Not a girl. Not yet a woman.

I wrote the below article on International Women's Day 2013. Thought I should share as its content still remains my truth. Still, so many unanswered questions because sometimes, as women, as parents, as professionals...we just never question those who owe us answers. It seems peaceful that way. But does it have to be that way? Shrug.

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Last night as I lay in bed thinking about how we’d all be celebrating/commemorating International Women’s Day today, I remembered a joke by American comedian Chris Rock. 

Chris jokes that from a very early age females are constantly ducking the one thing that men willingly and readily offer to give and how much or a burden it must be for women.  

Chris says “From kindgarten when that little boy says do you want to share my lunch? He’s actually saying ‘how about some dick (penis)?’”… When he says “I’ll open that door for you ma’am or can I help you carry those groceries?” that equals “How about some dick?” and on and on he goes on with such examples…Funny truth huh? Ok, maybe not so funny in this context I’m about to recount.   

Let’s start here – that sometimes I wonder if we individually ever really take the time to trace our steps and see how far we’ve come, to reflect on how many times we’ve been in harm’s way (read: dick) and yet still we stand. 

Still we rise even though in many instances we may have been defenseless and felt unprotected from harm (read: dick) in every way imaginable because we were just little girls? At this point I’d like you to give ‘dick’ a face so that you and I can answer this question that lingers on my mind today: Do we really understand the depth of celebrating ourselves as women?   

Ok, how I arrived at this question is by retracing my steps. On November 19 2010 (ironically this is International Men’s day) my 20-something year old female facebook friend who lives in Mbabane, Swaziland published her status update: 

“Nango-ke dokotela ang'buta kutsi am I still a virgin? Kungenelanaphi nje cause I have a ringworm on my foot besides bontsanga yami basemakabo with 3 kids. Nx!” – translated – “Good grief! This doctor is asking me if I’m still a virgin. Why though? I came to see him only because I have a ringworm on my foot? Besides, my age mates are married with 3 kids. Nx!” 

I instantly sent her a private message.

Me: “Who is this doctor, could it be Doctor *Masimba?”

Her: “It’s him. How do YOU know? I’m so angry… he asked if I’m still a virgin and told me that he can run a virginity test. I said I haven't come here for that, all I have a ringworm for crying out loud!” 

Then I got so angry. I told her how I know. 

I know because around 2007, I was booked for a theater operation at Mbabane Clinic and when I told one of my closest friends that I’d be going to that clinic she responded, “I hope you’re not getting help from this other doctor who molested me a few days ago when I went to the clinic for a throat infection.” 

Me: “Who is this doctor? Is it Doctor Masimba?"

Her: “Oh!  So you know him? Yep, Dr. Masimba asked me if “sisi” is okay whilst pointing and almost touching my vagina. So how do YOU know it is him I’m talking about?”

Me: “Your choice of words in describing his actions, that’s how I know it can only be him. Each time I hear the words MOLEST and DOCTOR, they immediately trigger a sick, gross feeling, and his name and face instantaneously come to mind.” 

He was our family doctor. I was 16 years old when I went to see him alone for the first time. Previously, my father would accompany me into the consultation room. 

That day, the school driver had taken me to the clinic and my father would pick me up from there later.  Medical problem: one eye was swollen – a huge bulb of liquid had formed in the bag beneath my eye. It was not painful.

Shortly after I entered the consultation room Dr. Masimba welcomed me. I was a bit nervous because it felt strange being alone with an elder that wasn’t my father or brother. 

He must have observed my unease because he immediately replaced his serious looking face with a faint smile and told me it would be ok. I told him what my medical problem was. He asked me to undress. 

My eyes widened and he quickly added, “Only the top part because I need to place my stethoscope on your chest”. I shyly obliged as I unbuttoned by school dress to just above my navel.

As I stood there with my bra he zoomed into me slowly and hugged me long and tight. I started crying. I don’t know why. With each sob, he hugged me tighter telling me, “It’s okay; I can treat your illness. Is it a boy? You can tell me everything and I will help.” I cried harder. 

Was this man insinuating that my eye is swollen because I had touched a boy’s penis No! How could this respectable father figure even think that of me? Eeuwwww!!! 

But my young naive mind also thought could it be really that he’s right? My inflamed eye was caused by kissing boys? I was at the age of kissing boys and I damn right had had kissed a boy or two.

The long hugs, punctuated briefly by him pulling back and looking into my eyes with an (uncomfortable) smile continued for a while. It was the kind of smile that was five seconds away from a soft snarl. 

His hugs were gentle yet aggressive and cold and made my young body tremble with unease.  I can’t recall how long IT lasted, but it felt like I’d been in that room all afternoon. 

What remember vividly is that I was exhausted, crying uncontrollably and that at the end of the consultation session he handed me a tube – a toothpaste tube kind of cylinder. 

He told me how to use it – I wasn’t really listening. I just kept thinking about how dirty and shameful I felt. When I got to my father’s car, he thought my eyes were puffy because they were after all in poor health. 

I got home and examined the tube. He had given me vaginal cream. Vaginal cream? Really?  I felt hurt. I felt naked. I felt dirty again. I kept all these feelings, the tube and everything that happened before it was handed to me to myself. But life had to go on. And it did. 

As luck would have it, a few days later it was the same problem on the other eye. I was back in Dr. Masimba’s consulting room. It was the same story all over again. Hugging, unease, crying, sinister smile…etc. 

