Nori: A Woman of Africa

Note: The names in this story, due to its extremely personal nature,
have been modified. All events remain unchanged, and the story stands
alone as a true account of what millions of African women endure every
day. Because I have a background in journalism, I felt compelled to
share Nori’s story. I felt a moral obligation to give Nori a voice,
although she was afraid to speak out. This is a story that should be
shared with anyone who cares about the women of Africa, who are, in my
opinion, Africa’s greatest strength and hope for the future.
–Ryan Oliver Hansen

The story below was written after I conducted an interview with Nori on
September 13, 2009.

Can a young woman’s torture make her stronger? Can a young woman, lost
in abuse, neglect, and cruelty, find strength from within? Nori, a
26-year-old woman from Uganda, has a story to tell. It’s a story of
triumph, almost unbelievable obstacles, and finally, a story of hope
for African women who are still entrapped within the cage of
social and physical domination.

Nori was born in the village of Zana, near the capital city of Kampala,
Uganda, in 1983. She was the only girl in a family of six brothers.
From the moment she was born, being female served as a curse.
“From my earliest memories on, I understood that being a girl meant
being something that was less, something that was not of value. My
earliest memories are of my father beating my Mother. This was my first
indication that being a woman meant one thing: Suffering,” Nori said.

As a tiny girl, Nori witnessed her mother being beaten and berated on a
constant basis by her father. “He would hit her, slap her, and punch
her. Eventually she would fall on the ground. Then he would kick her.
One usually blames alcohol or drunkenness in these situations, but my
father did not drink. His religious beliefs prevented him drinking. He had
no excuse of intoxication. He was just cruel. I hated him from the time I
could feel the emotions of hate. I hate him. He never loved me,” Nori says.

Nori’s mother was deaf and dumb, unable to verbally communicate with
her sons or her daughter. But Nori understood what her mother said
through her eyes. Nori loved her Mother, and was devastated when she
was separated from her at the age of eight.

“My Mother withstood so many years of abuse, and when I was eight, she
reached her end. She could no longer stay with my polygamist father.
He had so many women. He married three of them, but when he wanted, where
he wanted, he would add another woman to his collection, whether he
married them or not. My Mother left one day in hopes that she’d find a
way to become independent and come back and help her children,” Nori
said.

Nori’s father would spend money on his “favorite” women and leave
Nori’s mother and her children out of the loop. Nori and her brothers
would often go hungry. The primary reason for her mother’s departure
was not physical abuse, according to Nori, it was the fact that her
children were suffering. And one more tragic reason: Nori’s mother had
contracted AIDS.

“She knew that she could not stay with the AIDS disease killing her.
She knew there would be no care, no compassion, and no pity. She
realized that once she began dying, she would have been blamed for her
illness and cast aside,” Nori says.

Her Mother married another man, a non-polygamist, who treated her
better than her first husband. But she was still beaten, still treated
as property instead of a person. She had four more children with her
new husband, only one of whom was born with the AIDS virus. Nori
escaped her Father’s household and went to live with her Mother. She
stayed with her Mother for three years.

Nori knew that her mother loved her; that she wanted her to be happy.
She loved being close to her mother. Her one consolation amidst a sea
of confusion in life was being close to her mother. But because her
Mother did not have a voice, literally, she was forced to give in to
her husband’s wish that Nori leave their home.

“African men don’t want children who aren’t theirs to be around. They
don’t want to pay for their living expenses. My Mother’s second husband
was never good to me for this reason. He forced my Mother to send me
away. My Mother would hold me and cry because she did not want me to
go,” Nori says. “She wanted me to stay. But as a woman, she had to
respect the wishes of her new husband, who did not want me around.”

But Nori’s Mother was determined to keep her away from her cruel
father. She sent her to her Grandmother. Nori’s Grandmother on her
Mother’s side was willing to take Nori and to send her to school. Her
Grandmother paid for her to attend the Chambobo School for Orphans for
two years. Nori fondly remembers the two years she spent in school as
the happiest of her life.

“I was in school! I was learning. I loved learning. I loved my teachers
and they loved me. The two years went by so fast, and when my teachers
learned that I was leaving, they were heartbroken, as was I,” Nori
says. “Not only because I was losing my education, but because I was
returning to live with my Father.”

Nori’s Grandmother was unable to keep up with Nori’s school payments,
as she had a house full of orphans, as is often the case with African
Grandmothers. Against her personal wishes, she had to send Nori away.
Thus Nori was forced to return to the lair of abuse over which her
Father was King. Her dreams of education were over. Her nightmare had
just begun.

Re-married to an older woman, Nori’s father was now Grandfather to his
new wife’s grandchildren as well as father to his unknown number of
children created through polygamist relationships (non-marriage
relationships as well). He had no time or money for his daughter, Nori,
a girl of ten. Naturally, when Nori’s Step-Mother decided not to allow
Nori to stay in their home any longer, an arrangement was made. Nori
was to live with her Step-Mother’s daughter and care for her three
children. But Nori was glad to go.

