I went to a Catholic school that glued together the biology book pages on contraception and my biology teacher fumbled through human reproduction. I remember a classmate beginning to ask a question about male sexual response.” What if you, as a man….” Before she could finish, he interrupted with” Not me, not me another man.”

My senior reading list included two books that had sex as a theme. An older lady took younger women and taught them about sex. On their wedding night the same old lady would take a bloody sheet out to an expectant crowd to announce that the new bride had remained chaste. The sexist nature of this hit me, but it was what it was. I wondered what virginity tests were carried out on men on their wedding night.

When I went away to university, I began to explore not only the act of sex but the ideas I had about it. My boyfriend at the time was from the Coastal region and told me that he was taught how to pleasure a woman and women were taught how to pleasure men. He told me about Unyago; a form of initiation that included sex education. I was fascinated. This information blew my mind. I had always thought of sex as a chore women had, never as anything pleasurable.

In university, my friend took me to a bridal shower with a sex auntie in attendance. The older lady was there to teach the bride to be how to please her husband in bed. The night ended up being a bit like a live sex show sans a male participant. She showed us everything, including how to squirt. No amount of wine can prep you for that. I left unsatisfied, wondering what about me? What about my pleasure? Who was teaching the men how to please me?

Enter Getrude Mungai. A self proclaimed sexologist who made pleasure her business. Mrs. Mungai, as she prefers to be addressed carries out trainings on love and romance for couples. She even has a TV show, Connect that focuses on intimacy. That alone is a coup, it being that Kenya is a very straight laced religious country.

Getrude’s message is very feminist. She does not just teach women how to pleasure men; she teaches men how to pleasure women. With whole shows dedicated to ‘How to touch a woman- Gertrude ensures we get ours too.

The revolutionary nature of her show has earned her many critics. Church groups have accused her of being nothing but a glorified pimp, ruining African values. The African status quo where sex was just for men’s pleasure is being questioned and this makes very many people mad. Women here are seen as a means to an orgasm, baby makers, but never as sexual beings with needs and wants. We come from a culture where virginity tests are the norm, where Female Genital Mutilation is still practiced. For someone to go on TV and proclaim that women need to get theirs shifts that power dynamic. She has had to tone down her content, using words like Mr. Victor and Miss Victoria for sexual organs.  She has regular teaching sessions where she goes into detail about positions and how to locate the G-spot; stuff she can’t show on TV. Her show has started a national dialogue on sex and women as well as our very archaic view on women. You can watch her show here

The post The Pleasure Principle appeared first on Clutch Magazine.

You are loved and wanted even before your arrival. Wanting to be a mother, your mother has been on my mind for as long as I can remember. You are my greatest dream realized. There is so much I can’t wait to show you and share with you. The thought alone makes me giddy with excitement.

I can’t wait to read to you. Books are a great treasure. Through them you can travel, build great things, and most importantly learn. I want you to love to read. I have kept books from my childhood to share with you. I want to have story time with you, like your grandmother and I did. She taught me how to plot a story and speak eloquently as she told me ‘Now you tell me a story.’

It is my job to prepare you for life. You were gifted to us to show you the way. I will not always be your favorite person, but know that I do everything with love.

I am your friend and biggest fan. First and foremost though, I am your mother. I will not be a yes-woman to cater to your ego or always agree with you. When I say no to a party, I am doing it because I love you. I am not ruining your life. You will survive missing a few parties.

I hope you learn how to be your own person. You will often hear me say ‘So if all your friends jumped off a cliff, would you?’ I am not being morbid; I just want you to get away from doing ‘it’ just because everyone else is. See yourself through your own eyes. Don’t let other people’s notions of who you should be color your view of yourself. You can do anything you put your mind to. You are descended from the strongest people in the world. You can do it.

Be kind. Be respectful. Treat everyone well regardless of whether or not they can do something for you. People are important. Treat them as such. The mark of a good woman is how she treats those who are of no importance to her.

Talk to God. I see him in a Judeo-Christian way. You may not. I am fine with that. You are allowed and encouraged to discover what works for you. Religion is not morality.

You are beautiful. I may be biased because I made you, but my darling you are. Beauty is fluid and subjective. Don’t let superficial standards affect how you feel about yourself. You were made to stand out, not fit in.

