cheeks hurt. It was that night both of you first had sex. It was in your SS2, you could remember.

At night, the sky was bright with tiny glistening stars that formed beautiful patterns. The moon was full and gleaming. Inside the hostel, everywhere was dark, save for the rays of moonlight that filtered in, and everyone was asleep. He climbed into your bed, and snuggled up with you. He had a fresh soapy smell to him. He kissed you and it calmed every heating nerve in you. Your hands then travelled to his groin which was hard and had grown so big since you first saw it in the bathroom. He pulled down your cotton boxers, as your penis stood out too. Somehow the blanket separating both of you was cast aside and he was on you, his mouth fastened to yours. His tongue was strong, delicious with the taste of him. It was a potent kiss that freed your memory of ever having kissed Obinna. Moans of heightened arousal vibrated through your throat as he wedged his knee between yours, separating them, and stroked you. Afterwards, you took him in your mouth, sucking his very being with a steady tempo as he made inarticulate sounds of pleasure. He later slipped out, kissed you again and turned you over as he lubed his phallus with Vaseline and slowly pushed it into your buttocks. You gasped and gritted in pain and pleasure. You came first, and then he later came after a few thrusts, making noisy snorts. He held you tightly for some minutes before he whispered, "I love you," into your ear. His sonorous voice had the same effect in your ears that drinking chilled water after a long sunny day had in your throat. Since then till now, you have held those words close to your heart, petted them and stroked them every now and then. Those words became your companion; they became Chinonso when he was not there. I love you.

Your memory travels to when Chinonso did not come back to school after the SS2 long vacation. You repeatedly called him with the school phone but you kept hearing the metallic female voice, the number you're calling is currently switched off.

It was a cold afternoon — something particular and outlandish about that day; you woke up gloomy with your heart knotted in a firm clench — when your principal, the loquacious man, came into your class with a sullen face and talked as if he was about to break into a dirge when he said, "we have lost a student and one of your classmate, Ubani Chinonso, and the burial..." Your mind began to blur, your senses went numb. A sudden penetrating sense of cold, causing a brief trembling nerve response through your body, sent you into shock. You just sat there and stared into nothingness. At night, on your bed, you sighed and sighed and sobbed, which raked your body and weakened your joints. Your heart kept slapping itself against your chest. When you slept, you dreamt of Chinonso running from some people, screaming for help. You woke up with an army of sticky beads of sweat that clustered together on your forehead and on the ridge of your nose. A migraine brewed at the base of your skull. You laid wide awake the whole night, furious with despair.

When your class went for a condolence visit to Chinonso's house, his mother called you aside and told you that in the hospital before he passed away, Chinonso told them what had happened to him. That they have decided to keep it a secret but he asked them to tell you. After she told you, you wished she hadn't. Her words stabbed like needle, they made your ears burn. You didn't want your memory of him to be tainted, you wanted to remember him as the vivacious and ecstatic boy who had so much love to give the world and not a boy with a swollen face and a broken jaw that died after he was beaten to a pulp, had a pole inserted into his anus, and left to bleed by some homophobes who found out he was queer.

You didn't want to remember him as the broken boy who begged for the mercy of death. You wished you were there; you wished you shared in his pain. The prodigious lump in your throat made it difficult for you to speak. Your expression was contorted with pain and fury as you stared at her. She had the eyes of someone whose world had collapsed. You saw a surfeit of emotions dance around her face, you saw pain, you saw anguish, you saw anger, you saw emptiness, but helplessness dominated — her only child was killed in cold blood and she could do nothing about it. She hugged you as tears leaked from her lashes and went down her cheeks in streams. You bit your lower lip and your back ached from so much emotions, especially from those that laid deep and were yet to be felt.

•••

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Back in the miniature room, the scent of steamy jollof rice, from outside, wafts into your eager nostrils and makes your stomach rumble.