He told me I needed to return the following week for an eye-operation because the liquid in my eye bags was solidifying into small balls on each eye. 

I agreed to return. I never did return. I told my father I was too scared to go under the knife. Again, I did not speak about everything else that happened in Dr. Masimba’s office that day. 

Then a few days later a classmate went in to see him for a throat infection. She came from the clinic straight to school and she whipped out…wait for it….vaginal cream as she laughed about how foolish the doctor was to give her that cream. 

Her behavior confused me at first but her finding the whole thing laughable brought a sense of relief to me.  I can’t remember if I told her about the semi-nude unsolicited and uncomfortable tight hugs. But I was relieved that I wasn’t feeling dirty alone.

It was around that time too that two of my elder sisters (about 22 and 24years old at the time) who were usually sickly people, were chatting one afternoon and hospital visits came up. 

They were sharing how annoying Dr. Masimba is with his vaginal creams, hugs and always wanting them to undress their tops even though the one sister only went to see him for her persistent neck problem and the other a leg problem after being involved in a bus accident. 

My eyes were just about ready to pop out of my head in astonishment as I joined their chat. I shared my experience and suggested that perhaps we should tell our father that we no longer wanted to be examined by Dr. Masimba.

That evening when the father came home, my sisters told him about Dr. Masimba, I testified and even told them all about the class mate who had also been given vaginal cream for her throat infection.

After listening carefully our father just wanted to know “Why haven’t you told me this all along?” He then told us we would start seeing the other clinic doctors with immediate effect.

Our father’s casual and calm reaction surprised me but also gave me some relief. I was happy he’d fixed this problem but overall I had expected him to be dramatic about it all. 

No, not dramatic to me or my sisters but to the good doctor himself or even the entire clinic management and staff and even the company MD. After all, in our community, he was [in]famous for his low (if not zero) tolerance for BS. 

In later years as I reflected on this moment in our lives, I think about my father’s reaction to this nasty experience that his daughters went through. 

I think that maybe our father felt a bit weird about taking further steps because Big Bend is a small community and we went to the same school with Dr. Masimba’s children, so creating a scene would bring too much awkwardness in so many structures of our community – school, country club, work etc. 

Perhaps he didn’t take it up with anyone including the police because he was in denial about his daughters being fondled like that by a man – let alone a man he knew and had decided to trust. I don’t know. 

Maybe he felt like he had let us down so bad and he didn’t want the whole community to know that even a feared man like him had moments of weakness, moments where even when he thought he’d done his best to protect his children, he just couldn’t. 

Shame? Humiliation? Guilt? I don’t know. We never ever spoke about Dr. Masimba in that context again. In fact we never ever even spoke about THAT THING that Dr. Masimba did to us – we had no name for it. Never discussed it beyond that day.

Anyway fast forward to 2007 to the day I showed up at the Mbabane clinic for my operation. I remember that the moment I opened my eyes as I lay on the theatre bed, still drunk from the anaesthetic – I faintly shouted for the nurses to show me Dr. Masimba’s office because I wanted to give him a piece of my mind. 

The nurses went dead silent. I kept chanting the same line; “Take me to Dr. Masimba, he molested me, I want to tell him to stop”. Eventually one of the nurses nonchalantly responded, “Yes, apparently he’s doing that to a lot of patients – you’re not the first person to mention this. Unjalo nje (that’s how he is)”. 

Maybe Dr. Masimba was the first thing on my mind when I woke up from my anaestetic-induced coma because I had bumped into him in one of the clinic corridors just a few hours before my op.  I froze as he walked hastily past me, and yet I had a whole speech prepared for him before I left home for the clinic that day. 

He’ looked old, balding  with a few grey hairs scattered on his head and face – and yet, I thought - he continues to molest young women – professional women. I shudder to think about the girl children he examines. 

So on such a day as International Women’s day, when we unpack what it is to be a woman in this day and age, as we celebrate and give respect to society’s leaders; this is a truth, my truth that I share with you about being the strong, fragile, vulnerable, strong, sometimes scared, strong, loving, strong, tired, compassionate, strong woman that I and many others have become.  

Sometimes I wonder how things would have turned out if my sisters hadn’t spoken out and luckily to an understanding father. 

Today, on March 8, 2013, I wonder about my friends. I’ve never really asked them this before, but I wonder why, as young educated and professional women who are conversant on women and human rights, they did not take action against Dr. Masimba. 

Could it be they do not see the point? After all what would happen to him if he was reported to the police and other relevant authorities? Investigation? Then what? Do the current laws make reporting such violations worth it – do they protect the women/girls or the perpetrators more? 

Or could it be that as women, and as reflected in the response of one of those theater nurses, we have accepted and internalized as fact that often men generally treat women this way? 

When do we triumph as women when it comes to our bodies? Will we ever triumph? Maybe not if we are to use Chris Rock’s analogy of perpetually ducking and diving dick. 

Sadly the reality is that we are always hiding from people we know. People we live with, study with, work with, craft gender equality and HIV campaign messages with, people who have violated many women but continue to walk free and walk tall as ‘respected’ contributors to our sick communities. Suffer the female children.  

Happy International Women’s day to all the women and men who consciously do their best to treat women well and with respect and love.  

*Not his real name.

In case you’re curious, Masimba in Shona language (don’t ask why I chose Shona) means “Powers”…far different from the siSwati language meaning of “s*#@!%hit”. Pun intended.