Domestic Worker Rights in Africa — Voice

Our 'Afrifem in Action' series highlights the initiatives, actions, and movements created and led by, and for, African feminists.

In this interview, Chanceline Mevowanou chats with Sakinatou Ouédraogo, Chairperson of the Association for the Defense of the Rights of Domestic Helpers (Association de Défense des Droits des Aides-ménagères et Domestiques - ADDAD) in Burkina Faso.

Trigger Warning: This conversation contains mentions of violence and abuse that may be triggering for our readers. Kindly take a moment to decide if you want to keep reading. If you proceed, we encourage you to prioritize your well-being and stop reading at any point, if needed.

**********

Sakinatou, thank you for agreeing to chat to us. Please introduce yourself.

Thank you for having me. My name is Sakinatou Ouédraogo. I’m from Bagnini, a village in southern Burkina Faso. I’ve been a domestic worker since I was 9 years old.

How did you become a domestic worker at such a young age? you were still a child!

Well, first, I come from a polygamous family. My mother has seven children and I’m the second daughter. At the time, our parents had decided that the older brothers, the boys, would go to school and that the girls would stay home. However, the government requires that all children be enrolled in school. So, we were enrolled in the first and second grades.

At 9 years old, when I saw how my mother struggled, I decided to sacrifice myself. My mother was our father’s first wife. She didn’t have access to money, like the other spouse. First wives aren’t prioritized. I decided to go to Ouagadougou to find work and get some money for her.

When you talked about it with your mother, did she agree?

I didn’t say I was going to Ouagadougou. It was one night, we were hanging out and chatting near the well. The girls from the village gathered there because we would come each evening to fetch water for our homes. We talked and decided that we would run away to Ouagadougou. Among us, the unhappy ones knew each other, and the children who are loved knew one another, too. We decided to go to Ouagadougou. We were 9 girls, and we had gone through the same things. That precipitated our departure.

What were you going through, besides what you shared in terms of the hardships that your mother was facing within your family?

There were several issues… forced marriages. At the age of 11 or 12, girls were already being married off and taken to their husbands. That’s why we quickly fled to Ouagadougou. There was also female genital mutilation (FGM). To this day, FGM is still practiced in my village. Girls are circumcised, and that’s a problem. Not to mention the lack of education and water. Girls are poorly educated, and we have to walk long distances to get some water. Women didn’t access land either.

And how did people in the community react to these hardships that girls were facing?

Hum… men never experienced any of these, so they didn’t even consider it as an issue.

How did your parents react when they found out that you had left?

We left without a word. Only one woman saw us at the train station with our bags. She knew we were leaving, and we asked her to tell our moms when they would come to the market. I spent almost two years before seeing my mother again. I didn’t come back for two years. I would always send money, though. There were buses that went to the villages, and I would often send money through them. That’s how my mother found out where I was. And then she came.

How did you manage to leave? What was that journey like?

(Sighs…) Back then, it cost 600 francs to go from my village to Ouagadougou. I don’t know if you do this where you’re from, but we could take certain leaves in large quantities and dry them. We would put them in a tiny bag and sell them at my village’s market, which opened every three days. The women from Ouagadougou bought them, and we got our money. This is how we could afford to leave.

When you were in Ouagadougou, what was it like with the other girls?

As soon as we arrived, we wanted to find a place to work. Women would come and pick us up at the train station. That was where they came to find domestic workers.

I’ve always been dynamic, so I found work easily. There was a place where I was to work only in the house. When they took me there, I was in charge of the housework despite being a nine-year-old girl. I finished my tasks quickly, and so they started taking me to their kiosk. I would finish the housework and go to the kiosk where I cooked attiéké. I was usually up as early as 3 a.m. We had to fry the fish and make the attiéké, because people would come to eat in the morning. We also had to cook in the evening. The attiéké came from Côte d’Ivoire, and I would usually remove it from big sacks and put it in a big bowl, and then in a cooking pot. Because of this, I have scars; if you look at my feet, you will see them.