You take in heavy breaths and blink severally so the tears that blurred your vision would fall out. You feel a little distraught; you always feel like this whenever you remember Chinonso. Time heals all wounds, they say, but you've found that statement so specious — seemingly reasonable but still fallacious nonetheless. If it was true, is six years not enough time for this tight clutch you always feel in your heart to loosen? Isn't it enough time to stop feeling this bile build up in your throat anytime you remember him? Isn't it enough time for this colossal sore wound, situated deep in your heart, to heal? These questions combat themselves in your head, causing your temple to burn. Exhausted, you curl up on the bed to sleep, before your eyes rests on the small KJV bible that was stacked with other books on the table. This made you recollect the pieces of your life, in university, before you came to Lagos.

••• After secondary school, after Chinonso died, you had a lot of questions about what the world termed you as. You wanted to understand why the sexual urges of a particular group of people stood different and why the world was mad about it — mad that a boy found comfort in the intricacies of another boy, why the world could justifiably bump off a life because such life was queer.

Homosexuality — an aberration was the title of an article you once read on a certain WhatsApp group. And that was how you felt, at times — an aberration, preternatural. It was in an effort to understand this anomaly that you applied for and got an admission to study Psychology. When you told Mother what you wanted to study, she sneered and said, "If you want, don't go and read what will put food on your table." After your second year, you found nothing exciting in the course, just vexatious lecturers and a plethora of textbooks and materials that said the same nonsense in a deep way.

The unanswered questions in your head were choking you. They gradually grew into an internalized homophobia, grew into hatred.

Prickling hot and sharp hatred simmering beneath your skin. Hatred for yourself, for how you felt, for the fact that you had to tuck your erection in between your thighs whenever Emeka, your roommate, removed his shirt. Self denial became your defense mechanism; you repressed and refused to confront the disturbing ideas of your sexuality. It was like a crisis, an identity crisis — chaos. Sometimes, it felt like a thing around your neck, squeezing and crushing your larynx. You began to create this alternate universe for yourself, rewriting different ways events could have unfolded, diverse ways the universe could have functioned for you, ways in which you were normal and did not experience these conflicts. You became too keen to associate yourself with things that looked heteronormative; such as feigning an interest in football whenever Emeka and his friends talked about it, or how you talked about nonexistent girls you had dated and slept with whenever they talked about babes and chicks. You were living another life, the one you built, designed and locked yourself in.

All in a bid to elude reality, you joined the Dominion City church on campus. You loved the church. You loved the female pastor with neat dreads whose clothes always glowed under the illumination of the colorful bulbs that hung above the altar. Their service was good, the fellowship they shared was good, the love that connected them felt good. It was there you became Brother Dozie and the respect felt good too. Sister Vera, the lady that invited you to the church the first time, never relented from following you up. Always calling to know if you would be in church on Sunday, if you would be around for the mid week service, if you would be available for the Friday retreat. It felt warm at first, but later began to repel you. You remember the small KJV bible she gifted you, the bible which now sits on your table. You remember the responsibilities that came with being Brother Dozie, how perfect you needed to appear at all times as a Christian brother, how much weight it brought to your shoulders. You came to religion for it to assuage the burden living your life in shadows put on you but it seemed to have increased it with its long lists of dos and don’ts, surging you deeper into the darkness. You were dissatisfied. Something was missing, like a part of you was buried in sinking sand; crushed beneath its weight.

Most times, you blamed everyone for the way you felt — Chikadibia, Obinna, Chinonso. Everyone, who at one time made you express little streaks of this personality you so dreaded. People who stood as souvenirs of what you are. It was then, without thinking, you reached out to Obinna. It was the first and only time you talked to him since your incident with him in church. It was one of those nights you thought of him and wanted to know how he was doing with this cursed sexuality; if he accepted it or was still fighting like you. You went on Facebook and searched for him. Obinna Oforji, you typed into the search bar and different people with the same name popped up. You scrolled and searched through their profile pictures till you saw him. His face was still as endearing as it was, and his eyes still retained that black lustre that once attracted you. You held your breath and sent him a message. "Hey, Obinna. It's Dozie."

He replied within minutes. Your heart stopped and started again, as it made unsteady sounds similar to that of a generator about to break down. "Dozie!!! How are you? Long time oo."