“My Stepmother was a very wicked, wicked, wicked woman. She would allow
my father to beat me as he pleased. I was nothing to her. I would
always try to run away, but somehow, my Father would always find me. I
was never comfortable in that house because of the stick that was kept
in the corner. I remember staring at the stick, imagining what it would
do to me next,” Nori Says.

“ I would run and hide in the bush. But he would find me. Then he
would beat me and kick me. I hate him. I hate him. I still hate him today.”

Leaving to care for her Step-Mother’s grandchildren represented freedom
to Nori. At the time, she did not know that she was illegally being
traded as a slave and that she had a right to go to school.

“I worked as a maid and as a nanny for the children until I was twelve.
It was hard work. I was alone most of the time. Nobody talked to me as
a person, nobody cared about my feelings. I was alone,” Nori says.
But her solitude was soon to end. There was a “friend of the family”
who was often at the home of Nori’s Step-Mother’s daughter. He was a
man fifteen years Nori’s senior. His name was Kansanga. His presence in
the home became a regular occurrence, until one day, Kansanga displayed
an interest in Nori. He found Nori attractive, and wanted to have her,
intimately.


A price was negotiated between Kansanga and Nori’s Step-Mother. Nori
was sold to the man and was forced, once again, to leave a household of
misery for another that would be even worse. So much worse, this time
around, that Nori was to be pushed to the limits of human suffering.
She escaped the bonds of slavery and entered into the bonds of
forced-pedophilia.

But before this new life was to begin, Nori was required to undergo a
series of “preparations” at the hand of her Step-Mother. For three
months before moving in with Kansanga, Nori’s Step-Mother prepped
Nori’s body for her upcoming relationship. Weights were attached to
Nori’s reproductive organs. She underwent excruciating torture in order
to be “ready” for Kansanga.

“Later in life, when I learned that all women do not do this, I was
sad. Because of what was done to my body, I will never know the special
feelings of intimacy that other women experience,” Nori says. “I had no
idea that what was done to me is out of the ordinary.”

Nori was not married to Kansanga. Nobody found it necessary for a
useless child such as Nori to be given a wedding ceremony. She was
prepared (mutilated) to be Kansanga’s sex-slave, given to him, and from
then on was trapped in his house all day, forced to cook, clean, and
see that all of his needs were met.

Her natural instincts told her that what Kansanga wanted to do with
her was not good.

“I would try to refuse him. I found him intimidating and scary, and I
did not want to be with him. But when I would refuse him, he would slap
me and hit me until I would fall down. Then he would have his way,”
Nori says. “And I knew I was not the only female in his life. I knew
that he had many, many women in his life apart from me.”

Nori didn’t dare tell her Mother what was happening. “She would not
have been able to do anything, and Kansanga and my Step-Mother made
sure I had no access to her,” Nori Says. And soon after, Nori’s Mother
would not have been able to offer even compassion, for she was dead of
AIDS at the age of 32.

One year passed, and little Nori, now thirteen, found herself pregnant
with this Kansanga’s child.

“Kansanga, he didn’t have a reaction to my pregnancy. He didn’t care that
I was pregnant. I carried my baby and gave birth. I had a baby girl. I
loved my baby girl. I wasn’t alone anymore, and I would hold her, and
sing to her. She was my friend and my little baby,” Nori says. “I could
look into her eyes and see myself. Her eyes understood who I am. I
loved my baby girl.”

Life under Kansanga’s domination continued for Nori, and she had two
more children with him, one at the age of 16 and one at the age of 18.
But as she grew older, Nori’s voice within told her that she was not
living as she deserved, and, like her Mother, she decided to escape her
imprisonment. She risked her life to get away from Kansanga, and
through a series of fortunate events, she came into contact with Karen,
an American diplomat living in Kampala.

“When I found Nori I knew right away that this young woman had been
through enough, and that I had to do something about the injustice she
had endured,” Karen says. “She needed to get out of Uganda, because her
angry Father and this man, Kansanga, were a constant threat to her.”
Karen helped Nori find a safe place for Nori’s three children. They
were placed with responsible friends who care for them today, and Nori
left Uganda to live in Cameroon with Karen as Karen’s daughter’s nanny.
Today, Nori is safe, employed, and is saving her money to help bring
opportunities and freedom to her three children.

“My Father still hates me, because it is I, not him, who has traveled
and been given opportunities in life. Each day I keep busy so that my
mind does not think about where I was before. I cannot think about
it—it brings me into darkness. I pray to God each day to help me stay
on a safe path and keep my children protected. I know that God is with
me, I depend on God for strength,” she says.

Writer’s Note:

When I first met Nori, she was caring for Karen’s daughter at an
afternoon picnic. She was smiling and came across as a simple, young,
carefree girl. But in her deep-set eyes, I could see that there was a
story to be told. When Karen began sharing certain details of Nori’s
life with me, my shock and rage wouldn’t let me keep this story
to myself. Nori deserves to share her story.

