An Interview with Gigi Louisa, LGBQ Activist in Kenya
“In Kenya, I always have to be careful. Because I’m attracted to women, because of the work I do, and just because I am a woman. I can be attacked at any time—on the street or in my own house. Or I can be arrested on bogus charges. Anyone who is with me is also at risk. So what do you do? Do you bow down, give in to your fears? Not me. This must change.”
Gigi Louisa, a passionate activist from Kenya, is a woman on a mission. She is fighting for equal rights for sexual minorities in Kenya.
Trouble-Making Skills
“I keep having to explain myself. People think I’ve been hurt by too many men, so I decided to become a lesbian. Or they think I just haven’t had good sex, so I became a lesbian. Or I’m simply a strong-headed feminist, and no man will have me, so I became a lesbian.
A while ago, I went to the doctor for a routine Pap smear. He said: ‘Oh, come on nurses, come see, we have a lesbian! Explain to us how you have sex.’ It’s crazy and humiliating. And we’re not just dealing with misconceptions—there’s also a lot of violence and aggression.”
“I was never the quiet type. My trouble-making skills started way back. The little time I spent in college was at a religious institution. They told me not to be too radical during discussions on important subjects. They also told me to cover my tattoos and not to wear my piercings.
Then one day, when we got our essays on human rights issues back, mine was returned unmarked. ‘You’ll have to start over,’ they said. ‘Gay rights are not human rights.’ That’s when I knew I really had to do something.” The activist in Gigi had awakened.
People Like Me
“I was still completely naïve. I knew I had these feelings, but I didn’t know anyone else who was gay. So I went online and Googled ‘gay people in Kenya.’ One of the first search results was GALCK—the Gay and Lesbian Coalition of Kenya. It said, ‘Contact us.’
I didn’t have a cell phone, so I went outside to a shop where you give the number and some money to a lady, and she places the call for you. I was so scared, I didn’t dare to use the word ‘lesbian.’ You can imagine—it was a strange conversation. I said something like: ‘I think I’d be interested in visiting your organization. I think you are there for… people like me. Should we meet?’
I was invited to a movie night. When I got there, I was amazed. I’d never seen a group of queer people together, and there were so many of them! Soon after that, I started volunteering for one of the organizations under GALCK, called Minority Women in Action (MWA), where my career in SOGIE rights officially began.”
Taking the World by Storm
“GALCK unites 16 organizations from across the country. I am now an assistant programs officer at GALCK and director of Minority Women in Action, one of the 16 members. I’m proud to say our team has made progress.
When I started, the community had almost shriveled up—nothing was happening. Meanwhile, issues like increasing alcohol and drug abuse and intimate partner violence were clearly present among LBQs. There was a painful sense of aloneness.
I said: ‘We have to reconvene. We need to create a space where LBQs can come together, have a barbecue, watch a movie, and share our experiences.’ After about two years, membership has doubled, and we’re taking the world by storm.
We’re now focusing primarily on sexual and reproductive health rights. It’s almost impossible for a gay couple to have a child in Kenya due to the laws criminalizing same-sex couples. Lesbians will generally say the father has left the mother and baby—it’s easier and safer than telling the truth. Women also need a pseudo-dad to register the child for school, housing, medical care, and more.”
“I’m just a simple girl from a non-privileged background. I only had one year of college, no official training, no certificates. Everything I know, I’ve learned on the job. On the other hand, you could argue that my energy is better spent here than in school. Either way, this is the work I’ve chosen. And because of it, I will never have a career outside the human rights movement. No corporate employer will hire me.”
Full of Hate
“We are still a long way from acceptance in Kenya. Some of my friends are great activists, but they break down completely when they come out to their parents and are disowned. Their families are so full of hate.
In Nairobi, there’s literally one bar I can go to. In rural areas, the stigma is even greater. There are huge cultural and religious boundaries we need to break through.”
“When my mother found out I’m gay, her instinctive response was fear and rage. She didn’t see how I could be so selfish and was afraid someone would harm or kill me. The way we’re raised, you don’t talk back to your parents. So I ran.
After about three months, I got the courage to sit her down and talk to her. I tried to make her see things from my perspective. And she listened. Now, she’s come to understand that being gay is not a choice. But you see, the fact that my mother accepts me means I’m privileged. And that, of course, is not okay.”
Social Change
In Out and About, the film shown on Saturday, 11 March, at the Roze Filmdagen, we see Gigi’s mother saying: “She is exactly the same girl. She just has a different sexuality.” She also tells her daughter to stop lying about her work and her partner and come out to the rest of the family. “They have always loved you, and they always will.”
It was an emotional moment for Gigi. “We had never talked about telling my relatives. It was a big hurdle for me, and it made me feel so much better to hear my mother say that.”
When Gigi was asked to be in a documentary about the parents of people who had come out in Russia, Indonesia, and Kenya, she immediately said yes. “Then I called my mom and asked her if she was willing to participate. I explained it was risky. I’m used to mitigating those risks daily—she is not. But she said: ‘Back then, when women had no rights at all, it took brave ladies to generate change. Somebody always has to take the first leap. So let me speak up.’
I’m so proud of her. Even though the film is hush-hush and difficult to show in Kenya and other countries, my mother is now helping us make a difference.”
Platform for Parents
By letting the parents speak, the filmmakers touched on an important theme. “In South Africa, for instance, the system looks good, but social acceptance is low. That’s still dangerous. I think social change needs to go hand in hand with legal and administrative change.
What we really need in Kenya is a platform for parents of LBQ children—a safe space where they can meet other parents facing the same challenges. If parents can talk to parents, family to family, that’s where change will begin.”
Just Some Happiness
Where does Gigi see herself five or ten years from now?
“I’m 28 now. In five years, I’d like to pass my strength on to the next wave of leaders. Personal and professional strength—for they will need it. We’ll need young people full of energy and idealism to carry the torch. I’d like to step back and raise a family. Live on a farm with some cows and goats, together with my partner and children.”
“Ten years from now, I hope there will be some equality. I just want happiness for my mother, my friends, my community, and myself. Even if we haven’t reached all our goals by then, I hope the movement is still going strong, working together.
There’s a saying I like: ‘If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.’”
When asked if her dream includes her children celebrating her life one day, saying: “This was our mother. She was on the frontline, fighting for what she believed in,” Gigi smiles silently.
“That would be the happiest dream because it would mean everything had worked out. It would mean justice.”
