Just a Body Part by Farah Ahamed

This short story by Farah Ahamed is set in Uganda in 2005, against the backdrop of a national debate on Eve Ensler's The Vagina Monologues — a 'foreign', 'feminist' text poised to enter the country, yet already infiltrating its people's politics. The story is written through the point of view of an unnamed Ugandan woman who, influenced by the roiling discourse around the play, reckons with the abusive reality of her relationship and her rights as an African woman.

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KAMPALA 
Sunday 5 February 2005
12.25 am 

‘The Vagina Monologues is going to educate the public. Why does the government have a problem?’ 

The female director being interviewed on the radio is infuriated.

‘It is just a play.’ 

I’m in bed waiting for Marc and listening to the radio. He’s late again. Instead of ‘Soothing Sounds’ on FM’s Late Hour, there’s a discussion about the government’s banning of The Vagina Monologues by Eve Ensler. The organisers of the play, an NGO, Akina Mama wa Afrika, are on air. 

‘But why does it have a title like that?’ the male radio host replies. ‘This is Uganda, we are not used to such words.’ 

‘Which word?’ the director asks. ‘Say it directly, don’t go beating around the bush.’ 

‘Ah no, me I can’t repeat it. But it’s very upsetting,’ the host says. ‘Some would argue it’s obscene.’ 

‘Why do you focus on small details? Can’t you see the bigger picture?’ the director answers back. ‘Ensler interviewed hundreds of women about their experiences of violence. They told her about female genital mutilation, sexual harassment, rape, incest, and domestic battering. It’s time we talk about that.’ 

‘Maybe,’ the host replies. ‘But that title is not one we Ugandans appreciate. We don’t condone pornography.’ 

‘We’re discussing violence against women and now you’ve just called it porn. This is the problem with Ugandans … ’ 

‘Let’s take a break now. Listeners, stay tuned for more on the latest scandal hitting the streets of Kampala. We’re talking to the director of Akina Mama wa Afrika.’ 

The advertisement refrain for Sleeping Baby starts to play. ‘ … the soap with a smell that soothes and nourishes.’ 

I pull the bed covers to my chin. Akina Mama wa Afrika means ‘solidarity amongst African women’. I don’t always show mine. I accept and conform. I do what’s expected of a good Ugandan woman. 

The radio host is back, and the discussion continues. Even at this late hour listeners are calling in to share their views. Some on the side of the government, others against. Whose side am I on? The host says he asked the Minister of State for Information and Broadcasting to comment on the play. He reads the Minister’s response. ‘This is a complex matter. Ugandans should be aware that the government is taking this play very seriously. We’re talking about cultural taboos, erosion of traditional values, modern immorality, and the abuse of freedom of speech. We can’t allow such unfavourable art forms. We’re meeting with the Office of the President and NGOs supporting human rights. The Cabinet will decide. We know what is best for Ugandans.’ 

The host adds his own take. 

‘Dear Listeners, take comfort knowing women’s rights are taken seriously by our government.’ 

I check the time. One o’clock. Still no sign of Marc. 

A man calls in and talks about how lucky Ugandans are, because we’re a progressive nation and ‘ … the government’s National Action Plan for Women, and the National Gender Policy upholds the rights of our women … ’ 

The host agrees. 

‘Indeed, we’re fortunate. In Uganda, constitutionally speaking, women are accorded full and equal dignity. There’s no doubt about that.’ 

A female caller disagrees. 

‘You men stop joking around. Women in Uganda aren’t equal to men. Everyone knows that. Just tell the truth and speak out. Let’s break this culture of pretending and silence.’ 

But the male caller insists. 

‘Please, we should not fall into these traps. Obviously, there’s an international conspiracy.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ the host asks. 

‘Clearly, the West wants to corrupt our morality under the guise of gender liberation. This Ensler woman should be stopped from rocking the foundations of our culture. She’s obscene and pornographic. Soon, our decent women will be talking like her. We can’t allow it.’ 

A woman calls in and concurs. 

‘It’s true. Ensler is the ghost of Western values in disguise. We can’t let her eat away at the moral fabric of our society. This play isn’t art. It’s shameful and dirty. Are we so bored that we should allow it? Don’t we have better things to do?’ 

‘Never,’ a male voice says. ‘Never. We’ll never allow it.’ 

I’m surprised by the different reactions of the women. What about me, an obedient Ugandan woman? I want to see the play and decide for myself. It’s scheduled for 19 February at the Ndere Cultural Centre. Surely the government won’t ban it? They can’t do that. I’ll buy two tickets. It’s important for us to support women’s rights. But I’m not quite sure how those rights apply to me. Why am I so uneasy? The radio host says goodnight. I lie there waiting, listening to music. A car honks at the gate. 

5 am. Marc is home. 

I should pretend to be asleep; it would make things easier. But instead, I go downstairs to see Marc. 

He doesn’t give me a second glance and says he’s tired. I ask him why he’s so late and where he’s been. 

‘I don’t want to be interrogated,’ he says. 

We argue. He pushes me aside; I follow him to the bedroom. He turns and strikes me on the face. I stumble backwards from the impact. From the doorway, my face burning, I watch as he lies down on the bed and within minutes his snoring fills the room. 

A gecko crawls out from behind the lightly blowing curtain and makes its way across the wall behind the bed and stops just in the middle. 

Why do I have a feeling that I have betrayed myself and all other women? 

Monday 6 February 

At breakfast I ask Marc why he was so late the night before. He carries on eating his egg. I repeat my question. 

‘Where were you?’ 

‘Pass me the salt,’ he says, avoiding looking at me. 

‘Why did you hit me last night?’ 

He wipes his mouth with a napkin. 

‘I don’t know what to say. You know I didn’t mean to hurt you. You know I’d never do that.’ 

He does not look repentant. 

‘But where the hell were you, Marc? Who were you with?’ 

‘I’m tired of your paranoia. You need to relax. Go make me a cup of tea.’ From his tone I know the conversation is over. I am drained of energy. How many years can I keep asking the same thing? 

To change the mood, I tell him about the debate on the radio about The Vagina Monologues and Eve Ensler. 

From behind the newspaper, he says, ‘I don’t see what the big deal is. The whole thing’s bloody ridiculous.’ 

‘What’s ridiculous? Stories about women’s violence?’ I want to say this to him, but instead, I just sip my tea. I tell myself the kind of slap he gave me is commonplace, an everyday occurrence in Kampala. He’s right, a big fuss for nothing. 

Read the full piece here, free to access and download for the month of May 2026 only.

Cover image: Shirts of Salam by Thamizhpparithi Maari