I Am a Girl from Africa Read online

  It is still not enough. The leadership reminds me that because we are the United Nations, we must create large-scale systematic and structural change, especially now that the movement has become so highly visible. We have to prove that it works, not just that it’s a good idea that has inspired many people. One senior member remarks, “Given the magnitude of success that HeForShe has achieved, we must have quantifiable impact.” Another colleague adds, “Some of our biggest stakeholders now think that we are pumping hundreds of thousands of dollars into the work with men and boys at the expense of women and girls,” expressing concerns that are completely valid. Other colleagues in the meeting back me up, acknowledging that like anything new and unknown, engaging all genders in an inclusive manner needs more time to be accepted and understood by everyone.

  I listen carefully and maintain my composure, but inside I feel a sense of sinking defeat. After so much hard work and time and effort, when there is finally solid proof of success in this inclusive approach, there are more questions, more challenges, more demands.

  I quickly suggest to the committee that we might be transparent that HeForShe isn’t funded using UN Women’s limited resources, but is instead funded exclusively by external partnerships that I personally established, as Phumzile requested. Even so, their concerns remain; some even argue for the discontinuation of HeForShe in the interest of safeguarding critical relations with the organization’s core stakeholders. Although I understand and respect their perspectives, it is a difficult place to be in.

  The situation does not get any easier when I meet one-on-one with Phumzile. “I need you to urgently find a way to concretize the work of HeForShe. I know that you are trying to empower communities to come up with their own solutions, an approach which I fully support. However, right now we don’t have the luxury to experiment. We must assure our colleagues and partners that our initiative will indeed create tangible impact. And remember, Elizabeth: failure is not an option.” The strain is visible on her face.

  Phumzile is right; failure has never been an option, and under normal circumstances I would find her words energizing. I have never backed away from a challenge, however formidable. That is how I arrived here to do this work in the first place, and the experiences of that journey are what shaped my firm belief that achieving gender equality requires everyone.

  However, these are not normal circumstances, and when I leave Phumzile’s office, I feel hollow and deflated. I thought the almost overnight success of HeForShe would be proof enough that my conviction was correct. I was sure that I would soon be returning to the best aspect of my job: engaging directly with communities and meeting people, hearing their stories of struggle and triumph, listening to their hopes and dreams, and working to uplift their lives and create lasting change. I spent the months leading up to the launch working eighteen-hour days, pushing myself far beyond my limits, all in the interest of improving the lives of women and girls globally. But now I must do more, when I am already physically and emotionally exhausted. How can I deliver more measurable impact? Is my plan too disruptive? If the organization loses critically needed funds to improve women’s and girls’ lives due to misperceptions about the HeForShe movement, how will I live with myself?

  When I return to my office, I finally unravel. On my desk I make a pillow with my arms and set my head on it, just as I did on my first day at school in Epworth when I was a child who felt sure I had landed in the wrong place. Or when I sat in the youth hostel kitchen in London, unable to find a job after trying so hard to do so, worried I might have to return to Africa, worried I would not make the best use of my mukana. And now, years later, HeForShe, meant to be a highlight of my work and a high point of my mission to uplift others, may not be everything I wanted it or meant for it to be. How could I have allowed a movement inspired by ubuntu—the very essence of what it means to be African—to have been all for naught? I want nothing more ardently or sincerely than to fight all forms of inequality, especially those impacting women and girls like me and like so many others I have met. But as I sit at my desk, near tears, I wonder if I should just give in, if I should finally give it all up. I feel defeated. After what I thought was a great achievement, and after all the impact that we have created, everything seems to be falling apart, in a way that feels all too familiar.

  * * *

  A month away from the triumph of completing secondary school, I still live with Aunt Jane and Uncle Sam in the city during the week. Each weekend and school holiday, I split my time between Epworth, helping Amai search for money, and Goromonzi, plowing and harvesting Gogo’s crops. Amai decides where I go, what work I will do, and when I can visit Gogo.

