“ARE YOU MARRIED?” That was the first question coming from one of the men seated next to me. I immediately assumed he was curious about same-sex marriage in the United States. I replied that I was not, but had a male partner and a son adopted by him. People in this part of Sub-Saharan Africa have some access to the Internet and young “gay” men visit websites where they are learning what it’s like to be homosexual in Western societies. Young gay men here are aware of the legalization of homosexual unions, and its related debates, in Europe and the U.S.
Another young man in the circle created by about a dozen young gay men asked me what differences I saw between Kenya and the U.S. Affluence, of course, is a pretty evident contrast between the two countries. A third man solicited advice on how to tell parents about one’s homosexual orientation and how to persuade others that being gay is not evil. After I had introduced myself, I invited the group to ask questions about me before I started with my own inquiry. Their queries reminded me of those I had encountered among young gay men in the U.S., Mexico, Chile, and Cuba. Being gay, or homosexual, in Kisumu, Kenya, however, presents other striking disparities.
We were sitting around in plastic chairs under a torn green tent which was protecting us from the late morning sun. At the center of our circle there were two semi-empty cases of soda. We were in the backyard of the offices of an organization for people living with HIV and AIDS. The organization uses the outdoor space for social support groups and other gatherings. Although our senses (or at least mine) were fighting with the noise, plus the heat of the afternoon sun, we were all engaged in talking about what it’s like to be gay man in Kisumu. A few feet from us a couple of workers were building a large chicken coop. Nearby there were a few loose, loud chickens. Down the hill lay the shanty homes where many of the men in the group, and others I’d meet later, live. The guys’ worn-out shoes and sandals quickly caught my eye. I could see their leathery, callous feet. Their clothing was worn but clean, except for three men who looked dressier than the others. One had a “Madonna cowboy” look: all in black, cowboy boots and hat, and a silver-color large necklace. Another was wearing newer and polished shoes, black pants, a creamy shirt, and a small black hat. The third one was all in grey, pants and shirt, black pointy sandals, and round specs. His name was Ernest and spoke in a soft and slow voice. Ernest was carrying a bag, from which he later would pull out a book and write with a blue pen. Soon after I would learn that he was a college student in the large university outside Kisumu. Today he had come to town to check out a book from the local library. In the midst of our group conversation, an unexpected visitor showed up. He was a Dutch man in his forties who had lived in Kisumu some years ago and is now involved in the International Lesbian and Gay Association. He introduced himself and joined the group. He was thrilled to see so many gay men gathered. During his years in Kisumu, he never met a single gay person. In those days, he was in the process of coming to terms with his own homosexuality. Now visiting, he was eager to support the group and link it to others in Nairobi and around the world. I had come to Kenya primarily as a researcher interested in the prevention of HIV and AIDS. As a gay man, I was also curious about the expression of male homosexual desires in a non-western society. I had arrived conscious of my social and cultural status: a middle class, Mexican-born and raised, educated foreigner from a wealthy country. I was aware then, as I am now, that my Western eyes would filter my interactions with the locals, just by the fact that I was looking for a group of people referred to as “gay” or “homo” men, distinct from the majority of the population. Still, my intention was not to impose judgment on the young men of Kisumu. Even my use of the word “gay” in this context does not convey the same meaning as it has in the U.S. The Lou tribe, a minority Kenyan group, calls Kisumu its home. Kisumu is an urban center in the westernmost part of the country. The poverty is pretty visible through the large slums bordering the city center. Many people rely on bicycles (some of them are used as taxis, called “boda-boda”) or public transportation, which is mainly comprised of small and decrepit vans. The majority walk from one place, or town, to another. There is not a single traffic light, and I recall seeing only one stop sign, and it was upside down. There is one small affluent neighborhood where the business people (mostly of Indian descent) and most of the foreigners live in residential compounds. I stayed in one of those. Most of the men I met were Lou, young (between the ages of 16 to 27), and very poor. They lived in one- or two-room homes made of corrugated metal. Most did not go beyond high school and lack formal employment