Disclaimer: Radio Workshop is produced for the ear and designed to be heard. If you are able, we strongly encourage you to listen to the audio, which includes emotion and emphasis that’s not on the page. Transcripts are generated using a combination of speech recognition software and human transcribers, and may contain errors. Please check the corresponding audio before quoting in print. The official record for Radio Workshop’s podcast stories is the audio.
Lesedi: Dating is complicated, and that’s not a new thing. It’s always been complicated, right? Because it asks so much of us, like putting your best foot forward, remembering to ask the other person questions, all while overcoming your fear of being judged and rejected. And then to add another layer of complication, well, modern dating, as in dating on the apps. Where messaging is instant, and then there’s all that reading into how long the other person takes to text back. It’s a lot. For anyone. But we all do it, because it’s fun and exciting and very human to want connection.
On the African continent, however, and in many other countries where queerness is criminalized, dating is even more complicated for LGBTQI+ people. But, you know, we find a way. Whether we’re seeking love, or just a little something. We navigate our options as best we can. This was certainly true for Tavo in Zimbabwe.
MUSIC
Tavo: So dating apps kind of put me through a rollercoaster of emotions, especially my gender identity.
Lesedi: Tavo is non-binary and uses they/them pronouns. In fact, all of the stories you’ll hear today are about queer folks on the African continent looking for love, community, or friendship. And that’s easier said than done. According to Amnesty International, sexual activity between two people of the same sex is criminalized in 31 countries in Africa.
In some places, it’s punishable by death. Still, despite all that, love calls out to all of us.
Tavo: When I discovered that there were apps like Grindr, Tinder, I hopped onto them so fast.
Lesedi: So, how do queer people use dating apps here in Africa? To find out, we’ve got four stories lined up from all over the continent. As you listen, just keep in mind that we have changed the names of many of the characters for their safety. I’m Lesedi Mogoatlhe, and this is Radio Workshop.
MUSIC
Lesedi: Let’s get back to Tavo for a second. They’re 21 now, but joined their first dating app at 16. Tavo was homeschooled and said that made it really hard to meet like-minded people.
Tavo: I always knew, like, other queer people existed, but then being in Zim, I’d be like, there’s no one out there. It’s an island.
Lesedi: For Tavo, dating apps weren’t just places to find love.They opened up a whole new world of queerness, and a place to feel less alone.
Tavo: I think I met my first friends on there.
Lesedi: In Zimbabwe, sex between two men is illegal. That’s not to say that queer women aren’t affected by homophobic laws and policies, but they aren’t as heavily enforced for women. It only takes one homophobic person outing you to the police and you could face 14 years imprisonment.
Still, queer folks in Zim know how to find each other. Many activists remain visible, and they create safe spaces for the community. But everybody knows being open and out is something you do with caution. Tavo says even on the apps, you have to be super careful.
MUSIC
Tavo: I put a username, and I put a meme on the profile picture in my age. I didn’t put a bio. I didn’t want to make my account specific. I guess that was the part of me being afraid of strangers, but still wanting to explore.
You can always find a few good people who might be your friends, who knows who might be your next lover or someone who might actually be your freedom from where you’re being. And also many people who have been taken out of tough situations by the people they meet online. So it’s not all bad.
MUSIC
Lesedi: Also reporting from Zimbabwe. Tanaka, a trans woman and podcast producer, tells us the story of a date that started out like most dates do, full of excitement and anticipation, well that is until things took an unexpected turn.
Tanaka: It was 2017 when I started chatting with Kaliba411. That’s what he called himself on the apps. He suggested we meet for drinks after work. I chose a low-key spot close to my place where I felt comfortable meeting with a stranger.
MUSIC
Of course, I made an effort to look and smell nice for our first date. As they say, first impressions matter. I arrived first around 7 p. m., ordered a drink, and I waited for him. He was using public transport and ended up being about 30 minutes late. When he arrived, I was taken by how he looked. He was tall, black, and handsome, with dreadlocks that fell just below his shoulders.
We greeted each other casually. This is Zimbabwe after all. We didn’t want anyone to catch on to the fact that this was a date. The general opinion towards all queer people are negative, so we are constantly finding ways to be discreet or create our own private spaces. In fact, I met this guy in a private Facebook dating group.
