Sheelagh Stewart was born in Zimbabwe, educated at the University of Capetown where she studied Law and English. Since 1991, she has lived in the UK where she worked in academia and then as a civil servant, eventually heading the Stabilisation Unit 2009-12.

This writing is an excerpt from “Colonial Mother” her hopeful, sometimes darkly funny memoir, a story about abuse, coming out and owning up to racism and a tell-all from the heart of white supremacist Rhodesia.

Email: sheelaghstewartld@gmail.com.

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Off the Fence – 1984

After Thomas died, my bones hurt. Our misfit-match was rooted in the shame of shared parental beatings. He had been my first firm ground beyond Belief. But his absence was a chasm I couldn’t cross so, seeking old safety, I pulled on Peter-Pan-collared modesty required of women so that we didn’t tempt men and turned back to the church. I couldn’t regrow my crop, but I made noises about ‘a candle-related accident’ and a ‘necessary cut’. 

I think I thought that if I could travel back to then, to that, the pain would stop. But I had grown. The old certainties were too tight. My first day back I was a sore thumb, plucking at my collar, straightening my skirt.

“Hello Sheelagh!”

I turned. “Tessa? What are you doing here?”

“God, I know.”

“Sssh, you can only ‘God’ if it’s a direct address.”

“Shit!”

“No shitting here either.” I wagged my finger, squashing an unladylike snort. Tessa didn’t bother, hee-hawing and clutching her stomach.

I dragged myself back into order. “Not that I’m not pleased to see you, but what are you doing here?”

“Perspective wants an article on ‘Christianity as a cover for racism’.”

“Oh?”

“Religion that excuses racism.”

“Hewers of wood, curse of Ham etc?”

“Ja, that. But also the subtle stuff.” 

“Like what?”

“You know, God rewards with money so if you’re poor, aka Black, you’re cursed. Wealth heresy shit.”

“No ‘shitting’ here.” 

“I forgot, sorry. But that’s great. Huge fuss about swearing or sex, disregard of Black people dying down the road because the water’s dirty.” 

“Ahh.”

“So I’m starting here, they’re conservative with a big fat effing C.” 

This was YMCA, the Christian right, campus branch. Tessa, who was a friend from Halls, leavened the experience of trying to ease back in. But I was also working the programme. One of the Young Men’s recurring obsessions was the existential threat posed by the ‘outbreak’ of homosexuality on campus. I was good at legalistic parsing of the Word, so I was volunteered to write a piece on ‘Homosexuality and Christianity’ for the house magazine. 

I sat down to write it, jotting notes and checking texts. And looked up half an hour later, realising I’d been completely distracted by thoughts of a new lecturer’s cleavage. I’d been lost in a hot mown-grass afternoon, watching her breasts shape-shift as she added columns on the board. The memory alone had blocked my obsessive inner Pharisee. And the substance and dream had converged. I had deep-dived into the topic, but it was not the deep-dive I’d intended. 

I looked at my notes:

‘Homosexuals are sinners. They recruit. They’re Satan’s vanguard.” 

I couldn’t do it. But I had to do something. So I started with Christ, the adulteress and the gentle ‘go and sin no more’. I went on to explain that homosexuality was no different from any other sin, and asked why it was top of the Christian sin-hits? Were we interposing our own views rather than channelling Christ? I mentioned Christ’s message about glass houses and stoning. And suggested that perhaps the Christian answer was to hate the sin, but love the sinner. It gave me wriggle for friends like James and John as the sinners I loved. I shoved the shape-shifting back into the closet.

I dropped the article off on the way to campus the next morning. YM had a meeting that night. When I arrived, Dave, the editor, took me to one side. 

“We’re worried about your article. We need to be clear that homosexuality is evil.”

“I was.”

 “We don’t think it takes a firm enough line.” 

“But I based it on Christ’s words to the adulteress. Is there an alternate reading of that scripture?”

Dave didn’t like being questioned. “That’s not the point. Your article reads like permission.”

“How is ‘go and sin no more’ permission?” 