"I'm fine." You inserted a smiley face meanwhile your face was as rigid as a frosted food. You later eased up as both of you chatted, and built up nostalgia as you remembered the past. But all your relaxing nerves spiked up again when he asked, "Do you remember that kiss under the staircase?" You wanted to type "Which kiss?" but that would've been lame, so you typed "I remember, but I don't do such a thing again. I'm not attracted to men anymore. I'm now a Christian, God saved and changed me." He sent a laughing emoji, as if he could see through your screen of lies. "Dozie let me tell you, I've been where you are now. I've tried to deny it but it's who I am. You can't change it; you just have to accept it now. One thing is sure, you're Dozie Okere, you're everything you think you are but one thing

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is that, you're gay." His words bit into your very being. You read it again and again till the little voice in your head started repeating it to your consciousness. You, immediately, deleted the whole chat and went offline.

For the following days, you couldn’t focus on anything. Obinna's words kept fighting their way into your head, engraved into the walls of your mind. You're Dozie Okere, you're everything you think you are but one thing is that, you're gay. The truth behind his words created angry bumps on your skin. You were suffocating, like life was being sucked out of you, as if you were thrown in between two walls that were closing in on you. The daily combat you had with his words wore you out.

You started having this dream: You were walking on a lone, noiseless road, save for the sound of your shuffling legs and the nylons and empty water sachets that wafted in the air by a light breeze. All of a sudden, the wind became harsh, violently tearing into your skin.

Then, out of nowhere, an effusive water was rushing towards you and in a fleeting second, you were drowning, struggling to stay afloat in the turbulent water, your screams were muffled by the strong waves that pushed you to and fro. You would always sink deep into the turbulent water, suffocating. The dream kept recurring.

You couldn't breathe anymore, just like in the dream. Hiding behind closed doors seemed to strain your lungs, stifling the air in it. You were fed up, tired of living in the façade. You needed to be away. You needed to escape, not just mentally but physically. You needed serenity, peace and you needed to get away to get them. It was then you contacted your cousin in Lagos.

••• Now, you're sitting at the edge of the bed and with tired eyes, you pick up the Garrard Conley's Boy Erased you heard about and bought. A memoir about Garrard and what it took him to embrace his sexuality. When Garrard was a nineteen-year-old college student, he was outed to his parents, and was forced to attend a church-supported conversion therapy program that promised to cure him of homosexuality. Through an institutionalized Twelve-Step Program heavy on Bible study, he was supposed to emerge heterosexual, ex-gay, cleansed of impure urges and stronger in his faith in God. Instead, even when faced with a harrowing and brutal journey, Garrard found the strength and understanding to break out in search of his true self and forgiveness.

Painful tears well up in your eyes as you read the book. This is not just Garrard's story, it's yours too. It is you, living and breathing.

You're not alone. You're not the only one locked up in this dark prison; shut out in the shadows and unable to breathe . Others have walked this path and they had to accept themselves to be free. Obinna's words came again, you can't change it, you just have to accept it now. More tears rise to your eyes, bitter tears. You are ready. You are ready to unlock that prison and free yourself from this hatred.

You go to the bathroom to wash your face, after which you look into the mirror hanging there. Your reflection glows in the mirror, its eyes glimmering with the truth about you, it looks so free and unconstrained by fear, and unbothered, as if to show you how you could look once you let go. The answer you sought for is in you. The answers are three simple, plain words. Three words that always makes the world angry. Three words you buried deep within you, in between the thick layers of your heart. Three words you knew you could no longer run from. Three words you were ready to accept. You run your hands over your face, still looking at your smiling reflection in the mirror, and said, "I am gay." Immediately you said this, you had a relaxing relief, it seemed like your nerves stopped giving you that tingling sensation of discomfort. It felt like fresh air was launched into your system, your lungs stopped straining and your heart took a new beat. You try to smile and it comes, unforced — just the way your reflection in the mirror did. For the first time since Chinonso died, you are fine.

.

Later in the night, the same dream you've been having started again; the dream where you’re always under the turbulent water but this time the water isn't turbulent, it is peaceful and still, and you are breathing fine under it. You're home.

