Nana Darkoa Sekyiamah wrote, “It is easy to recognise the big acts of violence that emerge from war and conflict. It is much harder to recognise smaller acts of violence that chip away at a woman’s self-esteem and confidence. Bing’s story is a reminder that sometimes you need to walk away from love to save yourself.” There is a pattern that appears to be occurring alarmingly frequently on mainstream digital platforms: “Women empowerment” in the guise of sensationalised sexual antics, also known as ‘hook-up’ culture or a ‘hoe phase’. Most often than not, these encounters typically result from either impulsive responses to heartbreak or longing for sexual experience and approval from people in a new setting. Naturally, “The Sex Lives of African Women” is more than a resuscitation of hubristic self-explanatory bloggers turned podcasters who justify sexual liberation by elevating their knowledge of internet slang like ‘fire’ and ‘vibes’ over intellectual arguments. In addition to being a memoir, it is also a criticism of traditional relationship norms and a defence of women’s sexual freedom. There is a lot to be said for more ‘natural’ hoe phases—ones built on liberty and self-assurance rather than inexperience and insecurity. In her debut novel ‘The Sex Lives of African Women’ Sekyiamah charts the “journey towards sexual freedom and agency” in three sections; self-discovery, freedom, and healing. From Rwanda to Cameroon, Kenya, Nigeria, Barbados, and Egypt, the plot gallops along, significantly relying on self-discovery, ignoring social conventions in favour of authenticity, and facing the terrible effects of rape, abuse, and genital mutilation. An alternative polyamorous story is being lived by Nura, who has more time to prioritise herself because she is one of many wives. Having transitioned from an unlawful long-distance, virtual sex relationship to a marriage with two children but no sex, Nafi is currently going through a divorce. Ebony identifies as gender fluid and has made the decision to be childless. The mixed-race wheelchair user, Elizabeth, yearns for the first love she turned down. Philester is an HIV-positive bisexual sex worker. Alexis talks about the value of self-pleasure and finds love in her seventies. Maria Gebre speaks about experiencing sexual abuse as a young child. Shanita started a 100-day celibacy journey out of self-love and is now on her 1000th day. Every character evokes some sort of compassion and empathy. As Jane Link wrote in her review of the book, their cumulative testimonies “completely, utterly, and irreversibly upends the mainstream narrative of African women’s sexuality, a narrative that does not account for their relationship to sex beyond the confines of the heteronormative patriarchal capitalist complex and its valorisation of female reproduction.” Enter Solange, a 46-year-old Rwandan transwoman. Her dedication to highlighting the ‘absurdity’ of the gender binary makes the book’s queer and trans perspective clear. Of the nine profiled subjects in the Freedom section, Solange’s account comes off the best in terms of encapsulating the concept. From aspirations to become a priest as a youngster to feelings for a woman while acknowledging that they (Solange) are a woman in a man’s body, to sex work and ultimately polygamous relationships, Solange has done and seen it all. “I feel sexually fulfilled. I can experience different aspects of my sexuality with different people.” In a country where women’s sexuality has often been hidden behind a culture of discretion, Bingi, another Rwandan woman's pronouncement, “I enjoy having sex. When I’m in bed with someone I like to explore, experiment, and push my boundaries. That’s what sex does for me. Sex saved me from depression. It helped me escape” is nothing short of rebellion. A woman deciding for herself when and how she wants to have sex, and chasing men she wants...what’s the world coming to? Obviously, someone has to bring her back to her senses. Her narration fits into a larger movement by women to assert their independence. It takes on not just feminine desire, but also emotional abuse, mental illness, self-love, and toxic relationships. The women in Sekyiamah’s book do not successfully overcome the risks that fear and humiliation pose to their autonomy; rather, overcoming them requires constant effort since they can reappear without warning. The control over women’s bodies and sexuality is a result of the combined strength of patriarchy and religion, such as Rastafarian males depriving women of pleasure, the scrutiny of Muslim women’s attire, and conservative Christianity’s continuous reminders of sin and hell. Women ought to occasionally twist, turn, and step outside the box that society and the patriarchy have placed them in. Perhaps other issues worth emphasizing; despite the parallels between the stories, the book circles back, like a musical refrain, to themes of sexual abuse and gender-based violence. A disclaimer stating that the narrative contains experiences of either rape, sexual assault, or both are included at the outset of at least 10 of the stories. Furthermore, although difficult to read, these narrations offer crucial backgrounds. More than that, they reiterate that sexual abuse is private and personal, but in some way, we have to put it out there. It is not a filthy, shameful secret that needs to be sealed away. It is an ugly truth, and truths - by nature - need to be aired. Although many interviewees express their dissatisfaction, the tone is generally one of optimism, resilience, and acceptance. This is an astounding documentary on the struggle for sexual liberty, distinguished by the diversity of experiences presented, the abundance of intimate details, and the complete lack of sensationalism. One can only hope that this book starts the trail for a colossal gate that will open for women of African descent to enjoy sexual liberation. One day, maybe just one day, we will climb to the very top of the mountain, and that day stick our flags into the summit.