“Your ‘call to action’ is for Christians. It should be for homosexuals.”

“Ja, but homosexuals don’t read The Christian Weekly. Christians do. That’s why it’s focused on actions for us.”

 “Well, this encourages the homosexual agenda. You clearly can’t write what’s required, so we’ll get someone who can.” Dave turned and walked away. 

Shame washed through me. I felt the scarlet tug and flow across my face. I raked my hands through my hair and started after Dave. But then I thought of James and John, dithered and sat down. I heard nothing of that evening’s message, replaying Dave’s rejection and trying to hide my hot face. After the meeting Tessa and I walked back to hall together. I recounted Dave’s comments. 

“That’s really peak Disapproving Dave,” Tessa laughed.

“I know,” I said. Just imagine if I was gay…”

“So am I!”

“What? No, that’s not what… .” 

I was about to explain that she’d misheard. That what I’d meant was that if I were gay Dave would lose me to Satan.

But she’d heard something. She’d sensed my longing for the hot mown-grass shape-shifting. And because she sensed my pieces fell into place. They had a long history. They stretched back to an early memory of Priscilla Pratchett’s creamy Sunday-school cleavage. The even explained my need for church whose sex allergy provided a place where I could safely ignore the boys I didn’t want. So suddenly I was out of the blue – out of the closet before I knew there was a closet.

“Have you known for a long time?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, “since I was young. And you?”

“Well, I don’t think I knew-knew till you said you were, but now I think I’ve always known. There was this guy…”

“So you’re bi?”

“Bi?”

“Bisexual. AC/DC… “

“Uh, I…”

“You know, you like men and women.”

“No, that’s the thing. I loved him but I didn’t want… that.” 

“Loved?”

“Yes. He died. And I don’t know what to do with myself.”

I was still stuck. And now I was stuck between grief and gay. So I lived in parallel. I carried on going to YM. And I went shopping and bought some lesbian clothes. Boots. Shocking pink and black. Buttery-soft leather. Tie-dye pants and the cheap bright T-shirts feminists wore. I carried on reading the Bible and trawled the library for lesbian books. The Well of Loneliness was not promising, although I liked the horse. I asked John and James and they produced a book of lesbian photographs. One evening they handed me a book in a brown paper cover, which was a collection of lesbian sexual positions illustrated with tasteful line drawings. It was called Hot Beds.

Hot beds, I thought wistfully, I wish I could do hot beds. Because I just couldn’t imagine going to bed with anyone. 

And then came the Campus Fair, where all the societies put out their stalls and tried to increase membership. And, in my weird binary state, I volunteered for pamphlets and proselytising at the YM stall. And I volunteered for elves and orcs at the Tolkien Society. A few days before the fair, I realised that the public space of the fair would make it harder to keep my parallel lives apart and that if there was a meeting, my Christian friends would be shocked by my gay friends and vice-versa. How was I going to keep them apart?

On the day I dressed in elf-basic. Green tunic and tights, my new boots, a feathered Robin Hood cap, a toy bow and arrow. I set up the Tolkien Stall next to the YM stall. And sat between the stools shifting as appropriate. If a leftie or gay friend came by, I pulled on the cap and swiped left to Tolkien. Gay friends approved of elvish camp. Lefties were too materialist to really approve of fantasy, but they did believe in freedom of expression. Christians disapproved of supernatural competition, so if a Christian came by I tossed the cap, dumped the bow and swiped right to YM.

There were a few desperate scrambles, but I got away with it apart from fielding a Christian query when I forgot to doff the cap. But inevitably a few weeks later the parallel tracks came crashing together. YM advertised a meeting to discuss what Jesus would say about homosexuals. Perversely, I went. I don’t know what or if I was thinking. I might have been maintaining my cover. Or maybe the word ‘homosexual’ at a time when it was illegal was enough. Perhaps I thought that the walls between the different parts of me were real. 

I know I didn’t expect other gay people to come. I sat quietly in a far back corner and was horrified when James and John came in with another friend, Martyn, a blonde Swede with alpine cheekbones and glacial eyes. James and John saw me and came over. Martyn sashayed, camp quotient dialled to the max, and aimed at the audience. 