NON-ENGLISH WORDS Ogbanje — evil spirit/witch Nwa m — my child Ebezina — stop crying I bu nwoke — you’re a man

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TRAVIS OBENG-CASPER is the 24-year old founder and creative director of AJABENG, a highly successful Ghanaian fashion label birthed at the intersection of minimalism and contemporary African art and culture. We had a chat with Travis to explore his story and learn more about how AJABENG uses unisex fashion to push the boundaries on gender expression.

by Arinze Obi How did you get interested in fashion?

I’ve always had a keen interest in clothes and design. My mum was also a big influence in my interest in the fashion industry. She always dressed very differently; in a way that was very unconventional. For example, she would dress a bit more masculine, which is very different from the more feminine way that Ghanaian women are expected to present themselves. She used to buy fabrics a lot, so I’d usually try to make some outfits from those fabrics. I eventually even started a business in school where I’d tell my boys that I can make nice shorts and trousers for them. And I’ll do that with some of my mum’s fabrics. So as I did more of that, I became more interested in fashion and in making more clothes that look good.

And how old were you when you picked up your first sewing machine?

I think I was about 18 years old at the time.

It was in 2017, when I was in fashion school. Before this time, when I was in high school, I didn’t used to make the outfits myself. I’d do trips to the guy who would make them, then I’ll take the finished shorts and trousers back to my friends. So it was very much a ‘bring a tailor, he makes the outfit, and I sell it’ type of approach.

But when I started making my own outfit was when I went to fashion school. I used two days to learn how to sew because I’d set my mind on knowing how to do it as soon as possible. I just needed to get started.

Did you face any resistance from those around you when you started pursuing this path?

Oh yes, of course. I was born an Alajo, which is a very rural and ‘ghetto’ community here in Ghana. As a kid, I was known for playing football to the point that I was among the best in the hood. So when I told my friends I was switching from football to fashion, you should have seen

the insults. People didn’t understand it.

They seriously thought I was insane. A typical Ghanaian guy would associate being involved in fashion with being gay, for example. They quickly tag you with the label once you start to venture into fashion. I was tagged as gay too, even though I’m not. But at the end of the day, what I was doing was about me and what I wanted to do, not how I wanted others to see me.

“

When I told my friends I was switching from football to fashion, you should have seen the insults.

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Interview What inspired your focus on unisex clothing in a continent where thick demarcation lines between genders are highly promoted?

With the clothes I designed, I really just wanted to make something that everyone can be in; something that anyone can wear.

I didn’t want to do something that was categorised as ‘menswear’ or ‘womenswear’. I didn’t want to be limited.

And I also wasn’t really into sticking with either category, I wanted to combine both.

I wanted to make something for everyone to bring everyone together—that’s what I want to continue doing with my designs.

What does masculinity mean to you?

Let me start with a quick story. I grew up with my mum until she passed away, so I didn’t have any masculine figure or anything to raise me. I had to figure that out by myself. So masculinity isn’t really something I was taught. But in terms of what it means to me, I think of masculinity as just how men are raised to see themselves and the world. I have a tattoo of Frank Ocean on my arm from his album cover Blonde. He also has another album called Endless which I think was previously titled Boys Don’t Cry. I think this former title was Frank’s way of making a statement for the opposite. So when I got the tattoo, it was a way of saying ‘Boys Do Cry.’ With me, I feel things. For example, when I think of my mum, I sometimes feel broken. I feel it. That’s the kind of man I am. So I don’t think masculinity has anything to do with how you look or behave, I think it’s more about how you think and see things around you.

How does your understanding of masculinity tie into your designs at AJABENG? How I weave my idea of masculinity into the stuff I design for AJABENG is in how we make and speak about our clothes.

AJABENG outfits are womenswearinspired designs with menswear-inspired tailoring. With that, what I mean is that I would want to have a feel of sensuality, easiness, and calmness in what we design, but I’d also want to see structure, lines, and those kinds of things. So even though the outfit is very structured, it still gives you that calm and relaxed feel. So it’s a combination of both feminine and

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masculine elements. That’s how I conceive my designs at AJABENG.

current, but for the older generation, it feels nostalgic.

