(John McCann/M&G)
Late last year, I received a letter from Purposeful, a feminist hub for girl-activism rooted in Africa, informing me that I had been selected as a recipient of their inaugural Feminist Scholar award of $50 000. The award was to enable me to have space and time to focus on my next book “away from the burdens of institutional fundraising or commercial income generation”, and to be able to centre working with girls as an intentional part of my process.
Best of all was that this award came with no strings attached — and no requirement to account for how I spend the money or the need to submit a narrative report. Their one ask was that I participate in a reflection and presentation session around the six and 12-month periods.
“Yesssssss,” I hastily typed back. “I accept this award. I have no words. I will write back again when I am more composed.”
I remember calling my mum afterwards and explaining to her that the organisation that had previously invited me to Sierra Leone to run a workshop for young girls around sex, sexualities and the body had so much trust in what I do that they had decided to support me so that I could focus on my next book. She struggled to believe me. “What do they want you to do for them?” she asked, “Nothing, Mum. They don’t want me to do anything. They just think the work that I do is important.”
It took a while for my parents to see my work — speaking up about sex and sexualities, often revealing intimate details of my own sex life in the process — as something worth doing. This started to change when I began to get public recognition, although their fears (in the case of my mum who is now my only surviving parent) still continue for very different reasons. Recently I proudly shared with her a feature of myself by a prominent Western media publication and what she picked up on was that I had been described as Queer, which made her anxious because of the draconian anti-gay bill that is going through the Ghanaian parliamentary system.
I feel privileged that an African-based organisation has seen my work as worthy of being supported. Recognition always feels more special to me when it comes from “home”, and I would like more philanthropic organisations, especially black, and African ones, to step up and meaningfully support artists whose work sparks social change and justice.
And herein lies the rub. It is way too difficult for black artists and activists, who are also a valuable part of the ecosystem of black feminist movements, to access resources. Philanthropy as a sector is traditionally staid and unimaginative. Anyone who has had to apply for a grant knows that the process can be soul destroying.
Traditional donors usually have a long list of requirements. Proving that you’re a registered non-governmental organisation, having at least three years of audited reports and submitting application forms online in colonial languages (usually English) are only a few of the hoops that people have to jump through to prove that they are worthy of having their work supported.
These requirements stifle the most creative forms of activism or, at minimum, mean that artivists struggle to access much-needed resources to do their best work. This is particularly the case for black women, trans and gender non-conforming people as new research by the Black Feminist Fund shows. Cynthia Eyakuze, a researcher and co-contributor to “Where is the money for Black feminists” speaks to the “trust gap” that black feminist movements face and the challenges they have accessing resources for that reason.
She further highlights that: “There are many ways that biases show up and are experienced in funding, from perceptions about capacity and risk, to opaque processes, to accessibility of funders and funding opportunities, funder proximity to certain organisations, coupled with distance from marginalised contexts and communities, and burdensome application and reporting requirements. We must be clear that these barriers are not essential technical barriers for due diligence, but rather systemic barriers rooted in white supremacy that come from the ‘civilising’ and ‘charity’ roots of development and philanthropy.”
As someone who has worked in and been affiliated with the NGO sector for close to two decades, I am aware of the strict and stringent funding application processes, as well as the onerous reporting requirements that come into play when you manage to access resources to support your activism. For this reason, I have personally never applied for funding to support the work I do around sexual rights unless the donor has explicitly approached me and expressed an interest in supporting my work.
This means some of the projects I have initiated, including Adventures from the Bedrooms of African Women and the Abena Korantemaa Oral History Prize, have stayed fairly small because they have either been fully supported by myself, family and friends (in the case of the latter, for instance) or have only one donor (in the case of the former), which means the work is also subsidised heavily by the labour of my co-founder Malaka Grant and I, as well as our small team of staff and volunteers.
Just imagine how much inspirational creative work could bloom if artivists were deeply resourced. Just imagine how much the world would change if people saw themselves fully reflected in books, films and art in their full diversity.
Since I published my book The Sex Lives of African Women, people have often asked me what kind of reaction I have had to it, especially on the continent, where same-sex relationships are often criminalised under laws that stem from the colonial era. I always share what the most consistent feedback has been. Queer people DMing me, and saying something along the lines of, “I have never felt so seen before.”
Just imagine a world where we all feel seen. The arts across the spectrum — literature, music, film, theatre, poetry, dance — have the strongest potential to move hearts and minds towards a better world. One in which we live in synergy with each other and in ways which preserve the planet for the generations to come.
The views expressed are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the Mail & Guardian.