  One blazing hot Sunday afternoon, Amai and I are marching to church. We walk quickly down the dusty road, our feet kicking up an orange haze that hovers in the air behind us. Amai leads, dressed in her cream church uniform, a white hat, and a pair of brown canvas shoes, while I walk barefoot behind her wearing my gray church skirt and a white shirt. I am excited—talking about my hope to go to university in anticipation of my high school graduation—when Amai says, “University? Eeee, Lizzy, what about work?”

  “But I must go to university, Amai.” A university degree is necessary for me to work for the United Nations, a critical part of my dream.

  Amai stops walking abruptly and says, “Eeee, me, I thought you were going to find work, Lizzy. University is very-very expensive. Us, we don’t have money. I wish…” She stops talking and a look of sadness falls over her face. I quickly look at the ground; her sadness makes me feel guilty, but it doesn’t change my desire.

  “Osi’s secondary school fees are very high,” she continues. “And, us, we need help with Memo’s and Chio’s school fees too.” I know all this already. Osi, extremely intelligent, was always outperforming the students at Epworth Primary School, so the headmaster encouraged Amai and Baba to send him to a private school in order to challenge him and accelerate his progress. Amai did what she does best: she searched for more money and got Osi into one of the best private boys’ high schools in Harare. I still can’t look at Amai, but I’m searching for the right words to explain.

  “Me,” she says, “I am just asking you to make a small sacrifice so that the children can have the same mukana you had.” And with that, I am trapped. I cannot be selfish and deprive Osi and the children of the same mukana given to me, especially knowing the sacrifices that Amai and Baba have made. I say nothing, but I feel a pit of sadness lodge itself in my stomach, weighing down my body, heavy with disappointment.

  Amai places her free hand on my shoulder and says, “Eeee, Lizzy, you, you have already become more than me and your baba. Us, we are so proud. You, you have become someone we were not able to be.”

  When I finally look up at her, I see immense pride in her eyes. But there is sadness as well: yes, she gave me the mukana to complete secondary school, which she and Baba were not able to do, but it is clearly painful for her to realize that no matter how much she would like to send me to university, she will never find enough money, and like her, my own life will forever be full of sacrifices. She locks eyes with me, pleading silently for me to understand that even though things are changing for our family, nothing ever really changes; even though our lives are moving forward, we seem to stay exactly where we are: always searching for money, always making sacrifices, always taking care of the people we love.

  * * *

  When I finally graduate from secondary school, at seventeen, I look for an office job that pays a good salary. But despite all my efforts, I fail to find one. There is a job shortage in Zimbabwe, and my secondary education on its own simply isn’t enough anymore. I must get specialized training in a specific industry, except there is no money for me to attend even the cheapest community college. I must help Amai search for money for the children, and I must also quickly save to pay for my own university fees. I tell myself: I will find any job.

  At the industrial areas on the outskirts of the city center
I join thousands of ambuyas and sekurus and young people my age flocking in from neighboring urban and rural areas, vying for the scarce manual labor jobs in the factories. Outside the tall fences surrounding the concrete factories and under the blistering sun, we stand together for hours that quickly turn into days and weeks, and then into months; we stand until our backs ache, our legs go numb, and our feet swell. Still we stand, wiping away from our faces thick orange dust stirred up by the passing trucks. Still we stand, as our eyes sting and our nostrils bleed from inhaling the thick smoke billowing from the factory chimneys. Still we stand, pleading for God’s mercy, until the British factory foreman emerges each day through the gate and yells “Speak’n English?” and we stampede toward him like a crash of rhinoceroses, hoping to be picked.

  Because I “speak’n English,” one day I respond at the top of my lungs and shove my way to the front of the line, almost knocking the foreman off his feet. He asks if I have sales experience, which I do from selling Amai’s fruit and vegetables. “I also have impeccable people skills from working at the HIV/AIDS clinics,” I add.