I noticed that the male AJABENG models have a softness to them that is atypical to the conventional machismo that male models are expected to exude. Was that intentional?

AJABENG is also famous for its focus on maximising the use of biodegradable materials in its creations. What inspired this focus?

Everything I’m doing with AJABENG is very intentional, from the design to the models and the locations we use for our shoots.

With AJABENG, I’m using the simplest form of art to portray the brand and represent Ghanaian culture. With our models for example, I usually want models that most people would be able to relate to with the concept of the collection. So essentially, whatever I’m doing with AJABENG, I want to tell an original story through fashion but also make sure that people can relate to the brand and feel like they can see themselves in the things we create.

Your designs are renowned for blurring gender lines. Are customers of all ethnicities and age groups equally receptive to AJABENG outfits?

AJABENG is a very Gen Z brand that is somehow still able to connect to people across different ages. But as a whole, the target demographic for AJABENG is upper social class, work orientated, minimalist and African inspired individuals aged between 20 - 50 years. The typical consumer wants sophisticated yet contemporary garments that are made to last, which can easily be mixed and matched without taking too much time out of their busy schedule. I think AJABENG customers are mostly individuals who wants to identify what AJABENG represents—*Afro-Minimalism*. At AJABENG, we wants our customers to own a wardrobe that will still seem fashionable after several years.

I think it’s mostly because of how I design. I like to use linen, cotton, and wool because of how they feel. Also, considering the fact that we’re in Ghana, I feel like the things I make have to be something that people can wear for many years. I want AJABENG clothing to be timeless. So, really, at the heart of it, it’s about designing a sustainable business. And sustainability is very much about supporting our surroundings and the Earth. The best way for us is to use those fabrics, so we minimise the use of non-sustainable fabrics.

If you could think about what you want your legacy to be in the African fashion industry, what would it be and why?

For me, I’d want to put more African creatives at the centre of all of our collaborations at AJABENG. For the African fashion industry as a whole, I also think we need more education on the African fashion scene. For example, when you go to fashion school in Africa, a lot of what they teach you is based on European designs, not so much on African ones. One of my favourite designers is Thebe Magugu. I love the fact that he brings out the South African essence in his brand. With everything he designs, you can feel South Africa. And I like that.

When we have more of this, and have more fashion education focused on these kinds of African fashion designs, we’ll actually be able to teach African fashion designers how to translate African culture into authentic African fashion.

.

How differently do you think Gen Zs appreciate or interpret your style of fashion in comparison to older generations?

I think Gen Z people are able to relate with the aesthetics of the brand, specifically with its contemporary look, but I think that the older generation are still able to relate with the style of the design because our outfits are also inspired by some vintage designs.

So for the younger people, Ajabeng feels

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MASCULINITY SEX i and

by Desmond Vincent

n 2019, Jeremiah, a 21-year-old software engineer living in Lagos, had gone on a date with a fellow engineer he had been linked to, thanks to a friend. The date had gone reasonably well.

‘‘It wasn’t that sparks were flying everywhere. He was almost my type, the food was great, and he seemed smart enough.’’ Jeremiah tells Kenga. It wasn’t going to make it to the hall of fame of dates, but mentally, Jeremiah had already begun planning a second date. He had started envisioning what a life and a relationship with the man across the table could look like. However, when the date was coming to an end, his date made an offhand comment about another gay couple he knew that lived in Abuja.

‘‘I don’t fully remember the details, but my date was talking about how the bottom the partner who gets penetrated sexually in this relationship he knew about had been growing wings, and my date had told the top - I remember that the top was the one in the relationship that was my date’s friend - that the top couldn’t let his bottom get that bold,’’ Jeremiah remembered being slightly shocked. ‘‘After a brief moment, I began asking him questions to clarify. I think mentally, I was trying to give him a lifeline, but I had no such luck. He doubled down, and essentially, it boiled down to him viewing gay men who identified as bottom similarly to how misogynists viewed women in relationships with men - as submissives, less than, etc.’’