He called himself Kaliba411. Which wasn’t his real name, of course. I was 23 then, identifying as queer, now I identify as a trans woman. Kaliba told me he was in his 30s and he was gay. He was working in sales and marketing. He didn’t say what company he worked for, but I also didn’t care very much. I wasn’t looking for money. I was looking for love.
He was so flirty. But he was also very sweet and made me laugh. So after chatting for a while, we took our conversation to the DMs. The chemistry was undeniable. We eventually moved our chats from Facebook to WhatsApp. That’s when we really took things to another level. We talked more deeply and he liked to say bae a lot.
I liked that. I also liked that he paid attention and remembered what I’d said in previous conversations. But long story short, I liked him a lot. Our date was perfect. We talked, we drank, and we laughed until midnight. It was the best hangout ever. Since Kaliba didn’t have a car and public transport wasn’t available at that hour, he asked me if he could sleep over at my place.
We were high and drunk and I really didn’t want the night to end. I said yes without thinking twice. We agreed that he’d leave first thing in the morning.
MUSIC
We took a cab to my place and when we got home he offered to pay for the cab. I thought that was a gentlemanly gesture. I lived in a single room with its own entrance so it was easy to sneak him in without anyone noticing. My neighbors were very homophobic. And then when we got in, we made out a little [laughs].
Then I told him I was going to take a quick shower and I switched on the television so that he didn’t get bored while he waited. When I left him, he was looking for something to watch. I remember I took a 10 minute shower. I couldn’t wait to get out and continue our business. I got out of the shower and Kaliba was not on the couch where I’d left him.
I assumed he had stepped out to smoke. I remember searching for my phone just to check the time and I couldn’t find it. I checked to see if it was charging but my charger was gone. I think that’s when my heart started to race. I started to look around and then I noticed my jewellery box had been emptied.
It had necklaces and gold bangles and rings. That’s when it hit me. I was robbed. I immediately went outside to look for Kaliba, but he was nowhere to be found. I thought about reporting the theft to the cops, but the more I thought about it, the more I knew it was a terrible idea. The authorities commonly harass and re-victimize LGBTI persons in need of help.
Needless to say, I quickly realized that I had no safe space and it made me feel so alone. Plus I couldn’t call my friends to tell them what had happened, I had no phone. Of course, by the time I got a new phone, Kaliba was nowhere to be found. It was like he never existed. That incident happened a while back and it left a mark on me, but I will say, not enough to keep me off the apps.
Well, it’s like if a car gets into an accident, you don’t stop driving cars. It’s the same with apps. I had a terrible experience, but I still don’t know a better place to find friends, conversations, connections about queerism like I do on the apps. I’ve found a great community there.
MUSIC
Lesedi: Our next story is from Nigeria, where the Same-Sex Marriage Prohibition Act became law in 2014. It bans any gay marriage, even friends, family and supporters of queer equality can get arrested. This has pushed many LGBTQI+ Nigerians even further underground. As you can imagine, the idea of using a dating app in a country like Nigeria can be scary.
Our reporter Ayodeji says you never know who’s on the other side. And what that will lead to. So in this story, he introduces us to his friend, Jonathan, a mostly closeted gay man who had never used dating apps in Lagos. It just never felt safe to do so. But that all changed on a road trip to Ghana.
Ayodeji narration: There were four of us, Jonathan and I.
Jonathan: I don’t know if it was before or after the trip that we called the group Sex and the City.
There was another name. I think it was leading up onto the trip that we changed to Sex and the City.
Ayodeji narration: Then two other friends. A bisexual woman and a straight woman. We were all Nigerian. We met and became friends a year earlier at the Chale Wote Festival in Ghana.
After a hectic year, another trip to Ghana felt necessary. It started with a WhatsApp group chat.
Ayodeji: But I remember at the point we said, actually all of us say we’re all going to get laid. Like, oh, we’re going to live our best debaucherous lives on the street.
Ayodeji narration: Jonathan in particular had been through a lot.
He just quit a toxic job with bosses from hell. But most of all, Jonathan was battling with accepting his sexuality. He was 27. For the most part closeted, had barely dated. To make things worse, his brother had found out. Cue emotional torture. Sometimes, his brother would try to pressure him into finding a girl.
Other times, he would threaten to out Jonathan to their parents. Jonathan, in a nutshell, was stressed. I needed some reprieve.
MUSIC
Ayodeji: So, with regards to Accra, just what were you most looking forward to on this trip? Like, what was the best case scenario for you in your head?
