I was seeing off my sister at the Inter-City bus terminus in Lusaka two weeks ago when I was subjected to an experience that I will not forget in a hurry.
I became an instant center of attraction when one of the call boys that hang around the station passed a disparaging comment on my pair of jeans. His friends immediately joined in with even more zeal than the instigator.
According to them, my jeans were too tight and would not be allowed at their station because they were “tired” of people like me who failed to believe they were Zambians. And then the names flowed; they called me a prostitute, a mobile grave that had taken too many men to Chingwere and many other unprintables.
I took the insults with as much dignity as a confronted criminal can manage. For in that space I was just that, a condemned woman that was getting what she deserved. Well, that was the impression I was given by my attackers and the audience they drew. I stood there, surrounded, outnumbered, scared and totally speechless. No one came to my rescue, not a man, not a fellow woman. Maybe to them, I was just one unfortunate person being humiliated or perhaps being ‘educated’ where my mother had ‘failed.’
And for me, that was the fact that stood out and the main reason I am sharing this with you today. Where was the communal spirit that we as a people are known for? The spirit that would not stand by and watch an out-numbered and intimidated person suffer at the hands of vulgarity. Where was the voice of reason? Just where did those call boys get the idea that they can tell people how to dress?
Is it perhaps from the silence that accompanied my public harassment; the silence that has accompanied the harassment of fellow women and girls for years? How realistic are we being as a people if we subject such personal things as choice of dress to public approval? Where exactly will we draw the line?
Today I am harassed for being a size 10 and wearing size 10 jeans and my attackers are applauded through public silence and inaction. Tomorrow who is to stop them from attacking me because I have combed my hair in an ‘unZambian’ way?
It is exactly things like this that really worry me. I worry about my poor children who have to grow up in a world where being vulgar has become an acceptable way of life, where common courtesy is becoming more redundant by the day.
The fact that I come from another home does not make me any less human or woman than your mothers, sisters, daughters and wives. The respect you would like the world to show them is the same respect my brother, father and husband desire for me. And no, there is absolutely no such thing as deserving vulgarity or asking for it.
My tight jeans are not an invitation to spite me and judge me, they are not an invitation to question my morals and tear my dignity to shreds. My jeans, skirt, dress- whatever shape or size is not an invitation to rape me physically or with words.My clothes are an expression of my taste, an extension of my personality, should that too be subject to popular vote? Who exactly will be the judge?