Pregnant 14 year olds and the Adultification of Black girls

School pregnancy shock
Pic: Esa Alexander

“Apho ndikufuma khona” was uttered to me at nine years of age. At that age I understood that my body had become a sexually violatable space.  These and other comments I grew up hearing from both older men and older boys signalling to me that my body had become not only sexually desirable but sexually available – even against my will.

I was nine when I first realised that I was sexually desirable to men. I was younger when my mother began disciplining me for how I set, crossed my legs, what I wore and how I used my body. By used I mean how I played and who I played with. I cannot remember a time when my body was not being policed by the women in my family. From my aunts to my mother, my body was always under surveillance.

These were the thoughts that came to me when twitter went into an uproar around the pregnancy of a 14 year old. Predictably it was not the man – rumoured to be a 24 year old – who was being shamed for impregnating a girl-child.

 “Wa’phapha”, “these teens are enjoying sex like adults”, “no she wasn’t raped because she wasn’t forced”.

Black girls are adultified – projected as older than they are – from as young as 5 years old[1]. We are projected as more sexually mature resulting in our exploitation and abuse by older men from a young age. Black women and girls lose their innocence sooner resulting in them having to “mature” at an early age, depriving us of important developmental milestones. Additionally young Black girls don’t get to sexually experiment with our peers – in healthy and protected spaces. Yes sexual experimentation is a key part of teenage-hood which all children should be allowed to experience WITH THEIR PEERS.

Of course the ways in which the sexual assault and raping of young Black girls is justified is rooted in anti-blackness. Black women were not women in the “white woman” sense. In fact Black women became the oppositional representation of white womanhood. In simple terms, what white women were, Black woman (and girls) are not.

Whereas “white womanhood” is signified by purity (sexual and otherwise), piety, deference, domesticity, passionlessness, chasisty, cleanness and fragility, “Black womanhood” was characterised as primitive, lustful, seductive, physically strong, domineering, unwomanly and dirty.[2]

The characterisation of Black womanhood as outside the possibility of womanhood is rooted in an understanding of Black people as subhuman and incapable of possessing those attributes which make one essentially human i.e. human dignity. Essentially Black woman are seen as sexual objects and Black girls are viewed no differently.

Twitter comments around the pregnancy of a 14 year old Black girl predictably from Black men and women vehemently denied her the innocence of childhood and went further by denying her even the protection of the law. I rarely argue the use of the law as a measure of moral behaviour. However it is telling how high the levels of misgynoir rose as Black men and women denied a 14 year old Black girl the protection of the law.

Of course we may assume that the adultification of Black girls is harmless and is limited to families and individual cases – after all teenage pregnancies are older than our democracy.

pregnant teen school
Pic: Namibian Broadcasting Corporation

In 2013 the Constitutional Court found school policies which discriminated against pregnant learners – who were always young girl-children – unconstitutional.[3] Pregnant learners are excluded from school and invariably end up dropping out of school as a result of school policies which make their return to school difficult. Discriminatory practices against pregnant high school girls include the suspension from school of pregnant learners; refusal by the school to provide pregnant learners with homework or tasks while away; requiring pregnant learners to pay a deposit to the school in case of medical emergency; telling students they may not attend school without a parent or someone responsible for them; schools refusing to provide “catch-up” plans for students who have been away due to birth.

Black girls who fall pregnant experience a high drop-out rate due to various discriminatory and shaming practices. The education of the girl-child is the first to be compromised when she gets pregnant. The father – who is sometimes a teacher in the school is rarely called to account. This is because the characterisation of Black girls as “onopatazana”/”onondachazana” deprives them of the innocence of childhood and the protections afforded to the young.

Protect Black girl-children

Black girl children need our protection. We need to not only defend their innocence but we need to defend their right as children to make mistakes and not have childhood mistakes impact on their economic opportunities as adults. Black girl children need our protection because they too deserve to enjoy the full experience of childhood.