Jonathan: Like, I was really looking forward to, like, okay, it’s an open space.
Like, I want to meet someone and just, like, you know, kick it to them sexually, romantically. It doesn’t have to, like, last long, right? But just to, you know, have that experience as well.
Ayodeji narration: In Accra, the four of us stayed together in an Airbnb. One morning, we had breakfast together around a large table. We invited some of our friends who live in Accra. It was loud and fun, and we talked about everything. From accepting yourself as queer, to coming out to your friends. We talked about first kisses, relationships, allyship, bisexuality, open relationships, everything.
Ayodeji: You said that conversation for you felt, it felt like it gave you permission.
Jonathan: So like seeing them be so free and so open in all of these conversations, right? And it just felt so much like a community, right? The conversations were deep, then shallow, then deep again.
Ayodeji narration: We eventually landed on dating apps. You know, finding love or romance, very rare, or just lust, more common. We swapped war stories on how dangerous using the app can be in the homophobic countries we live in. Jonathan listened more than he spoke. He was taking it all in. And then…
Jonathan: I think I can, like, express that I’ve never been on the app. And, you know, like, just my fears around it.
Ayodeji narration: Jonathan was right to be suspicious. When you use gay dating apps in Nigeria, Ghana, or anywhere where homophobia is the rule, you are at risk. You could be Keto’d. Keto’d is a kind of blackmail scam to trick and extort young queer people under the threat of being outed.
So Jonathan was right to be scared. And when you like, saw these stories or you read these stories, you kind of, it kind of like always leads back to, oh, like they met a person via the app, right? Outside Nigeria now, Jonathan still had his anxieties. But everyone was determined to help him make it easy. Whenever he had to meet someone, we would make sure that he wasn’t alone.
Jonathan: I downloaded his right there in everyone’s presence, actually. Set up like a profile and all of that, right? And the picture I used, I didn’t put my full face, but I took a picture with like a, um, jockstrap. And I think that was what I used for my profile picture.
Ayodeji narration: Later that week, we all went to a club together. It was the ideal situation for Jonathan to test out his new dating profile.
Jonathan: I was just going in and out of the app. I wasn’t really like expecting anything anymore and then this person clicked.
Ayodeji narration: We’re gonna call him the guy. They exchanged a few text messages.
Jonathan: The app showed that he was really close by. And I think we kind of like exchanged pictures. I was just excited about it, like, they looked okay.
Ayodeji narration: Then, the guy asked Jonathan to come meet him in the parking lot, which made him nervous. It was his first real match, so he turned to us, his friends.
Jonathan: And I had to show JT, I’m like, I just clicked with someone and they’re outside, and I don’t want to go by myself, and I showed E as well.
Ayodeji narration: JT and E are some of the friends from the house that had come with us to the club. E decides to accompany Jonathan to meet his first match. By the way, E is straight.
Jonathan: And that can like, felt really nice and, and we both walked outside and I saw the car and I opened the front door and I entered the passenger side and E stood by the door. He literally stood by the door.
Ayodeji narration: The date in the car did not last very long. It turned out the guy was on the down low, as in deeply closeted. He hesitated when he found out that Jonathan had Ghanaian friends. He was scared of being outed, you know, naturally. But a few hours later, he changed his mind. The guy was gonna take a chance on a short fling with Jonathan.
Jonathan: And then this person texts that, oh, he’s coming. That he’s gonna come. I sent him the address.
Ayodeji narration: There were five of us in the apartment and we made sure that Jonathan had everything he needed. We were very excited.
Jonathan: He gave me everything. He gave me a bottle of wine. He gave me like, condoms, just in case things went really well.
Ayodeji narration: Then, we got his date from the Airbnb gates, we showed him to Jonathan’s room, and then we gave them space.
MUSIC
Ayodeji narration: I should tell you that Jonathan did not get lucky that night. Yeah, they kissed for a while, but ultimately, it didn’t work out. But Jonathan got something else.
Jonathan: I felt safe in a lot of ways. That someone knows where I am. Or someone knows that I’m with so and so person. That they are seeing the person’s picture.
But yeah, like, uh, I felt safe. I feel like all sense of, like, insecurity was already fading from the entire day. So I wasn’t as, like, jittered as I would typically have been.
Ayodeji narration: Jonathan says he left Accra a new man.
