Rest At The Feminist Forum

I can’t tell you much about this year’s African Feminist Forum (AFF).

But, for now, I can tell you about one room.
It’s not the one where feminists from all over the continent reflected on the ever-eroded rights of women, girls and our queer siblings.

It isn’t where African feminists imagined a future in which all women, girls and our queer siblings have inviolable bodily autonomy as they live freely and safe from harm.

Neither is it the space in which one activist advocated for joy, asking boldly, deliciously: “What’s the point of revolution if we can’t dance?”

No, this room is much quieter. Tucked away in the Windhoek hotel that hosted the three-day AFF from 10 to 12 August, this room was concerned with something similarly radical.

Rest.

As I pause with my hand hovering over the door handle, I see the room has a request: “Please be gentle with the door (and yourself).” Inside, the carefully curated space mimics twilight. The lights are low, the smell is of lavender and each word is whispered.

After the sound and sorrow, the tears and the testimony that has coloured the last few hours of the forum, the sudden hush is like a hug. I lean in.

A caregiver places some lavender oil in my open palms and encourages me to cup my hands to my face and breathe deeply.

Woven baskets anticipate aches and period pains and are filled with all things sanitary and soothing.

Watermelon tea is ready to be brewed. Candles wait to be lit, and long stretches of Ondelela fabric help demarcate the space into little islands of rejuvenation.

I can feel the flu that has been plaguing Windhoek (emboldened by the cold snap currently baffling our heat-seeking international guests) gaining momentum at the back of my throat.

So, I pop an effervescent immune booster into a bottle of water and watch the bubbles cartwheel and fizz.

The forum hums on in chambers that seem a world away and I worry that I’m being too indulgent. A sign towards the back of the room anticipates this guilt, this pressure to press on despite needing a break and tells me: “You are worthy of love, rest, joy, vitamins”.

So, I down my fizzy vitamins in three big swigs, grab a fluffy blanket and two pillows and lie down on one of the many yoga mats laid out for just that purpose.

Next to me, a woman meditates. Two more are engaged in energy healing. Across the room, one of Namibia’s leading feminist activists speaks quietly to a wellness facilitator. The day before she was dancing, singing and offering blessings to the feminists making their way into the forum.

The elder has known me a long time and makes sure to smudge extra long streaks of ochre across my cheeks. I look ridiculous, perhaps too eager with a blush brush, but I don’t dare reduce my blessings.

She and I met years ago at a gathering protesting the murder, sexual and domestic violence that plagues Namibia’s women and girls, much of it perpetrated by men. Over the years, we’ve met at demonstrations that may as well be the first. Same story, different year.

Year upon year upon year.

When the elder and I first met, I marvelled at her greying hair, her gravitas and the fact that she was still protesting out in the street. She told me then what she would probably tell me now, that the work is not done.

A report published by The Namibian on 3 August says the Namibian Police have recorded more than 18 500 cases of gender-based violence across the country during the 2025/26 financial year.

The work is not done.

But, for a moment, I watch our elder feminist activist as a caregiver leads her to the bed next to mine and gestures towards the space.

She notices me then, looking up at her with a tired smile. She takes my hand in hers, squeezes, says nothing and everything, and lies down.

After a few deep breaths – deeper than any I’ve heard before – she begins to snore.

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