[1] Womens Media Center “The Adultification of Black Girls”, available at

[2] Mahassen Mgadmi “Black Women’s Identity: Stereotypes, Respectability and Passionalessness (1890-1930), available at

[3] Head of Department, Department of Education, Free State Province v Welkom High School and Another; Head of Department of Education, free State province v Harmony High School and Another (CCT 103/12) [2013], available at

Apartheid’s Ghosts – Being Black and a woman in South Africa

when black women winI am a [Black] woman and a lesbian ―all three stand outside the realm of choice” – Audre Lorde

I am always interested in the ways in which Apartheid South Africa and its patriarchal systems continue to express themselves through their control of Black women’s bodies. How have systems we were told died in April 1994 continued to attach themselves onto our bodies, slip under our skirts, kidnap and rape us and lurk in lonely streets sitting with us in boardrooms and stick onto our lips like matte lipstick.

Every day I am surprised at the excruciating ordinariness of oppression. I am gobsmacked at the ways in which the past constantly pushes itself onto the present.  I felt this presence when I tried to explain to a friend why I do not, as a matter of policy, pick up to private-number calls. I attempted to explain to him the number of times I had , out of fear, given my number out to a strange man  – research shows that womxn only consider men to be strangers[1].

Ferial Haffajee argues, correctly, that Apartheid – racial oppression – and patriarchy – sexist systems of dominance – are twins.[2] I wanted to ask her what happens when one twin dies?

I remember my mother telling me my uncle, her younger brother had a twin who had died.. In my 8 year naiveté asking when she had died. She responded by saying, “Akutiwa iwele lishonile, kutiwa’liyoteza’. In my culture we recognise the connectedness of both twins, that the one is very much still in the present and impacts on the life of the living twin. To me this is how I conceive of Apartheid’s continued impact on my im/mobility. My body was controlled by both twins – racial oppression and its twin patriarchy.

Apartheid as disappearance

All systems of oppression are in essence systems of disappearance. They derive their legitimacy by disappearing the humanity of undesired populations. They render the oppressed as defective, undesirable and subhuman. Apartheid was not a single system signified by racial oppression, it was a collection of oppressions. Thus the disappearing of Black people accompanied the disappearing of womxn, the disabled, the Queers, the illiterate.

One of Apartheid’s central tenants was the designation of anything outside of white masculinity – particularly Black womanhood – as a position of complete “undesirability”. This meant the designation of Blackness and womanhood as subhuman. Segregation was not merely the designation of different space of racial occupation, segregation was the social designation of humanness[3]. In this matrix South African (Black) womxn literally did not exist. We were considered minors until 1984 when the Marriage Act abolished marital power. This largely applied to white women. Black womxn were understood as minors in customary marriages until 2000[4] and only gained full adult status in all marriages through the Customary Marriages Act. Gay men could not occupy a space two at a time nor show any affection which could be read as stimulating sexual passion or give sexual gratification[5] . These were the ways in which the Apartheid state sought to cleanse itself of the undesired, through their literal disappearance. To be unseen, unrecognisable, criminalised.

Apartheid’s spatial exclusion system was an allocation of humanity. Like feeding scheme rations, each race and gender were dehumanised in relation to its closeness to whiteness and masculinity. Thus the further away you were from whiteness and masculinity, the less human you became. Spatial exclusion also designated who could be violated without fear of legal punishment and– Black womxn, sex workers, lesbians and gay men being the categories of the most violatable.

Apartheid through law and social control rendered these categories of people as having less value.  Those who had value could exchange their value for social mobility through access to economic opportunity. White men had the most value and Black womxn the least.

In short Apartheid established networks of value depend on your proximity to whiteness and masculinity. It is these networks of value which still govern who is able to access public spaces and economic spaces.

Post-Apartheid South Africa promised freedom. However it merely removed the visible mechanisms of disappearing. Spatial exclusion is – particularly of womxn – still used to regulate womxn, particularly Black womxn. The ability for Black women to access mobility – accessing the public and accessing economic mobility – is still contingent on the networks of value established through Apartheid spatial exclusion.