Jonathan: I mean, Nigeria is quite different, right, because you go back to Nigeria and, you know, you’re back in that space, but I feel like I just needed to, like, overcome that initial anxiety around it and then I could walk my way around, like, navigating.
Ayodeji narration: Today, Jonathan lives abroad where he uses Grindr frequently. Mostly for hookups, his community of friends are still a big part of his dating life. Guardian angels, if you like.
Jonathan: I have a group of friends who are live locations that are always on. And if I’m going to meet someone for the first time, I send them the person’s picture, their address. Just, you know, we do that with each other.
MUSIC
Lesedi: Since Ayodeji and Jonathan’s road trip, Ghana has become less safe for the LGBTQI+ community. In early 2024, Ghana’s parliament passed a bill that would criminalize LGBTQI+ people’s identities and support for their rights. If signed by the president, the new law would impose three years in prison for people who identify as queer and then 10 years for supporting LGBTQI+ rights.
Just like the laws, dating apps tend to also be pretty regional in Africa. Some apps are more popular in some places than they are in others. Like the queer dating site called Gay Romeo. It was once a popular option for gay men in Kenya. Our next reporter has chosen to tell his story under the name Kenny.
Kenny: In 2016, I left my home village and I went to college in Nairobi. That’s when I discovered that I had a feeling for men. I wanted to explore that side of myself. At that time, I dreamt of being with a mature man who could guide me, someone of more experience, almost like a father or an older brother. A friend from college introduced me to a dating site called Romeo.
I was 23 at the time. The site was really popular with the gay community and I signed up immediately. It gave me a sense of belonging. Like finally, I had proved that the LGBTI community existed. I was excited to create my profile. I introduce my real photo with my location, my tribe, and age.
I tried to be honest about what I was looking for. A man who was strong, darker in complexion, older than me, and good in bed.
That’s how I met Steve. That’s not his real name, by the way. According to his profile, Steve was in his late 40s and was a priest from a respected denomination. But best of all, he was from the same tribe as me, and we are known for being good in bed.
I remember he messaged first, and I wondered for a moment if a man of God could be trusted within the community. That being said, his profile was exactly what I was looking for. So I decided to take a chance.
MUSIC
After texting for a short while on Romeo, Steve asked for my contact detail. Of course I gave them to him. I found the thought of a gay person. So comparing, we finally arranged to meet up for a coffee. I remember we set the time for Friday at 4 p. m. When I arrived, I recognized him right away from the outfit in the photo that he had sent me.
He was wearing tight black jeans and black and white shoes. He was looking good. We spoke for almost four hours. He opened up about how lonely he felt. Just like me, he was searching for a serious, mature relationship. Steve said he was looking for a secretive boy. Someone he could trust, given the nature of his work.
This was something I wanted too. Sitting there with Steve. I felt a surge of excitement. Here was someone who felt like a mentor, a provider, a spiritual guide, and a lover all at once.
As our relationship got more serious, I felt I’d truly found the man I would been looking for. He also covered my rent and relieved me of some of my biggest financial worries. And when I made mistakes, he didn’t hesitate to correct me. He called me Sonny, and I called him Daddy. That was our private language, a way of expressing our connection.
MUSIC
Eventually, I even changed my church denomination so I could attend his service. He finally introduced me to his circle of friends. The people around him were a priest, police officer, government official. I realized then that Steve had a lot of influence and connection. It was overwhelming, but also uplifting to be a part of a community.
One time, he invited me over to the church parish where he lived. This is where I saw how some of these men were not quite what they appeared to be. I must say, I didn’t think much of it. I was in love, and Steve provided everything I wanted. To me, that was enough, and I was happy in my little world.
Then a couple of months later, I began to feel unwell. I had a persistent headache. Most of the time, feeling like I don’t want to do anything. Then I would have dizziness that could hit me out of the blue. I brushed off the symptoms and kept taking painkillers. But as time went on, I realized that something different was happening.
I lost a lot of weight and my skin was dry, so I decided to tell Steve about it, and he insisted on taking me to the hospital. He didn’t want me to go alone. There were several reputable hospitals close to us, but we ended up going to a hospital located two towns away. I couldn’t understand why we had to travel so far.