For men like Jeremiah - queer men who identify as verse or bottom - there is often an expectation for them to step into the role that women in heterosexual relationships usually occupy. However, it doesn’t end there. There are similar sexual standards.

‘‘There is a lot of bottom-shaming in the queer community,’’ Eric tells Kenga. ‘‘You know how body counts don’t matter, for tops, they don’t matter. While for bottoms, it matters. A top can sleep with tens or even hundreds of people, and he’ll likely be praised for being able to pull guys, but for a bottom to do even half. You get slutshamed.’’

Eric recounts that when he began dipping his toes into the dating waters, he was often warned by friends and even potential partners that it wouldn’t be a good look if he slept around. He often heard words like ‘hoe’ and even ‘slut’ being used for bottoms, men who got penetrated, but barely heard those words directed to or when speaking about men who identified as tops.

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At the core of it, people just don’t know what to do with the masculinity of a man who gets penetrated Concepts like bottom-shaming find their root in misogyny and can even be found in straight-acting—that is to say, masculine-acting queer men hating on feminine-acting queer men and even on the interests of queer men.

photo: Delore Yao

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Kenga:

ARTICLE One finds a section of queer men turning their noses up on activities like watching shows like RuPaul’s Drag Race, wearing flamboyant clothes or even listening to female pop artists like Beyonce or Rihanna. This intracommunity discrimination is significantly pervasive, even finding its way to dating apps like Grindr, where tags like ‘masc4masc’ are popular to serve as the proverbial Passover blood on the doorposts: to denote that the account belongs to the masculine man who only wants masculine men to text them. And while many of these actions are justified with the popular catchall ‘it is just a preference’. ‘‘I don’t have anything against femme gay men.’’ Willie, a 23-year-old self-identified masc-4-masc gay man, says. ‘‘It’s just not what I am personally looking for. I don’t think I will be comfortable out in public with someone who is the stereotypical picture of a gay man. I consider myself a normal straight-looking guy who happens to be attracted to men. And I don’t think it’s unfair to want that in my partner.’’

Despite the very concept of a homosexual relationship going against the design of the heteronormative society, many relationships with queer men find themselves replicating those same standards.

In the famous words of Oscar Wilde, writer and homosexual; "Everything in the world is about sex, except sex. Sex is about power".

The submission of a man to another man - which is how a man being penetrated is viewed - is not about what he enjoys but it is about him ‘losing his power to another man’. It's also because of those unspoken power structures that there's a growing obsession with "topping tops".

That is, making a top a man who strictly penetrates men sexually bottom. It's actually not about the sex itself. It's about power. It’s about a desire to dominate a man who dominates others. ‘‘I think at the core of it, people just don’t know what to do with the masculinity of a man who gets penetrated - whether by a man, woman or anyone,’’ Jeremiah explains. ‘‘So they discard it entirely. Ultimately, there’s only one way to be a man, and that is by dominating 24/7 and anything less than that, especially in sex, equates you to a woman, and in a man’s world, that is the worst thing you can be.’’

This belief finds itself shooting its head even in heterosexual pairings where men aren’t as dominant as expected. William, a 21-year-old artist, recently began exploring getting pegged by women and playing the submissive role in bed with his partners, and he finds that many women don’t know what to do with a man who doesn’t want to be dominant. ‘‘I have always been interested in playing the submissive role, but I never quite bothered because I didn’t want to be looked at weird.’’ William begins. ‘‘But one day, something clicked, and I just thought, ‘why not?’ I quickly saw why not immediately I tried, though.’’

William shares that most women he tells about his sexual interests simply say they don’t do things like that while looking at him weirdly, while some take the extra step to shame him, call him names and sometimes even block him on social media.

photo: Joseph Abbey-Mensah

‘‘It’s so bizarre, especially when I hear things some of them say about me to other people simply because I, a straight man, want to be dominated by a woman,’’ William says, amused by the whole situation. ‘‘Ultimately, it boils down to the fact that people think there is only one way to be a man in bed, and it is said that that school of thought is still so pervasive.’’

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