Olufuko in the time of feminism

I had the distinct pleasure of finally going to the north and witnessing Olufuko last week, during the week-long celebrations held in Outapi, in the Omusati Region.
Olufuko recently became the talk of the nation after Maria Nepembe became the face of the event, begging the questions, ‘What is Olufuko’ and ‘Why did they choose Maria?’
Both of those questions were answered, although only at the end of my trip, and Olufuko as far as I am convinced, and according to what I have seen, is still a culturally relevant practice that has historical roots in the emancipation of a woman, or a girl child, as an independent and ‘ready’ entity that can fend for herself, her family and community.
When you drive to the festival, you might think that you are at the Windhoek showgrounds, taken the jumping castles and ice-cream stalls that decorate the area near the entrance gate.
A quick walk down to the left of the compound will bring you face to face with the kraal where the brides (Olufuko) are given their rites of passage. Entering the kraal is not only visually stimulating, but there is a sense of secrecy and historical burden resting on the shoulders of all those that enter for whatever purpose.
Like many young people from the small urban ‘jungles’ of Namibia, I too was wondering whether Olufuko was not a process that is meant to exploit young women, putting them at the mercy of pot-bellied old men, that were looking to catch a break from the mother of children, to make wrong with a younger version of the woman he had wed years before that.
I had deep, restless questions about Olufuko, especially in this time where we are more openly, and intentionally discussing how it is that we can emancipate women from servitude and truly bring them, or they themselves, into the 21st century.
A friend and I both walked into the kraal where the brides are kept, and seconds later we both noticed that we were walking more upright and acting through a heightened masculinity, both in mannerism and in energy. At first encounter, there is an overwhelming sense that the space is meant to continue to facilitate the process of continuing bloodline, and not so much a peep show for pervs, although I don’t think that would stop a perv from peeking.
Inside, there are girls, many of them, I am told a little over a 100, the youngest one 14 and the eldest 24. These girls have been brought here by their parents, or guardians, and are here to be taken through a process that isn’t really clear, to my surprise, to most young Oshiwambo-speaking people even.
The fear that emanates from the eyes of the older ladies doesn’t readily want to make you walk up to them and ask ‘what the hell is going on here?’ in either broken Oshiwambo, or that useless Capetonian accent that I employ in places like Windhoek.
After walking around for a little while, and as the heavens would have it, I stumbled upon a young researcher from Unam who took the time to sit down and explain Olufuko to me, in a way that would make sense to a modern-day young person, grappling between, for instance, Christianity and respect for cultural practices and their role in modern society.
As most might know, the conversation around Olufuko, has recently taken a feminist turn, where people are questioning whether the practice still has cultural relevance in our society, and whether girls should have their bare chests exposed in front of men that might well be three time their age.
The Unam researcher gave some perspective on Olufuko, granted that she was there to do research on the event, record the comments of the parents, the brides and others that came to witness the process.
Here is what she shared with The Zone:

Origins
It is said that the rise of the event came about as a result of mediating the abuse that women who had children out of wedlock had to go through, taken that once a woman had a child before marriage, she was burned at the stake to death in Oshiwambo, as if she were a witch.
Even in instances where the woman was kept alive, had she had children before wedlock, her first two children were killed to ‘cleanse’ the woman so that a man could now be with her.
“That is one of the main reasons that Olufuko came to be; to teach girls how to be a mother, a put-together woman and a respectable and contributing member of her community,” the researcher shared.

Olufuko in August
It also came to light in the conversation with the researcher that the Olufuko in Outapi is the one that is publicly attended. There are others that take part in the far reaches of the north, close to the Angolan border, where the same lessons are taught, obviously varying from clan to clan, but also serving the same function.
“During the time that the missionaries arrived here, they were trying to get Olufuko to stop, and with the men, the initiation processes were completely wiped out, and therefore today we don’t see an ‘Olufuko’ for me. The practice predominantly survived because the missionaries did not operate along the border so people could take their cultural practices there and practice them in liberty,” she divulged.

Why Olufuko?
“We have traditionally passed on knowledge through stories and verbal teaching and Olufuko is no different from that. We have to teach cultural practices and roles that women play in traditional communities, and how it is that her mother raised her children and ran her house,” the researcher shared.
That according to another woman that The Zone spoke to, this is the reason that Olufuko exists in the first place.
Olufuko as a tool
There are many people that think that Olufuko is one of those archaeic practices that are meant to objectify women and girls, and have them married off at a young age. The Unam researcher says that the opposite is true; “These girls are taught how to be independent and do things for themselves, as the knowledge is passed on from mother or initiator, to the girl, creating the sense that she can do anything for herself, if she navigates the world according to the things taught,” she said. “This isn’t meant to oppress women, and that should be understood. Any mother wants her daughter to be happy and if she wants to pass on that knowledge then she should be able to.”
Although the practice might be strange to some, there is no denying that it plays a role in the lives of the people that still practice it. Some of these cultures and stories are lost to history and time, but there is a growing sense that we need to hold on to the customs that teach us about the past and give us a compass to navigate the future. Olufuko seems to be one of them, and from the little I’ve learned, we should be encouraging and embracing these customs.

Keith Vries