When we arrived. Steve remained by my side throughout the entire process. He answered every question the doctor asked with confidence. And when the doctor inquired about our relationship, he firmly declared, I’m his father. I didn’t question him about it. I was just happy to have someone by my side who was speaking up and protecting me.
About a month after, I was sick again. This time, it was really, really bad. I felt dizzy. I wanted to throw up. My arms and legs felt weak. So I called for a motorbike to take me to the nearest dispensary. When I arrived, a nurse approached me. I could see she was concerned. She asked me, have you ever been tested for HIV?
Yes, I said confidently. I tested negative about a year ago. I had no doubt about Steve. He was a priest. There was no cause for concern. Nevertheless, I did the test. Just to rule out HIV. Like I said, I expected a good outcome. But when I finally looked down at the HIV determination kit, I saw that there was two lines.
I was positive. I sat there with tears streaming down my face. It was as if I was trapped in a nightmare and I couldn’t wake up.
MUSIC
When I finally got home, I called Steve and said we needed to meet, but he told me to hold off. I was so frustrated. I spent the night tossing and turning. The following day, I found the courage to seek help from a counselor there in Nairobi. They told me that I had to be careful, I had to be confident, and I needed to safeguard my heart.
At last, Steve agreed to meet me at my place. He arrived ready to have sex. I didn’t want to bring it up right away in case he got mad. So, I pretended to be in the mood. I wanted to make him happy, so he’d be ready to listen to me. Then, when we were in bed together, then I asked, “Daddy, have you tested for HIV in the last three years?”
He replied, “I can’t remember when I last tested.” Then I asked, “What will you do if I tell you I’m HIV positive?” He said, “Nothing son, I love you the way you are.” So I told him I tested HIV positive and I wonder how I got it, if not from you, and he casually replied, “Yes, I knew I was positive, but I couldn’t have told you because you might have left me and I can’t lose you.”
I was shocked, shocked by his answer, shocked at his lack of concern for my health. Then he threatened me, saying I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone about either of our status. My life depended on me staying silent. Say anything and I’d kill you.
MUSIC
It reminded me of the story of a Lucifer in the book of Genesis, who had been an angel in heaven, admired and trusted, but he had evil hidden deep in his heart. I kept my mouth shut. I was scared of Steve. He was so well-connected. Eventually, I stopped seeing Steve altogether. I deleted my Romeo account and stopped using dating apps.
I’m tempted to use them every now and then. But after my experience with Steve, I find myself more comfortable meeting people in a social setting or through mutual acquaintances. I know Steve still uses dating sites. I feel bad when I see him on private Facebook groups for gay men. I see Steve preaching on TV sometimes and it’s hard to bear.
I can’t tell you how many times I have picked up the phone to call the station to tell them what I know about him but I never go through with it.
Everything has become more complicated since Steve. Life with HIV can be hard. The only way to manage my health is by taking regular medication. I’m committed to my treatment, but I’ll be honest. There is always the challenge of telling a love interest that I’m HIV positive. I’m scared of being rejected, you know.
But I do my best. And I know I owe it to whoever I got close to to tell the truth. You can hide a lot of things on the app. This shouldn’t be one of them.
Lesedi: Our last story takes us to Namibia, where a historic story is told. Supreme Court ruling in May 2023 ordered the state to recognize same sex unions performed in other countries. But just a year in, and it has been overturned by a new law passed by Parliament. The Marriage Act of 2024 prohibits any same sex marriage, including those performed abroad. And it limits the definition of marriage to a legal union between two persons of the opposite sex.
Our reporter Whilzahn’s story kicks off at the precise moment when Instagram and real life collide on the streets of Windhoek.
Whilzahn: It was a warm rainy night. The wet season in Namibia is my favorite time of the year. My friends and I ended up at a local pub in town. Now as we walked in, I saw a girl on the dance floor. She looked kind of familiar, but I could only see her freshly braided hair from behind. My friends and I walked straight to the bar, got some drinks and sat outside under the terrace roof.
A few moments later, I excused myself from my friends and went to the bathroom. I walked in, and there was the girl, from the dance floor, standing in front of the mirror. Oh wait, is that who I think it is? She looked at me with a big smile on her face. I didn’t want to be too forward and ask her if she was Elena from Instagram, but before I could say anything, she said, “I know you.”
“I think I know you too,” I said smiling nervously, “You’re the one that’s been trying to get my attention on Instagram.” “Was it that obvious?” She asked. I laughed and I said, “Well, yes, kinda.”