What exactly caused the scars?
They are burns from climbing on bricks because the stove was very high. I couldn’t reach it, so I would look for bricks to climb on. The stove would burn my feet and my hands. I stayed at this place for two years, and I was working for 4,500 francs per month. I would send my money to my mother so that she could buy fabric. Sometimes, I would buy them here in Ouagadougou.

What about the other girls?

Everyone found a place to work. Some of them worked in the same neighbourhood I was in. We later got together again and decided to go back to our village. They left, but I didn’t. My dream was to pursue my studies, so I stayed here longer.

You said your mother came later to find you. How did the reunion go?

My mother came and saw me at the kiosk. I remember this very well; she came down to find me. I was washing empty sardine and tomato cans which the women used to serve water to clients at the kiosk. I washed them all the time, and my hands would bleed. When I wanted to wash the inside of the cans, the sharp edges would cut me and I would bleed.

My mother just stood there. At first, I didn’t even realize it was her. That day was a bit sad. She wanted me to go back to our village and get married. I told her that I wouldn’t leave. That I didn’t want to move, that I didn’t want to go back to the village to become a housewife. This was a big challenge for me. She left, but she made me promise to find work elsewhere, because the place she found me wasn’t good. My hands were constantly in water, washing something. I would close from work at 11 p.m. So, I found a new place to work.

Where did you live while you worked there?

I was sleeping under a tree in my employer’s yard .

When I left that house, I went to another house where I worked for 10,000 francs monthly. The women there didn’t sell anything. It was an estate. I did the housework and slept in the outside quarters. I was always there. When she needed me, she would ask me to come, and I would clean everything. I cooked, and I left the food on the table. I was always indoors. There were two cars that I also washed. I stayed there for a very long time… maybe three years. I had a nice relationship with my employers. They became upset because I started my own business.

What kind of business?

I was making milk toffees and selling them. I would make them and take them to the market. Other times, when I was dropping off the child, I would give the toffees to the shopkeeper nearby to sell for me. I did that for almost a year and a half, but it was hard because they found out that I was selling. She asked me to pay for the utensils.

And in the houses where you worked, nobody tried to know where you were from or why you were working at such a young age?

No one ever asked me where I came from or why I was working. I forgot an important point: in the house where I sold attiéké, I tried to complete my primary school leaving certificate (CEP). I asked for permission to attend evening classes, but they refused. The school’s headmaster used to buy food from our attiéké kiosk. He told me that I could take the exam, asked for my birth certificate, and paid the exam fee for me. I would take my employer’s children’s school books, and I would read them at night because I didn’t sleep. So, each night, instead of going to bed, the kids left their school books, and I would took them. I also wrote on their mini whiteboards. I was always studying.

I didn’t continue when I left that place. I used to work for 4,500 francs and then 10,000 francs. This worked for me because I could do many things.

Did you hear from the other girls you came with?

When I was kicked out of the house, I had a lot of money. I bought some large basins and I was excited to show them off in my village (she laughs). When I went back to the village, everyone was very happy. Almost all the other girls gathered to see me. Some had returned before I arrived, and others were married. I didn’t get married, but I hadn’t come empty-handed. Sadly, I learned upon arrival that one of the girls had died in Ouagadougou after a brief illness, less than a week after returning to our village.

Once you were back in the village, what did you do next?

When I brought all my wedding kits…

Your wedding kits?

Oh yeah, it was for my wedding. Every girl had her husband. Upon birth, you’re given away to an older man, and if they wanted to, they could marry you off to their sons. The kits mean that you pay for your utensils. You buy everything, and then you go live with your husband. When I returned to the village, I was told that they were coming to get me. For me, that meant running away again, going back to where I came from.

I fled the next day, because when you come back to the village, nobody tells you when they’ll come to take you. You only know that it’s in the upcoming days. In my village, 15-16 year-old girls are already married off and taken away. Sometimes, even 11-year-old girls who were considered to have full bodies would be taken to their husbands’ houses. So, the next day, I returned to Ouagadougou.

Did you continue working after you went back?