“Hello sweetie,” he lisped, kissing me dramatically on both cheeks. There was a ripple amongst the Christians. A few minutes later a large group paused at the door. James and John waved. 

“Here come the gender-benders and the queers,” Martyn announced loudly as the group made its way across and scraped extra chairs into a clump. Around me. I felt the parallel lines closing, but reassured myself with the ‘love the sinner’ defence. 

The meeting was called to order. There were two speakers – disapproving Dave, Christian Weekly’s editor and Dr Jim, a ‘medical expert’. 

Dave opened with Sodom and Gomorrah. “God sent his Angels to investigate sin in Sodom…”

“Ah, the Angels Holmes and Watson,” Martyn whispered. The gay contingent tittered. I shrank down in my seat.

“They stayed with Lot. As they were going to bed, the men of Sodom surrounded the house.” 

“Two’s company. But a crowd’s an orgy.” Martyn’s sibilant whisper was surprisingly loud. The Christians muttered.

Dave bored on, “The crowd shouted ‘Bring out the men that are staying with you so that we can have sex with them’.” 

“Excuse me. Can I ask a question?” Martyn stood up and flipped his hair back. His soft, sheer, white top folded gracefully against his golden chest.

“Yes.” Dave looked at Martyn and curled his lip.

“Were all the men of Sodom gay?”

“The Bible calls them Sodomites.”

“But, isn’t that just geography?” Martyn’s corner laughed.

“They were homosexual.” Dave had the assurance of a white man with a Bible.

“Every. Single. One?”

“Yes.” 

“Seriously?”

“That’s what the Bible says.” Dave was getting impatient.

Martyn affected a graceful swoon. “Oh Dorothy, take me to Sodom.”

Our corner clapped and stamped.

Martyn straightened. “But seriously, how realistic is it that all the men were gay? I mean, we sing about it raining men, but it never does… Except in the Bible.” I was biting my tongue trying not to laugh.

“Can I continue?” Dave said testily.

“Sure,” said Martyn. “But,” he looked around at the crowd, “Do we really believe that all the men who lived in Sodom were gay? I mean, look around, how likely is that?” 

“The evidence,” Dave said, “is that the men demanded sex from Lot’s guests.” 

“That’s so rude!” Martyn said. “But, I thought that the guests were angels?”

“They were.”

“Are we sure that angels are men?”

“Um, well… ” Dave was stumped.

“And are we sure that the angels didn’t want to have sex with the men?” Martyn bowled on.

“That’s blasphemy.” Dave was righteously angry.

“I can see I’m annoying you,” Martyn said. “But has it never occurred to you that God might have punished Sodom for threatening GANG RAPE?” The gay contingent was nodding and some of the Christians looked uncertain.

Martyn’s fury towered over Dave’s righteous rage. 

“Not to mention that angels are, what? Genderless? Gender-neutral. So we don’t even know if we’re talking about male-on-male rape. Do we?”

Dave was silent.

“And you use this, this… one unclear parable to justify violence and discrimination. You call yourselves Christians, but this is hatred. Are you sure that this is what Jesus would say?” 

“Goal!” John whispered into the silence that followed.

Dave turned to Dr Jim. “Can you give us a medical view?” 

“Yes of course.” Dr Jim looked reluctant. “Well,” he cleared his throat, “a penis is obviously designed for a vagina.”

I knew this was wrong because I’d been reading anything that mentioned the magic word ‘homosexual’. Perhaps because I was armed with new knowledge or possibly because hot beds were remote and penises remoter, I found myself on my feet. 

“Dr Jim, isn’t the stimulation of the prostate gland pleasurable?” I asked.

“Well, yes.” 

“Well maybe that means God designed for penetration? And that maybe he created, umm, horses for courses?” 

The gays whooped and the Christians recoiled. I sat down, shaky but floating. I had crossed my Rubicon and burnt my bridges behind me. Thomas’s absence was still a chasm. But now it was spanned with a frail suspension bridge to the future.