  “Very well then. That will do,” he says. “You will start tomorrow morning at nine o’clock at the OK Supermarket next to Market Square. Your job is to cook soybeans inside the store, encourage customers to sample the food, and then convince them to purchase boxes of beans. The job is commission-based only, and you will receive ten cents for each box of beans that you sell. I expect you to sell a minimum of three hundred boxes each week or you will lose the job. That’s all,” the British foreman says, and shoos me away with a dismissive flap of his hand.

  With that I get my first official job, after months of trying. I am glad that I will be able to help Amai search for money for school fees, but when I thank the foreman for the offer, a cloud of sadness consumes me. This is not the job I wanted, especially after my great education at the best private schools. I feel disappointed with myself. I can’t believe that I have ended up right here, working in a supermarket, just like my uneducated baba. I feel like such a failure for wasting the mukana that my family gave me. I feel miserable and defeated, and right there at the factory gates, I begin to cry.

  * * *

  Now, in the aftermath of HeForShe, I lie awake each night in my New York apartment, unable to sleep. My mind spins with questions: How can HeForShe create more impact? How is this even possible with our resources? What if I waste this opportunity to create more impact for women and girls? Eventually I fall asleep to the sounds of the city: garbage trucks rumbling along the busy streets; sirens in the distance; snippets of conversation floating up from the narrow street below my apartment. I wake up the following morning determined to find a solution.

  As soon as I get to my office, I call one of the leading strategy consultant firms and, to my surprise, successfully convince them to provide two pro bono consultants to help create a flagship pilot initiative within the HeForShe movement. My brief to the consultants is highly ambitious; I emphasize that the pilot initiative must deliver tangible results for women and girls in only five years. It must engage the most powerful and influential male leaders, individuals who are willing and able to use their power to end specific issues of gender inequality in their communities, businesses, and schools. These leaders will be known as HeForShe Champions, because they will lead by example, championing targeted gender issues and committing to specific goals within their institutions. Each must agree to complete transparency, beginning with their gender parity data and then mandatory annual public reporting on their progress toward their gender equality commitments.

  At first the consultants are skeptical. “This is way too big of an ask,” they respond. “It is one thing to ask leaders to champion issues with concrete commitments, but it’s another thing to bind them to mandatory transparency and reporting. Most institutions have embarrassingly low numbers when it comes to gender parity. They will never do it.”

  But Phumzile and I are adamant. “This has to answer the ‘so what’ question for the HeForShe movement,” Phumzile insists. “We have to concretely demonstrate the kind of change that is possible if men are fully engaged as allies for gender equality.” As ever, I am so happy to have her as a mentor and an ally.

  Just a month later we come up with a concrete road map. Our goal is to create a five-year pilot project, HeForShe IMPACT 10x10x10 initiative, convening 10 world leaders x 10 global CEOs x 10 university presidents to work together as Champions for gender equality. Our hope is that these Champions will implement transformative policies that will change the lives of women and girls, from ending gender-based violence (child marriage, sexual harassment, violence on campus, domestic violence) to ensuring gender parity within corporations and universities, that is, ensuring that women are equally represented in senior roles, receive equal pay for equal work, and have access to parental leave policies, and that girls have equal access to science, math, and technology classes. When I present the initiative to the UN senior leadership team and receive their sign-off, a palpable relief washes over me. I return to my office, sit at my desk, and feel alive with this unprecedented win, when not so long ago I thought I had failed.

  * * *

  In January 2015, just three months after the official launch of HeForShe, I arrive at the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland, to launch the HeForShe pilot project. The crisp air and bright, cold sky, as well as the heaps of gleaming white snow on the Swiss Alps, remind me of my time in Geneva.