Yes. When I returned, I continued working in another house. The director of a TV company hired me as a domestic worker. He was also young at the time, and he asked me if I had been to school. I told him that I had admission for the primary school leaving certificate, but I never returned to complete it. He told me, “You can enrol in school, go for your classes, and do the cleaning when you come back.” That’s how I started the sixth grade (first year of middle school).

My teachers recommended that I skip the sixth grade and proceed to the seventh grade. I did this, and continued through to the eighth grade. I took the BEPC exam, but I did not pass it. This coincided with a difficult period. I was called back to my village because my father had died. Upon my return, I was met with accusations that my departure had brought him shame and caused his death. They told me to keep any degrees I desired. Since that time, I have lacked the courage to continue my education.

What did your mother think about everything you were facing?

My mother never blamed me. She always said that I was able to provide for them because of everything I did. Even those who criticised me knew the truth. I think they were simply trying to hurt me. I went back to Ouagadougou, and began working on the streets. I slowly became more independent. I brought my mother to Ouagadougou, and I joined her. I stopped living in the homes where I worked. I would go to clean, do the laundry, and leave.

You said you were becoming independent. Could you explain?

I was able to engage in business, even though I was living in my employer’s house. I had my business, and I would go out, do my deliveries, and come back. I even had meetings, and we set up a tontine among us housekeepers. We would give the tontine money to one person at the end of each round, and it was a lot of money.

How did you meet the other housekeepers?

In the neighbourhood, we all knew each other. As a caretaker, you know all the other caretakers in the area, and we tried to get together. I always had the idea of all of us coming together, and that’s how the organization was created. When we joined forces, we started making the contributions for the tontine. Then, if we needed anything else, I would teach it. That’s what we did. And this was how ADDAD, the Association for the Defense of the Rights of Domestic Helpers (Association de Défense des Droits des Aides-ménagères et Domestiques) was created.

And how did you progress with establishing and running the association?

At first, it wasn’t an association. It was a small tontine, a place for housekeepers and domestic workers to listen to one another and share ideas. There were meetings with people from the No-Vox Network in the area where my mother lived. I went to the meeting because it was in my neighbourhood. They came and talked about land takeovers, homelessness, slums… I became the general secretary of the meeting (laughter). I was taking notes because I was the one who knew how to write (laughter). The meetings literally took place at my doorstep, because there was a big table there.

During one of our meetings, a man inquired about my name and my profession. I introduced myself as Sakinatou and clarified that while I previously worked as a domestic worker, I now worked as a cleaner. He mentioned a similar association in Mali, founded by domestic workers, and asked if I could establish one in Burkina Faso, given my extensive network of women in the field. Amused, I confirmed my connections, and he encouraged me to form an association called ADDAD Burkina, distinguishing it from the existing ADDAD Mali.

Indeed, I saw that there is ADDAD in Mali and even in Benin. And so, you registered the organization?

Yes. How did we get the registration in Burkina? It was a real challenge. First, we all contributed for a year to collect the 30,000 francs required. We could not have all the money at once. Then, when we applied, they told us our name was an issue. Domestic workers couldn’t form an association. They questioned the project, asking us which country we thought we lived in, or why domestic workers wanted to form an association. We struggled! We would go to their offices, and they would tell us that there was a comma missing, an “a” missing, or an “s” missing... They kept it that way until 2015. And everyday, if we wanted to go there, we would take a cab. It was pricey. This went on until 2015, and we had started the process in 2012.

When we obtained the acknowledgement, we were summoned. They asked, “Is this an association that's going to make girls rebel?” We said no, it's an association to claim our rights. They asked: “Claim? Do you even understand that word”. It's the first time I've been very... articulate. I said, “To claim means to reclaim what belongs to us.” So that's how we created our association.

Gradually, we came together, listened to each other, and shared our ideas. We held all our meetings at my mother's house. Then we would inform the others. So, we would meet one day, and there would be 20 of us. The next day, we would be 25, and the day after, the number would increase. We had evening meetings every week, and people would come. If a girl were beaten up at night and her belongings were taken away, they would come and ask for me.

How were these cases of violence handled?