Still on beauty, don’t get so caught up in things, vanity, and materialism. Who you are, your values, your morals, how you treat people is infinitely more important. Enjoy nice things when you have them and don’t get depressed when you don’t. Your value lies outside of things.

Love. Romantic love. This could be a whole book. Broad strokes. No one completes you. You are enough. Love does not hurt. If it doesn’t feel right, it isn’t. If they put you down, they aren’t for you. Heartbreak is not the end of the world. It is a break up, not a breakdown. You will survive a broken heart.

Love now and forever, Mummy.

The post A Future Mother’s Thoughts: A Letter to My Unborn Daughter appeared first on Clutch Magazine.

You don’t really get over abuse, just through it. I was left no longer trusting myself or my ability to judge a man’s character. I knew good men existed, I had fantastic male friends. I just doubted my ability to pick a good man for myself.

It took me two years to muster the courage to actively go out and seek companionship. For two years, I refused to give anyone my number, scowled at anyone that smiled at me and told the very persistent ones I had a boyfriend. I was not ready to try again. I was scared. Not only of getting abused again, but of placing myself in a situation where I knew I was the problem. Picking a dud once or twice may be fine. Three times though? It stops being an unfortunate coincidence and becomes a pattern. One that would partly place the blame for abuse squarely on me. While I did not make them hit or insult me, I was instinctively attracted to abusive men. I didn’t want that for myself.

One day, a friend of mine told me she was worried about me ending up alone and lonely. She set up a blind date for me and I went, just to make her happy. I was scared the whole time that I had some indiscernible scar that would let him know I was a victim or worse still that I could be victimized. It would make a great story if I say we hit it off and are now engaged. We didn’t, but he was a great reintroduction into dating. I kept going on dates and finally found someone I liked.

Here is where it got tricky. I had every sort of defense up. I was always on guard to see if he displayed any warning signs, if he was just waiting to become an abuser. I nearly drove both of us crazy with my analysis of every word, every action, every look. I asked “What does that mean exactly?” very many times. Like a champ though, he stuck it out. Every time I tried to run or shutdown, or blew a situation out of proportion, he explained it to me, reassured me. He was determined to show me not every guy came into a situation wanting to hurt me. There were guys out there who wanted to be with me genuinely. Color me surprised!

He didn’t heal me or put me back together. I did that myself. He was just patient enough to wait as the glue dried and to blow on the parts that took too long to dry. I began to trust my judgment again. The hardest part though was accepting my part; having picked these men all the while realizing that this mistake didn’t define me. I am more than one bad decision, especially as I try my hardest to not make it again.

I am dating again. I trust myself again to pick a winner. I am happy again. I survived and I am starting to thrive. What more could I ask for?

The post Dating After Abuse: How To Trust Your Judgement appeared first on Clutch Magazine.

One evening, I was for some reason awake and got to see first hand what was happening. Her wrist was broken, she had blood everywhere and she was shaking. My presence was totally forgotten as my father, a doctor, tried to tell her he couldn’t patch her up this time, she need an x-ray, a cast and a hospital. He started to call the hospital and the police as she kept pleading with him to treat her as best he could and not report the assault.

At six years old, I remember looking at this woman and feeling angry on her behalf. I wanted to beat her bully up for her, to shout enough and take her away. I can’t remember what broke the reverie, but I was quickly put to bed as she was driven to the hospital.

I remember asking my mother the next day why her husband hit her, why she stayed and so many other questions. I wanted to make sense of the bleeding form in my living room. I got vague answers; she was jobless, he was a drunk, she had no family.

These answers formed my first idea of what an abused woman was. Weak, dependent, voiceless and most of all a victim. My other encounters with abuse solidified this. The TV ads on domestic violence always showed a weak, helpless woman. I made certain growing up, that I was strong, had a voice, options and most of all was a fighter.

Fast forward to 19. I met an older man that got me and most of all seemed proud of my fighting spirit. I fell fast and hard. Caught between a heady mix of love and intellectual camaraderie, I can’t quite tell when the insults started.

At first, it was a stab at my weight gain, which turned into making me know that touching me was disgusting. I left a million times, and came back a million times more. I cried so often, wondering who this weak person was. Whenever he would call and remind me of the man I fell for, I would go back. But there was never ever an apology, just a “Damn you” for being so infuriating and pushing me.