  As the UN secretary-general, Mr. Ban Ki-moon; our executive director, Phumzile Mlambo-Ngcuka; UN Women’s global goodwill ambassador Emma Watson; inaugural HeForShe Champions (including the president of Rwanda and the prime minister of Sweden); and global CEOs take center stage to officially break ground on our initiative, I feel a powerful sense of pride for what we have accomplished in such a short span of time. With Phumzile’s sheer determination, in addition to the support of my colleagues and our UN Women partners, in only three months we have gone from launching HeForShe—a global movement that has reached all corners of the world—to engaging the world’s most influential men to use their power to create more equitable societies. Most importantly, we have shown the world what is possible when we work together in the spirit of ubuntu, transforming the lives of millions of women and girls globally.

  Years before, when I was working with Amai selling vegetables, then in the supermarket, then pounding the London pavement looking for a job, finally working as a janitor, and then transitioning to a fast-paced office, and then ultimately applying for a job with UNAIDS that I knew I had the experience for but not the academic qualifications—I kept going, no matter what. Through these struggles I built resilience and fortitude that have served me well in keeping the dream of HeForShe alive. Gogo taught me well, I think, and I close my eyes and thank her for teaching me to never, ever give up.

  * * *

  After the success of Davos, I fly home to Zimbabwe for my yearly visit to my family. I find Osi waiting for me at the airport in his “new” car, which is in fact an old, beat-up, secondhand Toyota Corolla. From the airport we drive straight to Highlands, one of the affluent suburbs in Harare. As we drive up the wide, paved boulevards lined with their famous blossoming purple jacaranda trees in this wealthy, predominantly white suburb and pull up at the end of an idyllic cul-de-sac in front of the freshly painted green metal of a motorized gated driveway, I feel as though my heart might leap out of my chest.

  Behind the white gate is a white, bungalow-style house that sits on an acre of beautifully landscaped gardens sprawling with lush vegetation, yellow African daisies, and pink and white roses. The house has eight rooms, including three bedrooms, a bathroom with a stand-alone toilet, a dining room, a large kitchen with built-in blond wood cabinetry, an electric stove with an oven, and a large sink tucked underneath a window that overlooks an orchard of banana, peach, avocado, and mulberry trees at the back of the house. The living room at the front of the house has dark, hardwood floors, plenty of window
s, a fireplace, and French doors that open up to an expansive veranda. The house has all the modern amenities of Aunt Jane and Uncle Sam’s flat, but it is even more expansive: it is bigger than any house I have ever lived in. To its left sits an open-air garage for two cars and a stand-alone guesthouse with its own private bathroom. To its right is a shimmering swimming pool and a built-in grilling area with a grass-thatched gazebo. Colorful birds chirp and fly between the blooming jacaranda trees surrounding the yard, filling the otherwise peaceful air with cheerful music and sounds that remind me of the Good Forest back in my village, Goromonzi.

  Several years ago, I was finally able to fulfill one of the promises that I made to myself when I was eleven years old, the day I realized that I needed to find a way to uplift the lives of my family; the day I noticed for the first time the economic disparities that existed between my life in the city with Aunt Jane and Uncle Sam, and the poverty my family faced in Epworth. So, when I was able, I bought this home as a gift for Amai and Baba, a thank-you for all the sacrifices they made while raising me and my siblings, and for giving me the mukana that made it possible for me to pursue and finally achieve my dream.

  I remember that first day in the new house as if it was just yesterday. After I helped Amai and Baba move from Epworth into their new Highlands home, we all knelt down in the living room as we waited for Gogo to bless our home with a prayer. As I looked around the room at Amai, Baba, and my siblings and their children, I felt immense gratitude and pride bubble up inside me. Here we were, the Nyamayaro family, having achieved something that had seemed impossible for most families we knew, let alone for ours. Here we were, rising up together, uplifting ourselves as we uplifted each other. Here we were, living proof of God’s love and the power of believing in a dream that includes more than just your own individual hopes, but also the hopes and dreams of many. For the very first time, Amai’s eyes brimmed with unburdened pride knowing that things had finally changed. Even Baba’s knowing smile was bigger than ever, silently saying, See, I knew that everything was going to be fine. Our sacrifices for each other had finally moved us forward, changing our lives for the better. As Baba’s eyes glistened with joyful tears, so too did mine.