We would usually go with our registration certificate. We saved many girls thanks to it. The employers were scared because the document had the State’s stamp. One of the girls worked for two years and she wasn’t paid. When she came to our meeting, we accompanied her to her employer. I said “Auntie, we’re here to ask for the salary.” She replied: “What salary? Have you worked here before?” I replied that it wasn’t for me but for the girl I came with.

She first demanded that we leave her patio, which we did, only for her to release her dog on us. I wasn’t afraid to speak up so I stated that I came because the State ordered me to. I showed our document as proof, and when I did this, the auntie got scared because of the stamp. She then invited us to sit down. I declined and insisted that she had to immediately pay the young housekeeper to avoid police intervention.

How was the situation finally resolved?

She said she had to call her son, because he was the one who kept the money. We stayed at her door, while she called her son and then her husband saying that it was social services. This is how our work began. The registration was the document we used as proof of the legitimacy of our actions.

There was also a rape case. We went and the owner asked for proof of the alleged rapist’s guilt. It wasn’t easy. We didn’t have enough arguments. He was highly educated. We tried showing the certificate, but he said that he couldn’t care less and that we could go wherever we wanted to report him.

How did you handle this?

We talked to the women and they all mobilised to come with my mom. They truly came through. The girl was pregnant and the man denied his responsibility. He said he didn’t care and that even if he had raped the girl, we had no proof it was him. He didn’t even want to hear about it. When the women came, it wasn’t easy.

He said that as children, we shouldn’t forget who he was. He accused us of wanting to ruin his reputation. He offered to talk but we declined and stated that we were waiting for the results of the scans from the hospital.

It wasn’t easy. He negotiated and the women decided that it was best for us to go back home. When we did, the man promised to care for the pregnant girl until birth, but that she would not stay in his house. They would then run DNA tests after the birth of the child. However, the girl secretly had an abortion, leading to a significant complication. The man threatened us with legal action and imprisonment. He accused us of being involved in the termination of the pregnancy. The girl survived, but it was tough.

Did this kind of situation happen often? Were there many cases of unsafe abortions?

Many, yes. The girls took different things, and many of them lost their lives. We managed to save some of them, because we started accompanying them to the hospital and said they were miscarrying. Because abortion is illegal and punishable by law here, they could get arrested and imprisoned. Doctors had to report every abortion.

It destroyed many girls’ lives. When they went to the hospital, the doctors knew it was to get an abortion. So, they immediately told them to report to the police, but it was a trap because they would automatically get arrested.

How does the association work now? What initiatives are you undertaking?

We have our headquarters now. We conduct awareness campaigns in the villages with girls who have been through these situations, who have had problems. They share their experiences, but we ensure that they don’t do it in their own villages. We use pictures to inform people so that girls who are still in the village, dreaming of going to Ouagadougou would rethink their decisions.

As for pregnancies, as soon as we know a girl is pregnant, we assist her according to her wishes. We also talk about contraception. We raise awareness with the girls. There is always an issue with contraceptives, though. It’s very complicated. When girls go to health centres, they are interrogated: “How old are you? What are you doing? Why do you want to use that? Did you come to work or to have sex with men?”

Those issues remain, especially with girls who quit being domestic workers to engage in sex work. They are faced with the same issues: rape, pregnancies…

What was it like when you returned to your village after the creation of the association?

I went to the chiefs and requested a village meeting to share my experiences in Ouagadougou and explain that I wasn't a good example, as I had observed many children going there. The chief agreed to call the meeting, which required payment in the form of yams and a rooster. We collected the necessary funds, which was a significant expense but ultimately worthwhile.

How were your messages received in the village?

During my testimony that day, I recounted all my experiences. I observed that the mothers present were weeping openly, and the girls sought refuge behind walls and trees, also in tears. I was not alone in sharing my story.

Other girls testified as well, including one who had been raped. She recounted that after arriving by bus, they initially slept in a different village. They then walked to another village and waited there for the market day so that a vehicle could come to their village. While sleeping in that village, the young man who had provided accommodation raped all of them. As she shared her story, everyone began to cry. In my village, it is unlikely that children will be sent to work again. The impact was profound, and speaking out was meaningful.

If you had to tell a story that has had a major impact on you since you launched ADDAD, what would you share?