I couldn’t believe it. This was the Elena that caught my attention on Instagram a few weeks ago. I remember getting the notification, Elena started following you. I didn’t recognize the name at the time, so I clicked on the profile. Hmm. She’s beautiful. But who is she? I thought, she’s probably foreign, on holiday, or maybe a volunteer. I also noticed she tagged a few friends I bump into socially time and again.
Anyway, I followed her back. And from then on, I could tell she was trying to catch my attention. Reacting to most of my stories, liking my posts. But there wasn’t much more to it than that. And now, we stood across from each other in a random bathroom. It felt serendipitous and crazy.
Two days went by without any communication between the two of us. I wasn’t necessarily counting the days, look, I wasn’t obsessed, but I was thinking about her. Let’s say, I had just a little crush on her since our moment?
So when a notification popped up on my phone and it was a message from Elena, I was happy. She had responded to my Instagram story, a video of me laughing in the studio while preparing for my radio show. She wrote, beautiful. I replied immediately, I could say the same about you. Then she replied with a blushing emoji.
We then chatted for most of the day. She was both beautiful and funny as hell. And everything about her felt so familiar. I couldn’t believe someone like that existed. I finally mustered up the courage to ask her out. As she then broke the news to me, she was already back in the Czech Republic.
She’d actually flown out the day after we met. Can you imagine that? Now the good thing about apps is that you can continue chatting despite the distance. And from then on we spoke every day. It kind of felt like I was in high school again. You know, using Mxit or MiG 33, one of those earlier chatting apps. It honestly felt like I was swept up in a plot of a romantic comedy, you know.
After a few weeks of texting back and forth, we decided to move over to FaceTime. I was nervous to see her again, even if it was just through a screen. I got dressed up. I did my hair. I mean, it was a big deal somehow. I guess the only thing that held me back was that it had been just one month since I left my previous relationship.
We were together for eight years and it didn’t end well. I was left with a lot of emotional scars and trust issues, but I wanted to get closer to Elena. So I called. Our first video call. Hi, I said. She looked at me with her big brown eyes and said, “You’re so gorgeous.” “Stop, what are you even saying? Have you seen yourself?” I replied. The ice was broken.
MUSIC
We’d been video calling for about four months when Elena decided to surprise me. I’m here, she texted. Where? In Windhoek, you silly. I couldn’t believe it. She said it was a spur of the moment kind of thing. She had a conference to attend in Johannesburg, South Africa, something like that.
So she squeezed in a day to see me in Windhoek. We went out for dinner, spoke, and laughed the whole night. I dropped her back at a hotel, walked her up to her room and said goodnight. You know, I’m a hopeless romantic and I wanted to kiss her so badly that night. It just would have been the perfect ending, but I held back.
Anyway, we continued talking and getting to know each other. It’s been a year now. On a FaceTime call recently, I asked her, Do you think we’ll make it work? Let’s see what happens, she said. She speaks about coming back to Namibia someday. I think about leaving this place. But we’re staying open to the possibility of being together someday.
MUSIC
I guess, even though the odds are against us, we are making it work somehow. We’ll now imagine our situation in a different time. I’m pretty sure we’d still be sending handwritten letters across the ocean.
Lesedi: A big thank you to all our reporters for sharing their stories with us. This episode was reported by Whilzahn Gelderbloem in Namibia, Ayodeji Rotinwa in Nigeria, Kenny in Kenya, and Tavo and Tanaka in Zimbabwe. This story was produced by Radio Workshop and Context, a media platform brought to you by the Thomson Reuters Foundation.
The producers of this episode were Jo Jackson, Mo Isu, and Naomi Grewan. I’m Lesedi Mogoatlhe, and I edited this podcast with support from Rob Rosenthal. Our managing producer is Jo Jackson. Our executive producers for this episode are Sadiya Ansari from Context and Mike Rahfaldt from Radio Workshop.
Sound engineering by Jo Jackson and Mike Rahfaldt. Music by Qhamani Sambu at Edible Audio in Cape Town. Script fact-checking by Brian Pellott.
And special thanks to Hindenburg for supporting Radio Workshop’s projects across Africa with audio editing software. This episode and the work of Radio Workshop would not be possible without the support of the Free To Be Me program from Hivos. Find out more about what we do and support our work at radioworkshop.org and context.news.