They say (I don’t know who) black women go back to school when they feel bored. Well, I went back to school because I wanted my words to be taken seriously when I speak (or I thought). My coursework was done, and my thesis progress was stalling as I waited for my supervisor to give me feedback on our due-to-be published paper. I needed an amusement to un-stuck my bored mind. Luckily, there are all these WhatsApp groups in my phone that I don’t contribute much, but like to scroll through. Mostly, looking for juicy fights between members, if I’m being honest. One post from this WhatsApp group for writers caught my eye. There was going to be a book signing, a collaboration among several writers. It was a digital poster. Beautiful and eye-catching. With names of all the authors. Each author, a name and their initials. I felt a clenching in my heart. Jealousy perhaps? I wanted that. Seeing my name attached to my written achievement, out there in the world, on a beautiful poster-canvas. The names stood out to me more than the book’s title. I happened to know one of the authors. We had met in several writers’ meet-ups, both amateurs trying to get published. He was finally getting his day.
As I continued to zoom into the poster, a thought crossed my mind. With your name out like that, on a good-enough-to-be-published literary work, who wouldn’t feel important? I knew I wanted that. To be acknowledged. To be published. To see my name out like that. My parents would be happy. At least, I would have something worth all the private schools they had sent me. I too would be happy. Happy to immortalize myself and my name. I decided I’ll go to the book signing. After all, I needed to distract myself from my many failed attempts to get published. Don’t get confused, I was going to get published for sure, a paper as part of my postgraduate program. I am talking about my many rejected stories.
That morning of the event day, I looked at the poster again. I wanted to memorize all the author’s names. I don’t know why, exactly, I wanted to do that. Admittedly, I have a tendency to start toxic tendencies for myself by myself. I guess attending events and being in rooms where people mentioned authors they knew like talking about their family members, while I only had a few names in my head, was starting to get to me. As an amateur writer, I went to many writers’ meetups, to learn, to network, to get seen, that’s what older authors told me to. I was also single. So, maybe, to meet people as well, or eat for free. But life isn’t free, and my over thinking mind was beginning to start paying the price for these free meals. More than often, I would find myself in rooms where somebody would randomly mention a name I’ve never heard of, and everyone’s face would light up, except mine. In some places, it felt like I was an arts major in a room full of medical doctors, having a conversation about the inner workings of the corona virus’s mutation process. Nobody told me this to my face except my over thinking mind. But, judging from the list of authors people knew, I believe, I was rightfully right to judge myself. Secretly, I felt embarrassed telling people that ‘I write’ while having a rather light reading weight. My light reading weight wasn’t because I didn’t have a bookshelf-house background growing up. It was the opposite. I actually did grow up around books. A lot of books. A lot of textbooks, and under typical Tanzanian parents from the working class. Who would see you immersed in a book with lots of cartoon images and un-promptly ask, “Is that going to be in exams?” Then, leave you to figure out what they meant. From the amount of books they bought, I was supposed to become a medical doctor by now. It’s still a wonder how they are so chill about me being a teacher and now a writer, but that’s for another day.
Going to this event was like an untold-to-me responsibility of some kind. My ‘friend’, the one author I knew, would have asked me why. Because the writer meet-ups brought me writer friends, some who would even DM me about these events. I felt expected to show up, and I showed up. When I walked into that event room that day, everything was the same. I mean, everything was how I would have expected a book signing event to look like, except for one thing, the people sitting at the front table. As usual, in my country, when it says the event will begin at a certain time, that always means, two hours after the mentioned time. Though I was almost an hour late, the MC was still waiting for their bodaboda guy at the MC’s house. That’s what I heard when I asked why the event hadn’t started yet. Yes, some days, I walk around carrying that much ridiculous audacity, such as arriving late and demanding to know why everything is late. We were served water bottles upon entering and told to network while the event would start soon! People looked happy networking. Some looked genuinely happy to see each other there. When I left my house, I had come to see the book and meet the authors. It immediately stopped to feel that way. Especially with that poster from WhatsApp group there, printed into a banner. Big, beautiful, and clear. The names of the authors highlighted with a hint of respect on their names. Something felt wrong.