It was after a rape case. A man raped a girl and I spoke about it on television. I faced defamation charges, because I shared all the information I had. I shared that we had been to the police station and they had summoned the man. He was jailed, but released soon after. I went to his office, saw him, and took pictures of him. When I met him, he told me he would give me 500,000 francs. I declined, and he was still free. I said this to the police. They said it was defamation. I got arrested and stayed in jail from morning until the evening after 9 pm. They released me after I spent the whole day with other detainees. The next day, instead of officially summoning me, they came to find me as if I were a thief. My husband secured a lawyer who facilitated my release.

Does ADDAD offer accommodation for girls?

Yes, we do, but our space is very limited. It’s not enough. We have more than 1,700 domestic workers in ADDAD in Ouagadougou alone. We also created six branches in other regions.

Our office used to host up to 184 girls, but the city council told us that this was not permitted. They informed us that to operate as a shelter, a dedicated house is required, as the office space is unsuitable for overnight stays. The city council instructed us to cease operations.

How does the association find the resources to do its work?

We had funding, but with the current situation, some of it has been cut.

When you describe yourself as a feminist, what does that mean to you?

When I define myself as a feminist, it means hope. It means strength, because that’s what I march with, to denounce child marriages, for examples. Yet, it is said that these are the cultures of my village. Like our chief says, these are values that we must always defend because they are the values of our ancestors. But I always rebelled because I wanted to show you that even if we resist, the ancestors will not do anything to us.

The first time I was raped, I thought my ancestors would come, that I would get killed… But it wasn’t the case. I survived. Can you imagine? I was raped and my concern was more about my ancestors’ reaction than the assault itself.

This shows how much cultural fears are transmitted within families and communities, and how much they affect girls. Were there other organizations, other women, who supported you when you started your work?

When we started to actually claim domestic workers’ rights in society, our allies were the women from the market. This is where we went to get our groceries. The girls were dealing with so much in the homes where they worked. They would get beaten and then sent to the market to get groceries, and this was the only place where they could express themselves. These women were focal points.

What is your relationship with other feminists in your country or in the sub-region?

When I came to the Feminist Agora for the first time, if you notice well, I was initially reserved. Over time, I felt a sense of belonging. I think the other feminists became a family. I found a good family, I believe. A family that I’ve dreamed of since I was a child, but never experienced. The feminist community provides me with the affection and care for my well-being that I lacked.

I also share a strong connection with feminists from my country. When they host events, they invite me. I do the same in return. We mutually support each other.

How do you think other feminists, other organizations can truly support ADDAD, or how do we take into account the rights of all women without distinction?

I think we should start by creating an inclusive space for all girls. Every girl belongs. Regardless of their background, privileged or not. Girls have their place and should speak their mind. Also, I would like feminists across countries to support girls like me in pursuing further education. One major challenge I face is my limited proficiency in French. If I spoke better French, my voice would be heard better. I see it as an obstacle.

To change that, I would like to see schools built in the various markets and public spaces. Small schools, nothing too big. For example, a rented space in the market, that would serve as a school for the children. I’m sure, Chanceline, that the kids would be very excited to come to these spaces to learn how to count. That’s very important to me. It’s something I’ve always thought about.

Also, why don’t we create these spaces and put books in them so young children can read? It will help to give them that chance of being able to learn something, because they should not pick up where I left off. They should grow from that.

What are your hopes for ADDAD ?

My hope for ADDAD is to see all the girls, whether they are housekeepers or not, autonomous or not, claim their rights. That one day there will be people who say, “I was a housekeeper but now I’m a minister”, “I’m a president”, “I work in that firm”. That’s what I want to see.

How has this work impacted you personally?

It impacted me because it changed my mother’s perception of me. I’m no longer Saki; I embody hope. She always told me that she wasn’t ashamed of me as a daughter. That she always believed in me. So, I believe I embody hope in her eyes.

Is there anything else you would like to add but didn’t have the chance to say?

I’d love for everyone to stand together in solidarity and to show up for one another.

Thank you for sharing your story with me, Sakinatou. I am grateful for our conversation.