For 3 years, I kept coming and going, wondering what I lacked to just make it work, all the while trying to figure out who this person was that I had become. The last time, while out with friends, he called me a dog. I walked away and never looked back.

Six months later, I was “in like” with another man. The complete opposite of my older man. He adored me, bragged to anyone who would listen how intelligent I was and I got comfortable in my new role as his queen. One day, during an argument, he hit me. It was like time moved just a bit faster. One minute, his hand was raised, the next my cheek stung. I don’t remember much else. I got home and cried myself to near dehydration.

For months, I tried to come to terms with my reality. I had been in two back-to-back relationships with abusive men. I was emotionally and verbally abused. A man who claimed to love me hit me. It didn’t compute. Me with my ‘I wish you would’ attitude had been abused. Despite all my efforts to avoid being weak, I had been. Twice.

The truth ate at me for months. I tried really hard to bury it, to ignore that I had experienced abuse. Some things you can’t hide, though. I got emotional at a play, when during a scene, a woman was grabbed by a man. I refused to date, for fear that either I would meet another abusive man or would let on that I had been abused.

I finally dealt with my demons, while texting a male friend. I let the abuse slip and through his barrage of questions began to deal. I had picked two abusive men. I was letting the past dictate my present and future. I was being a victim by letting my fear stop me from trying again.

Those relationships taught me a few things: You don’t have to be weak to be abused. There isn’t a poster child for it. I survived. I am no longer a victim. The shame I felt was misplaced. I was abused, but I survived because I left.

My neighbors moved away shortly after her broken wrist. I often think of her and whisper a prayer that she, too found, the strength to walk away.

The post My Little Secret appeared first on Clutch Magazine.

As I read through the comments it was obvious, that to a lot of African Americans, Africa is a vital piece of the identity puzzle. And I get it.

Think about it for a minute. Many Black Americans have often identified as African first and an American later. So, it makes sense that they would expect acceptance in Africa, especially since their existence in America has been difficult.

African Americans were not willing visitors to America. You were torn away from what you knew to help grow a foreign economy and were never compensated for your labor. Even now, despite your contributions, you are not really welcome, and everyday there is another reminder that you are not the same.

Add to that the fact that Marcus Garvey’s Back to Africa movement made returning to the continent seem like the solution to the problems affecting Blacks in the Diaspora. In Africa, you would never be ‘the other’.  You would be fully accepted and embraced for you were once again the majority. And while things did not go quite as planned, many African Americans passed that idea down through generations. Africa became a place where you would not be the other, not a minority. It became a place where nearly everyone looked like you. You would not have to be stopped because you were black, get tagged with the Angry Black woman stereotype because no one would notice….seeing as everyone was just as black as you.

Unfortunately, the reality—as Lucas pointed out—is very different. Skin color is not enough to make you fit in, and when selling the African dream someone forgot to tell you a couple of things.

Culture trumps color. The ability to speak local languages is just one aspect. Honestly, even if you made the effort to learn the language, there are still the social cues and the slang that many would probably miss. Unfortunately, a white African would be seen as more authenticly “African” than an Black American in many instances, because in the space of two generations, the term ‘White African’ has become acceptable. In my grandparents’ days, if you were white, you were either a missionary or a colonizer. You were a stranger, never African.

The fact that African-born Whites can now claim Africa as their home is proof that culture is dynamic. In less than a hundred years, White Africans are a legitimate part of the continent. So, if such a huge change has occurred in that short span of time, how could African Americans–who are separated by hundreds of years of differences–think they will just immediately mesh into one of Africa’s many cultures? It is almost impossible.

As a child, my father had a friend–a former Black Panther–who moved to Tanzania in the late seventies. During that time, Tanzania was practicing African Socialism and he was very excited to live and farm among his people. Over 30 years later, he is still seen as a foreigner, even though he speaks Kiswahili with great fluency and has assimilated as best as he knows how.

I sympathize with wanting to know who you are, with being a child of two worlds who doesn’t quite fit into either one. I know Blacks in the Diaspora want a place where they can just be themselves, but sadly, Africa isn’t it.

Here, you are American; you have been away for five hundred years. We do not have the same experiences to bond us, the same languages to help us bridge the gap, the same memories of how things were.

Please come visit and walk the paths your ancestors walked. But that is all we can give you.

The post What Does It Really Take to Be African? appeared first on Clutch Magazine.