My eyes kept going back to the front table. I was confused. The more I looked at the people sitting there, the more confusing it was to me. I had memorized all the names of the authors before leaving my house, and now, what was sitting there was the opposite of what I had in my head. A guy I don’t know, walked up to me and started going on about seeing me on Twitter. All the pictures I’d posted on Twitter flashed through my mind within seconds, trying to figure out which impression he might have of me. He said I was one of the boldest women online.
“I can’t wait to read some of your works someday”, he said.
His words cut deep in me. If only he knew. I managed to smile gracefully, hiding away whatever it was that my mind, or my heart, or both were trying to stupidly form inside me. He had a big grin on his face to meet me in person, and I didn’t have the heart to take that away from him. He kept going on and on about how there are so many issues about women in our societies that we don’t bring out enough.
“I’m all for women but sometimes you guys put yourselves behind from so many free opportunities like this?”
He was full on and ready to discuss women issues with me, I think. Don’t get me wrong, I am all for women. I am always like a magnet near a steel bar, drawn towards discussions about women’s issues, especially insensitive ones. But not at this event, my mind was busy. Too busy to respond. Also, this guy…there was something about him that was holding me from within, telling me not to engage. I kept smiling and agreeing with everything he said, mostly because he was annoyingly blocking my view of the front table.
We were not allowed to walk up to the front table yet. They had gone as far as to place those black rope-like thingies you would see in big museums around displays, to prevent people from getting too close. Just like the groom and the bride, there was a designated time for when we, the invited, could go shake the authors’ hands and take a picture with them. Or in this context, get their signatures. Whoever started this signature thing, probably had a very innocent mind that only saw the good in people. Making authors put their signatures on a lot of people’s books?! What if some of those signature seekers are signature thieves? I guess so far, no author has ever had to battle a signature thief, otherwise, the tradition would have been shut down by now. With all the distractions going on in that event room, my brain was still itching, because I hadn’t yet approached the front table.
Our water bottles had begun to finish when the biscuits started passing around. Finally, the MC walked in and began to rush everyone, just like they always do. It was hush hush everything. Part of the event was to discuss the book, hence we were able to at least engage the front table. I was meeting the book for the first time. I hadn’t read a single page. I had to buy one just so that I could be holding one in my hands, out of respect for the authors. But people kept contributing, taking from the stories in the book. I don’t know where all those people came from, or how they knew so much about the stories in the book. Because to me, the book just came out, or so I thought. I was out of place throughout the entire conversation, again! But I couldn’t leave. With the book now in my hands, its covers close-by like that, my itching brain itched even more. The book’s front cover was staring at me, with the names of all the authors sitting at the front table.
The event was up and about and done in a jiffy. And boom, lines were forming to get the author’s signatures. Next to them was that poster on a banner, with all their names on it. People were taking pictures with the authors and with the banner. The authors too were taking pictures of themselves next to their names on the banner. Everybody was all smiles, while I was all waits. I’m still not sure why it felt that important for me to memorize all the names. I definitely wanted to walk up there knowing the names of all the authors by heart. But there was something else about the names that stood out for me that day. Were they forced to put down their names like that? Was it their request? Was it the publisher’s choice? I wasn’t sure, but I wasn’t going to go home without at least trying to find out. So, I waited and waited. Patiently sitting on my chair, watching as people went to the front table to get some of the authors’ love then exited the front table. I waited for most people to finish. I waited for the formal part of the event to finish and the informal part to begin. Then, I walked up to them. To the authors at the front table. I had things in my mind, and those authors were going to hear them.
“How come the names do not match your faces?” was the first thing that came out of my mind.
