The year was 2010. I was in primary school.
The math teacher had just left and we could hear the Swahili teacher making his way to our class. I could smell something weird in the air around us but then again, it was a primary school. Most of the boys in my class were notorious for not showering when they needed to.
I noticed that my deskmate was struggling to find a comfortable sitting position but I thought nothing of it. In fact, I was getting annoyed at how many times she was adjusting her skirt wrapper because every time she moved, she made my desk move a little and I was trying to write my assignments.
The smell in the air got a lot stronger. It smelled like wet metal. I cannot explain it any better than that, all I know is that the smell was foreign and to my uninitiated olfactory sense, unwelcome!
Just as I was about to say something, the teacher came around to my side of the row. He immediately noticed the weird smell and walked straight to Lydia. He bent down and whispered some unintelligible words to her and almost immediately, she started weeping.
Mr Muliko left the class and returned almost immediately with the deputy headmistress. A mousy older woman, maybe in her mid-50s. She bent down to Lydia again and then lifted her head, adjusted her glasses and spoke in a monotone,
“Everyone out,” she said. “Wait for me by the parade grounds.”
We quickly folded our books and left them on our desks and walked out, single file. None of us knew what was going on. All we knew was that Lydia was upset and crying, Mr. Muliko was not able to handle the situation and went to get the deputy headteacher to come and handle this situation.
By the time we got to the parade ground, a mere 2 minutes walk from the class, rumours were rife!
“Maybe her mom died!” posited one girl.
“No. I think she didn’t finish her homework”
“What if she didn’t pass her math exam and the teachers want to deal with her squarely away from all of us?”
“Wait, what if she is the only one that passed and she has been left in the class, crying tears of joy while the rest of us failed and are being herded to our own massacre?”
Everyone had their own idea and everyone wanted to be right.
20 minutes later, the headmistress and our class master came down to where we were standing, both looking grim and tight-lipped.
“Well, today we die!” I thought to myself. I was envisioning the mother of all beatings. Our teachers were moving suspiciously. Like one would move when they knew they were about to ]give your backside a proper thrashing. I was so scared I started feeling pressed and constipated all at the same time.
“All the girls come with me!” The headmistress said and started walking back toward the classroom.
All the girls followed her, some of them balancing tears, fearing the worst.
The boys were left with our class master and much to our surprise, he went, got a ball and ushered us into the field to play a soccer game.
Naturally, we were confused.
We played maybe 30 minutes of soccer before we were called back into class, once again back with the girls. This whole time, we were so sure all the girls had failed their test and were being thoroughly worked on while the guys; all of us smart people were rewarded with a game of soccer.
Nothing was said to us about the incident earlier. The day went on as though nothing had happened.
On our way home that day, we each found a girl willing to tell us what happened and were sorely disappointed when they told us all they got was a talking-to.
The girls had been asked to go back to class to receive “The Talk”.
Apparently what had happened was that Lydia had her first menses.
This is the story of one too many young boys in our African culture. Menstruation is considered a conversation to be had with young girls and even then, only when it cannot be avoided.
We think this is a very shortsighted approach because, when they may just be boys, they will most probably be fathers in the future. Having boys and subsequently, men who are not able to have candid conversations with their daughters about the changes of teenagehood is a recipe for disaster.
We think all people MUST be involved in the menstruation agenda and conversation. Equipping all our young people in time is the best way to tackle the issue of period shaming.
When a young man is able to help his female classmate when she is disadvantaged like young Lydia was, that there is the exact definition of a WIN!
Menstruation is normal and MUST be normalized.
Both young and old, male and female, must be squarely involved in local, regional, and global efforts to fight period shaming and end period poverty.
It was not until I started dating that my first girlfriend, who had been brought up in a more progressive environment taught me how to treat menstruation normally. She taught me how to buy a sanitary towel. Taught me the difference between sanitary towels and tampons and explained to me how they both work.
I am now capable of walking into a supermarket or going to a shop and buying sanitary towels comfortably, without feeling weird and uncomfortable.
However, for me, it had to be an intentional concerted effort to get it right and I learned when I was much older than was necessary. My dream is that young men, still in their formative years are introduced to this conversation and taught how to treat it normally. That is the only way we can WIN.
Empower the girl child. Transform the future. Join Us4Her today!
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