Should Ugandans listen to Vagina Monologues?

Catherine Watson

A play called Vagina Monologues is coming to town. The first I hear of it is from Katie Richardson, actor with Kampala Amateur Dramatics Society and wife to the British High Commissioner.

Katie and I gaze at each other. In Uganda? “Yes, I’m doubtful,” says Katie. I say: “The word vagina is going to cause problems.” Then I get a call from Anne Akia, my co-director at Straight Talk Foundation.
Her friends Mumbi Kaigwa and Keith Pearson are bringing a play called Vagina Monologues. They want to see me and my husband. OK, I say. Then I ask: “What do you think, Anne? Vagina Monologues in Uganda at this time? Should we get involved?” She laughs, then sighs: “Haaa. I don’t know...”

We can read each other’s minds. Do we need the controversy? Our instinct for self-preservation is kicking in. We want to protect our work, to lie low. But William (my husband) and I meet Keith and Mumbi.

I haven’t seen Keith since 1989. He’s grown into a distinguished man: drama teacher, builder of state-of-the art theatres in Kenya. Then there’s Mumbi, his wife, a famous Kenya actor and producer: measured, poised, softly-spoken, eyes radiating thoughtfulness.

We fence around a little. Check each other out. Long time no see... Then we start: What exactly is this play? They explain. The author was raped repeatedly by her dad. The play grew out of that.
Worldwide Vagina Monologues has raised $25m for groups against violence against women.

Here it will raise money for women in the north. Basically, it seems, the play is about all the things that happen because girls and women have vaginas. “But the title,” I say. “You don’t understand the climate here. Couldn’t we just change it? It’s the word vagina...” No, there are strict conditions for performing the play, says Keith. “We had the same problem in Kenya. There was outcry. The actresses got death threats. But thousands and thousands of people came.”

Mumbi starts: “Once we performed it, people understood. Now, in Nairobi, men and women come up to me. That play changed my life, they say.” Suddenly I get it. “We need the play here,” I say firmly. “How do you know?” asks William. “I just do,” I say.

I go to the office and prepare a Straight Talk statement on early marriage and other violence against girls for the Vagina Monologue programme. I read a letter on my desk from a girl, 13, in Kapchorwa: “I stay with my sister. Her husband asks me for sex.

What can I do to avoid him?” I look at a letter from a girl, 16, in Kasese: “My brother asks for sex. I refuse. He says he will kill me...”
I look at a third, from a girl, 14, no district: “My teacher wants to love me but I don’t want.” A week later we are interviewing a university student, 21, for a job. We ask: How does she feel about abstinence? (We can’t have people at Straight Talk who think abstinence is a joke.) We ask about condoms. They are OK but she prefers abstinence.

I ask her about her life. Her mum died when she was in P4. Her dad vanished. I ask her if she has stayed safe. She gazes at me hard. Our eyes lock. The clock ticks quietly for seconds. I wait. She says nothing. I leave it.

Afterwards she slides back into my office and stands next to me. She starts to talk: “I was forced. I was 11. I had to share a room with my cousin. He was 18. It was every night for a month. He bound my mouth.” “Who have you told?” I ask. “Just you,” she says. “Have you tested?” “Yes. I am OK.” Then she adds: “I never got pregnant. I was young. I had not had my periods.”

I take her hand and try not to say too much, too fast. Then I say: “You’re a good girl. Sorry. Try to forget it. Yes?”

That evening I say to William: “I heard a vagina monologue today.”
Vagina Monologues is on February 18. Tickets can be bought from National Theatre, Akina Mama wa Africa and Ndere Cultural Centre.

The writer is co-director,
Straight Talk Foundation