I’m so glad I’m an adult now, and no longer required to be out in public with another adult. If I had a nickel for every time I just walked up to random people, who didn’t know me, and said the darnest thing ever, I would be a billionaire by now. My father used to say he was glad that when I was growing up there were less crazy-but-looking-sensible people like it is today, or else, he and mama would have run into major troubles, because of how unexpected and unfiltered my head and my mouth used to run. They don’t know I’m still the same. They don’t know the only difference now is, they don’t find out.
All the faces on that front table looked at me like the actual crazy person I was at that moment. There were four women and one man sitting at that table. But the names on the poster, on the big banner, read something like this; Adili A., Abdul B., Frank C. D., Muhammad E., Athumani J. F. So, I asked again,
“Can’t you see that the names on this poster don’t match the faces sitting on this table?”
I was serious. I don’t know if it was because I was exhausted. I’d been waiting on my supervisor who made me work around only his timetable. I’d been working at the office under a supervisor that I was more qualified for, but was paid under him. I don’t know what was it which was fuelling the annoying-ness I was feeling down to the taste buds in my tongue. I was dead serious. Somebody needed to explain to me, does a book come out with names on it that don’t directly reflect the author’s rightful genders? All the authors confusedly looked at the banner and looked back at me. Their faces said it all. I was tarnishing their beautiful day. Their dream had come true, and I was there to rain on it. That’s how I came off to them. Was I the crazy one in that room?
I went home that day with a heavy brain. Heavy with thoughts. Why does it have to be like that? Even I wasn’t sure of what I was complaining about, in my head. The whole thing felt off, that I knew. It felt odd. It felt flat. I went there excitedly looking forward to seeing the authors of the book. I was excited for them, perhaps jealous too, a little. I was looking forward to reading their book and taking pictures with them. Then maybe post them on my social media, to give them a shout out and free advertisement. It was supposed to be big and fun and distracting from my already messy life. Instead, it added another mountain on my list of mountains to tackle. I left that event feeling robbed. I didn’t lose anything, but I felt robbed of something that wasn’t even mine. I felt robbed. The feeling, if I could materialize it at that moment and sculpt it into a person, it would be a scammer, a corn artist who displays something shiny and good-looking, with an expensive tag on it, but a scam. I felt like there was this giant carrot hanging in front of me, and I was a hungry rabbit hoping to catch it, not knowing that the one hanging the carrot was enjoying the show where I ended up dead from starving. The book was now tainted. In my eyes, all the stories in it didn’t matter. Who started this? The question kept going in a circle in my head.
When I opened myself, after I had calmed down, my eyes popped. What I had said to the authors had followed me back home, through WhatsApp group chat. Yes, the same WhatsApp group chat that I saw the poster from. People were engaged in a heated debate. What do names mean? Whose name is more legitimate? A man’s or a woman’s? Apparently, many had heard the commotion I made in the event room, and they moved that commotion from that event’s space to a virtual space. I lied on my bed scrolling through messages after messages of people expressing their opinions on names. There were think-pieces being written and sent from the deepest rabbit holes out there. I didn’t even know rabbits could burrow that deep, all the way into the earth’s crust, because some of the think-pieces were just either from the deepest undiscovered corners of the earth’s interior or flat-out out of space. They made negative zero’s sense. The group was divided, fonts were formed, and masks were falling off of people’s faces. Some I would never have guessed they thought like that about something as ‘small’ as being born with different genitals. A few ladies and a man, who got branded the ‘bitter’ ones and a ‘simp’, sided with me. Some declared they were neutral, as if that’s even possible. Some demanded for things to stay the same, they quoted the Bible and the Qur’an, which soon evolved into threats of eternal fire or a curse. To whom were their demands directed towards? I don’t know. And some chose violence. Like this guy, whose number wasn’t saved on my phone, and had letters I couldn’t read for a username, started accusing me of hating my father and all men. How is wanting female authors to be published by their female given or chosen names, equals hating fathers? How are the two even related? I didn’t not respond, I just kept doing what I always do. I kept scrolling. It didn’t take long before finding out that my accuser was the same guy that had approached me during the event, claiming to find me such a bold woman.
