For Black Girls Only – Unity In Segregation?

Black is beautiful.

Black is so beautiful it ought not to go unnoticed, praised, idolized.
Black is strong, as hardened as the tough, unmaleable hide of Smaug.
Black women are love. Gods within themselves.
And black women ought to be treated as such, and never the lesser.

Late afternoon, it must have been just after 3 p.m. when Lola and I walked through the steel elevator’s door and a step past the sliding glass, oddly labelled ‘Exit. A’. Her long red dress hugged her Coca-Cola physique in such a way only a man could vividly describe. We stopped mid-flight and returned to the car where I swiftly changed from my Alice at Woodstock, black-punk lace tutu dress into a back-up 70’s California-style dress-top kaleidoscopically painted with water-based rainbows. It felt awkward and honestly intimidating at first, seeing all that black. Like a swarm of black bumble bees, buzzing everywhere.

Photo by | Rita Kantu

We walked back in with a more Russian-influenced confidence, pink camp chairs, a cooler box of liquor and cake, Cheese Curls crack and a shit-load of bread rolls – swaying our Svedka cups like we just stepped out of another dreary episode of ‘That 70’s Show’. Looks and stares met our eyes as we tried to manoeuvre past the black crowd to find an available space at the far end of the Old Fort, against the wall. Women dressed in their Wednesday-inspired regalia of black with a remix of West African head wraps, beads and gladiator shoes. Braids, weaves, locs, fro’s, chiskop, – the works! Some were lesbian, and others you couldn’t really tell. Beautiful black and brown and beige bodies all ins support of the repatriation and reassertion of the black female’s power, Godliness and respect.

some ladies, as I walked inside looking for Thokozani, said ‘get that Asian out’

We couldn’t hear what anyone was saying on the microphone, apparently the sound had been inaudible throughout the event. They might not have known it, but that was #ForBlackGirlsOnly’s biggest contribution to the overall failure of their initiative. In less than an hour of being scrutinized and misjudged, did my eyes befall an unfamiliar creature that stood out like a queen bee in a honeycomb. Somehow, Emilie and I got to talking in French and expressed our shared interest in art. We spoke about the nude art exhibition on black female bodies that I will showcasing in Women’s month and her role at Afronova. As a Caucasian/ Japanese French woman living in Africa for over 7 years, Emilie wilfully exposed her vulnerability to me when she said “some ladies, as I walked inside looking for Thokozani, said “get that Asian out”. Of course, my facial expression was met with shock and confusion as I pried deeper into her experiences of prejudice and racism. She told me how she had been following the social commentary on Facebook and other such platforms and was uncertain as to whether she should attend – to which she wouldn’t if her friend Thokozani hadn’t invited her. The music grew louder and our conversation came to an end, but little did we both know we’d be conversing again soon. The crowd went wild for Ne-Yo’s rendition of ‘Miss Independent’, swaying drinks and dirty dancing. No one was interested in what the MC had to say a part from the crowd at the edge of the stage. These women were happy, and I suppose that’s what mattered most but was that the underlying aim?

Photo by | Rita Kantu

I lodged a direct inquiry onto the #FBGO event page that turned into a viral whirlpool of racial remarks, prejudice, hate speech and total disregard for others. I openly asked how they, the organisers, defined what constitutes one as ‘black’ in light of South Africa’s racial diversity and within the context of the event’s aim. I was met with a generic Steve Biko response followed by hundreds of accusations that I was against the event, didn’t understand it, and was too entrenched in protecting white supremacy’s infallible image. However, I wasn’t the only one that was interested in knowing why women (and men) of other races were excluded using blatantly prejudiced language, the same language of racial discourse.

When as black women did we become so selfish? Our minds so entrenched in the pain our forefathers endured that we carry that pain as if it were our own; as if we experienced the 20 lashings daily; as if we were the ones fleeing from the gattas in illegal shebeens ; as if we were there holding hands and singing struggle anthems during the women’s march to the Union Buildings; as if it were our shantytowns that were demolished. Yes, we inherited the freedom (or illusion thereof) that came with a newly democratic party and reaped the rewards of financial access through systems like Employment Equity and Affirmative Action. But I can’t help but wonder, when did black women become so self-righteous and blinded to the truth that all women, black, white, Asian, Indian, Cape Malay etc face the same existential problems suchlike rape, abuse, unfair work practices, health & sanitation and socioeconomic inequality? Of course, if you’re black and you’re a woman, your life is thrice as difficult as that of a white woman – however, as women we face the same challenges when patriarchal power comes into question. When did the well-educated black female victimise herself to the backlashes of her mother’s experiences? At what point did black women become so weak within their sense of self-security that they began to feel as though their pain is suspended above that of other races when they haven’t even begun to question the other, to engage and learn from their experiences? How is black love not white hate when you so unashamedly express your disregard for another race in so far as saying they don’t belong in the same space as you, dancing to the same music and hanging out with the same black friends?

Photo by | Rita Kantu

Although books by black authors (and white publishing houses) were exchanged, black businesses were supported, poetry was read, women openly expressed their pain, and a wild turn-up was had; For Black Girls Only failed to answer my undying question: “Okay. So what now?”. What happens after the event? It provided a safe space for women to drink their liquor, dance like Atlantic City performers without patriarchal judgement and share a meal. Okay so, what now? What are we to do with this experience? How does this affect what Emilie’s understanding of black women after I instigated between her and an associate who strongly felt that she shouldn’t have been there? In what way does this build our self-confidence not just among ourselves but within the socioeconomic and political reality of racism and patriarchy in South Africa? Wearing black in sisterly solidarity whilst trying your very best to individualize yourself through radically colourful braids, turbans, and punk-rock make-up doesn’t make you a revolutionist – it makes you someone who doesn’t mind wearing black in 34 degree weather and spending some quality time in cliques of friends turning up and getting wasted “without worrying about if a guy’s gonna spike your drink”.

Did we become so entrenched in racial ideology that we define ourselves, our past, our experiences and the outcome of our future based on the shade of our skin? Or are we so naive to believe that in solving our ‘black problems’ first before helping others with theirs, that we create a stronger unit of power without using the same segregatory tactics that got us here in the first place? I love women, all women. But it’s time we let go of these systematic binary categories and get to addressing the real problem of inequality and inequity that all women face, no matter how skewed the scale of experience may be.

Words  | Rita Kantu

See more images from #FBGO below

#fbgo photo by Khwezi Mathonsi

A photo posted by kaffein magazine (@kaffeinmagazine) on Feb 4, 2016 at 1:17am PST