or a steady income. They live day by day, not knowing where tomorrow’s meal will come from. A few of them attend college or work in low-paid jobs. The idea of homosexuality, specifically male homosexuality, among the Lou people is not so different from the views held in many western societies. Generally, same-sex desire is considered abnormal, a deviation from the traditional Christian-based gender roles. In Kenya, homosexual men are thought of as feminine and playing a woman’s role. They are transgressing gender roles. For example, a man who likes receptive anal sex is said to play the woman’s role. A homosexual man is seen as weak and overtly concerned with his appearance. He takes care of his hair, has his nails manicured, looks clean, and even might wear some fancy clothes such as a blazer or a leather coat. There is some truth behind these beliefs. One night, we were out at a popular pub—there are no “gay” bars in Kisumu—when I spotted two young men playing pool. They both stood out from the rest of the male clientele. They wore sport coats, polished shoes, and their hair was neatly combed and shiny. One of my informants, a gay man, told me he knew them, but they would be afraid of approaching us in this public setting and being labeled homosexual men. It is next to impossible to find words in the local language to name male homosexuality that do not convey negative connotations. The English term “gay” is gaining popularity but is not common yet. Some of the offensive terms include antilog, shoga, and mwere (in Swahili). Shoga is particularly popular to identify a man who performs receptive anal sex. The expression “Ja ngoth pier chuo” is also used in reference to “a man who fucks buttocks.” The young gay men I met do not identify themselves publicly as gay or homosexual. They utilize the words gay or homo to refer to themselves when they are around other men like themselves. Many men first hear of homosexuality through neighbors’ rumors, which are fueled by the dominant Christian values and sordid sensationalism. As children, they would hear people gossiping about older homosexual men: “they lure kids into sex.” Homosexual men are “unholy,” I heard a woman say. Consequently, young men who desire other men often fear being expelled from their homes and isolated by the community and the tribe. Nairobi and Mombasa are perceived as a little more tolerant of homosexual behavior than Kisumu. However, there are some elements in their culture that allow men to hide their homosexuality to some extent. It is customary for non-gay men to hold hands in public and even to live together. Still, there’s good reason to stay in the closet. Homosexuality is illegal in Kenya and carries a penalty of fourteen years in jail. Although rarely if ever enforced, this law’s mere existence suffices to instill fear. Male sex trade for clients of both sexes is fairly common in Kisumu and is frequently attributed to foreign influence. One night club displays photos of go-go-dancers of both sexes—about fifteen males and fifteen females—in large frames. Female sex workers dance and hang out in the bar and outside, while the men focus on dancing. The clientele in this bar consists mostly of men. The young men of Kisumu prefer anal sex over oral sex. Indeed, they dislike performing oral sex on other men, as the penis is thought to be dirty. I found no language to refer to oral sex. Not surprising, masturbation is fairly common, though somewhat stigmatized. HIV and AIDS have also become an intrinsic part the young men’s lives and sexual relationships. All locals, regardless of sexual orientation, have been touched by the disease. All of them know someone living with HIV or someone who’s died of it. Some are living with HIV and in antiretroviral treatment. Condom use among gay men is inconsistent at best. Paradoxically, the success of antiretroviral therapies (which are available in Kisumu) has somewhat diminished the fear of HIV. Many men in Kisumu say that “sex with condoms is not sweet.” Others opt to trust that their partners are HIV-negative and monogamous. A gay couple in their twenties said they do not use condoms because they trust that the other is faithful and HIV-negative. This young couple has been together for almost two years. They spend the weekends together but still live with their parents. One of them has his own bedroom in a separate room in the back of his family’s house, which provides the space for them to be together during the nights. The partner has to come in and out while everyone else is asleep. The young gay men of Kisumu live under very difficult material conditions and in fear of their families and tribe finding out their most intimate desires. They risk, survive, and succumb to HIV and AIDS every day. They create romantic and sexual relationships and a small (underground) community. Their wide white smiles are at once joyful and defiant. Jesus Ramirez-Valles is a professor at U. of Illinois–Chicago School of Public Health.
