The Coordinates To Nowhere

I am in Cape Town. The weather is tempestuous. It is hot and sunny one day, cold and brooding the next day. The streets are busy. Traffic flows in some places; in many others, it is blocked. There is a protest on. Large numbers of women, dressed in black, holding placards, chanting, are marching towards parliament.

They are angry. Like a wave, they swept towards the houses of decision-makers to vent their frustration and give voice to their fears. They break upon the police officers who cordon off the area surrounding the parliament buildings, energy expended.

Their protest is centered around the assault and murder of one of their own. She has a name. She has a family. In the past, she had a future. Not any more.

Today she has a name. But in a couple of days, she will become anonymous, another statistic, another woman a bad thing happened to.

There are many such women.

The world will turn. The sun will rise. Another woman will be harassed, raped, assaulted, murdered.

There will be another march. Maybe… if there is the energy for it.

But the cycle will remain: Harassment, rape, assault, murder.

Women will continue to play roulette with their lives on the street, at the club, at work, in their homes. The only safe space to be a woman is nowhere. Once they find that place, they can breathe a sigh of relief.

The coordinates to nowhere are…

At the Open Book Festival I am attending, a man will ask a panel of four prominent female authors what men can do stop the gender-based violence in South Africa and, by extension, in Africa and the rest of the world. This line of inquiry sounds familiar: Asking the victims for preventative measures, for solutions for a problem they did not create. The response to the man’s question will be just that: Men need to get together and find a solution. Because they are the problem.

I am thinking about this caucus of men that will get together and find a solution to this problem. I can already see how it will go down. There will be a solemn call sent out to the patriarchy for the need to address this problem. There will be a meeting. At this meeting, there will be back-slapping and furious handshaking. Protocol will be observed.

Then there will be a long rambling talk about the problem, phrased in the passive. The term ‘men killing women’ will not be used. The gravity of the situation will hold the meeting together for a while. Then someone will try to lighten the mood with a joke – always a joke.

That joke will be laughed at because, well, it’s just lightening the mood.

And then someone will ask “is it really that bad?”

And that’s where the cycle will begin again.

Harassment. Rape. Assault. Murder.

The coordinates to nowhere are…

Remy Ngamije is a Rwandan-born columnist, essayist, short-story writer, poet, photographer and novelist. His debut novel ‘The Eternal Audience of One’ is available now.

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