Becoming Apartheid’s ghost – the disappearing Black womxn

  In 2016 I took an uber to work every morning and got an uber back home to my flat in Maboneng/ Jeppestown to JHB CBD every evening. Between work and home was a walkable distance of about 30 minutes. Had I been able to walk to work or take safe and reliable public transport without the fear of being raped, mugged, and kidnapped or all three, I would’ve done so.

But my entire existence is governed by fear, a fear grounded in the understanding that my life as a Black womxn is limited and severely under threat in South African streets.My life as a Black lesbian woman is limited because I exist outside the realm of white masculinity. I am Black and I am not a man. Even the option of using masiclinity as a shield – through making myself desirable to masculinity or have a man as a social shield are not possibilities for me.

 Because of this knowledge my life is a constant negotiation and dance of minimisation of the certainty of my death, rape, kidnapping or all three.

Every morning womxn across the country learn to disappear ourselves. Every day womxn find new ways to not occupy certain spaces, to avoid traveling to and from work at certain times. When we are unable to negotiate ourselves from traveling certain spaces at certain times we seek protection by asking co-workers, neighbours, siblings who are men to form a social shield by walking with us or waiting or taking us to taxi/bus stops.

The effect of our heightened awareness of how violable our bodies are is that we pushed into the home – the place patriarchy deems our natural place. We are forced to seek men as companions in order to afford us some level of protection. The effect of our fear is a deep understanding that we do not belong in the “public”, that a womxn’s place is in the home. In short womxn, particularly the most vulnerable womxn are rendered “unlawful” occupiers of public spaces. Every day we make ghosts of ourselves, we are Apartheid’s ghosts living breathing but never seen nor heard even when we scream in pain.

[1] Gill Valentine “The Geography of Women’s Fear” (1989) The Royal Geographical Society (with the Institute of British Geographers

[2] Ferial Haffajee “Family and feminism” in Jen Thorpe (ed) FEMINISM IS: SOUTH AFRICANS SPEAK THEIR TRUTH, page 53.

[3] Thus the definition of “Black” in section 12 of the Group Areas Act included “any woman married to or cohabiting with one who is or is accepted as a member of the aboriginal race or tribe of Africa,” or any white man married to or cohabiting with a Black woman.” Thus Blackness had the ability to “taint” whiteness, render it impure and thus of a lower level of humanness.

[4] Marital power in Black customary marriages was abolished through the Recognition of Customary Marriages Act 1998.

[5] Section 20A of the Immorality Act 1957

The economics of whiteness – Post- Apartheid democracy & Apartheid Futures

The land is oursThe South African accent is a peculiar thing – well not South African South African, we do have 11 constitutionally recognized languages. I mean the accent I, and many other 1980s kids who were part of the generation of young Black children entering former “whites only” schools in Post-Apartheid South Africa, have.

In London, I am thought to be Australian, once I was thought to be a working class private school educated Londoner. In the U.S I’m thought to be British – but I generally do not trust American geographical knowledge. I think the person heard a “not American accent and placed it in the only other place of relevance they knew”.

Whilst traveling through East Africa I was often thought of as well off. In Kenya where I somehow got mistaken for a Kenyan – I can only answer so many questions about South African Afrophobia –  I was thought to be a highly educated local activist.  At home I am just part of the many coconuts who are sometimes viewed with contempt because of my presumed “better than thou” attitude.

Proximity to whiteness as economic proximity

In all these areas my accent allows me the ability, however brief, to automatically be viewed as highly educated and/or well-off – I am not, all my travels have been financed through my former employers. My ability to mimic an aspect of whiteness – my accent –  allows me access to particular forms of privilege. It is this assumed privilege, rooted in perceptions of whiteness I want to interrogate. My argument is simply this. In order to answer the question of the land, South Africa will have to interrogate the conversion of whiteness into economic access.