I could not believe how interesting my night had suddenly turned out. One could write a whole book of fiction from the drama and shenanigans that transpired on that WhatsApp group that night. Some girl started getting called out that she was a liar, a fame feminist. They swore that she would change not just her name but her tribe too if a man proposed marriage to her. Is it possible to change a tribe? Some personal screenshots were posted. The entire world’s well-being was brought up. All over having female names upfront! I’ve watched strange fights in WhatsApp groups. I’ve witnessed bizarre explanations over trivial matters. That one was definitely one of them. I’m not branding it the most, I like to leave room for yet to surprise me. But that was definitely one of the unforgettable ones. I still chose not to engage. It was getting late but the fire in the group was getting fire-rer. At some point, it became clear that the fight was no longer about names, or me, but rather old vendettas and grudges between group members who knew each other, personally. I switched off my data and went to sleep. After all, my message had already been sent and delivered. At least that’s what I thought…
The next day I woke up to an email from my supervisor. The paper that I was supposed to publish was good to go, he said. I had been waiting for that feedback like period after one of those stupid weak moments. He, my supervisor, had gone ahead and finalized the finishing touch-ups, and had instructed that I go over everything to cross-check. This was something I needed to get up fast and work on immediately, because one thing about my supervisor, he was going to call at any moment, right after sending work. And will ghost you for months if he suspected you had not immediately got on it. See, my supervisor is a brilliant educator, according to his academic track record, which is honest. And I was a lucky student to be working under his guidance. I do admit that, if it wasn’t for him, my work would not have been as precise as it is now. He had worked with me through late nights and early morning, and I was all but grateful and thankful. But he had some not normal tendencies. He would ask me rather unusual questions whenever I failed to get something correct on the first trial. Questions like, if I was raised by house maids and was too spoiled. I used to find those questions odd, but with everything else going on in my life at that moment, he wasn’t the odd-est.
I read the entire thing and had nothing to improve besides a good job. However, my hands were heavy. I could not send that back. I didn’t have a comment to send back, but I did have a comment in me. See, the thing is, I came up with an entire research idea, all on my own, but he helped me structure it better. He taught me how to successfully, academically, and ethically conduct the research, but it was during my coursework which I paid for that service. Then I did the entire data collection and analysis, with his guidance. Again, a service I paid for with my fee. So, now that we were publishing a paper, I didn’t know how to feel about what I was looking at. It was now Him and me, instead of me and him, as the authors. Whose name was supposed to go first? Mine or his? But that wasn’t the only problem I was looking at. If the study was as good as he claimed it was, with my name written like that on the publication, how will readers know upon reading that the person who did this brilliant work was a woman? I was going to go out into the world as Adam HJ. People who were going to quote my work into their works, were going to quote me as Adam. I sat there, frozen, with my hand on the mouse and my eyes on my screen….
Just like the authors I had antagonized the day before, I too, was going to wait until my readers Googled my full name, or saw me face to face, to know that it had been a female the whole time. A small shame dropped in my bloodstream. I had made a commotion over nothing. I had made a commotion over something that even I couldn’t escape. I switched the data back on, my phone buzzed like a beehive. I opened my WhatsApp texts to find 102 SMS notifications from that WhatsApp group. Like the true hypocrite that I now knew I was, I held my thumb on the group and clicked the archive icon on top.
HALIMA JUMA ADAM, also known as Halima Geuya, is a school teacher, researcher, and creative writer whose work spans poetry, fiction, and children’s literature in English and Kiswahili. Her stories and poems have been published in various anthologies, including Writers Space Africa’s Death Edition and The Kalahari Review. Halima is passionate about promoting local representation in literature and is currently documenting the story of Li’tiKidanka, a woman who resisted German colonial invasion. Through her writing, she aims to challenge dominant narratives and inspire future generations.