All too often, stories such as Nori’s are overlooked by the Western World. The words
tradition” and “culture” are conveniently employed to
serve as excuses to overlook human injustice. In the media and academic
settings, Africa is often portrayed as a “noble” place full of “rich
culture and tradition.”

Africa has much to admire; much to praise. Africa is a diverse
continent with a plethora of fascinating traditions, foods, languages,
and landscapes. But in each country on the continent, lurking in the
shadows of mass slums, young women like Nori are silently suffering.
They consider what is happening to them to be normal, unaware that they
are individuals with human rights that should be denied to nobody.
Often, in the Western World, stories on Africa are criticized as
sharing only the “bad news” from the continent. Exposing the positive
events is, of course, a progressive way of bringing hope to a
continent. However, by ignoring stories such as Nori’s story, the world
is indirectly perpetuating intolerable abuse.

The governments of Africa, including Uganda, have, for the most part,
created laws that look good on paper. But the laws, when they
contradict “culture or tradition,” are easily overlooked. Would Nori
have been able to go to the police for defense? Would the fact that
rape of young women is illegal stop anyone from selling their
daughters? Is genital mutilation excusable in the name of “tradition”?

After writing the paragraphs about Nori’s baby girl, I was overwhelmed
with emotion and I had to take a break from writing to go downstairs in
the Green Eyes in Africa headquarters house. Charlotte, a 26-year-old
young woman was in the kitchen preparing food for the kids. She saw
that I was distraught, and I told her about Nori.

We then had the following conversation, which just added salt to an
already painful wound.

“Ryan, these things are not unfamiliar to me. They happen every day
here in Yaoundé, Cameroon,” Charlotte said.

“What?” I asked.

“Just this year, I was unfortunately witness to the female mutilation
of two little Muslim girls. My friend married a Muslim man, and
converted to his ways of life, including polygamy. She had no money,
and she felt forced to go into this marriage.

I was invited to attend a ceremony for her two girls, one eighteen
months old, one two years old. I went into my friend’s house. I saw a
woman covered in black cloth with only her eyes exposed. My friend was
distraught, and she went outside of her house. The father explained
that the visiting woman’s presence was an honor.

In the woman’s hands there was a decorated box. I was told that she was
a ‘special’ woman w ho had come to honor my friend’s family with her
presence. She opened the box.

Inside the box there was a bottle of alcohol and a knife-like
instrument, curved like a banana. The special woman and the girls’
father called all of the women of the family to come and watch the
ceremony.

The two-year old girl was then taken by the woman and was flattered
with baby-talk. ‘Don’t cry. Don’t cry. We will buy you candy.’
Then the girl was taken by a group of women and held in place. She was
undressed. The woman then proceeded to cut out the insides of the
child’s reproductive area. The child was screaming in a high-pitch that
hurt me deep inside (Charlotte cried as she shared this part of the story).
I immediately left the room. It was too much for me. I didn’t witness
the cutting of the second baby girl.

The special woman left. The girls had been sewn shut and I saw horrific
amounts of blood on their legs and on the ground. My friend was silent.
She couldn’t even speak. She was in shock.

I knew that all of the women who attended this ceremony, excluding my
friend and I, had been through this process and considered it a
necessary part of a woman’s development. I am horrified with the
decision of my friend to allow this, but she has no choice other than
to tolerate the wishes of her husband. She says she doesn’t want more
children. And somehow she’s been convinced that this ceremony was for
the good of her girls.


As a woman, I’m lucky to have had a strong mother. She was unfortunately sold to my father when she was fourteen years old in 1972. We are nine children in my family, seven girls and two brothers.

My father wanted that we girls be sold into marriage. My mother
refused. To this day, those of us who are not married, such as I, are
considered ‘lost opportunities.’ I am not close to my Father. I respect my Mother deeply. I don’t even speak to my father.”

Writer’s note:


As Director of Green Eyes in Africa, these stories touch me intensely.
They’re not just random stories I read in a magazine, they’ve been told
to me face-to-face by beautiful, intelligent young women who are doing
their best to stand up for their dignity and rights. These women, to
me, represent the millions of young women who are being abused, beaten,
and even mutilated in the hidden corners of African ghettos and
villages. They think that the injustice they’re experiencing is normal
as it’s masked by the words “tradition and culture.”


I hope that each girl under the care of Green Eyes in Africa develops
the strength that these two women have developed. And I hope that Green
Eyes in Africa can find a way to become more involved in the prevention
of female genital mutilation in Cameroon. Time will tell—but these
stories are burned in my heart and I shall never forget them. I hope
that you, the reader, will also remember these stories and share them.
Awareness of injustice is the first step, healthy anger is the second,
and realistic, organized action is the third…let’s get going.