Colonialism was not only about race but about economic advantage

the legacy of Colonialism is not mere racial categorizations. It was also the legal transference and regulation, through Apartheid of whiteness as property. By property I mean the literal conversion of whiteness into an access card allowing economic mobility  to white South Africans through the simultaneous exclusion of Black South African. The economic access provided by whiteness this is what our present constitutional democracy needs to address and undo.

In his book, The Land is Ours, the Peoples’ Advocate, Tembeka Ngcukaitobi tracks the foundations of South African constitutionalism. “Excavating the past from the ruins of Empire” he finds its roots in the Black intellectual legal thought which sought to challenge and undo the marginalising effects of colonialism and Apartheid.

In Part I of his book he traces how the land was lost – or more bluntly was stolen – from the indigenous peoples. Throughout this part of the book I kept wondering “why don’t you just say it!!!”, It’s right there!!  Although Advocate Ngcukaitobi does a beautiful job tracing the anti-Blackness central pillar of colonialism. The book fails to unpack how the taking resulted in the conversion of whiteness, a racial identity into a property interest or into an economic access card which persists and sustains the continued economic disparity.

What would have been the possibilities had the book dealt with the convergence of whiteness into an economic resource? How would the book have dealt with the relative privilege its subjects enjoyed due to their proximity to whiteness.  The founding fathers of Black constitutionalism were only able to engage and challenge the colonial and Apartheid systems because they were embedded within it. Their engagement and revolt against the system was contingent on their ability to engage with the system in the ways it could understand them. Simply put what they did was a result of the various forms of proprietory whiteness they had acquired. It would’ve allowed us to interrogate the ways in which Black people have to mimic whiteness in order to gain economic access.

Whiteness, or in the case of his historical subjects, the ability of Black persons to mimic forms of whiteness results in access and economic mobility founded on the colonial mobilisation of educational systems which sought to create a population of noble-savages. The true goal of colonialism, as Ngcukaitobi notes, was not total obliteration of the native population, this would have eliminated the cheap labour they needed to mine gold, clean their houses, raise their children and wash their laundry. Rather the goal of colonialism was the conversion the ‘natives’ into a malleable work force which understood instructions and were resigned to working as indentured servants.

Living in a Post-Apartheid democracy with Apartheid futures

Apartheid not only conferred legal recognition to the social racial relations which colonialism had already established but sought to infuse whiteness with a legal legitimacy. It is this legitimacy which has created “invisible” networks of privilege which allow white South Africans to a network of advantages not open to Black South Africans. In other words, Apartheid ensured a continued proprietory interest is invested whiteness – the ability of whiteness to allow automatic economic access and mobility to its owners – white people – was recognized and cemented into law.

Thus Black  access to economic mobility is premised on mimicking whiteness in important ways. And this is what the historical subjects in Ncukaitobi’s book had, the ability to leverage their access to whiteness for justice. It doesn’t change the historical accounts in the book, but might perhaps have changed how we view the continued work of the constitution in present day South Africa.

The economic access granted by our mimicry of whiteness impacts our experiences today, it even impacts on our ability to access the legal system. Everyday social interactions become exhausting mitigations of racial violence. It evident in how the waiter treats you differently in the company of your white friends, it is evident in how Black children who attend former “whites only” schools have better chances at educational and economic mobility. It is evident in how a Black person’s accent allows them to become the “trusted Black” in corporate spaces. Whiteness means access. Of course there are limits to this access. It is evident in who is able to head to the courts to claim rights and who we are represented by – hello Afriforum!!

As a Black South African today, and even the historical subjects of Adv Ngcukaitobi attest, there are limits to what y(our) ability – as a Black people– can allow us access to. Its limitations range from individual exclusion – obtaining an apartment in Cape Town to systematic exclusions against the heavy burdens of Black disadvantage or Black tax.

I cannot help but wonder what would the implications had Advocate Ngcukaitobi’s book dealt with this conversion of whiteness into a proprietory interest manifesting in continued economic exclusion I wonder how the book would’ve asked us to examine our current democratic present and the role of the constitution within it.



CI Harris “Whiteness as property ” (1993) Harvard Law Review