I wouldn't want her to be harassed if I am no longer there
In Gaborone, two women who met by chance at a Pride event have carried their love into a courtroom, asking Botswana's legal system to recognize what they already know to be true. Bonolo Selelo and Tsholofelo Kumile are challenging their country's Marriage Act in hearings set for July, arguing that the law's own contradictions demand equality. Their case arrives at a moment of cultural tension — seven years after South Africa became the first African nation to permit same-sex marriage, and in a country that has grown measurably less tolerant since decriminalizing same-sex relations in 2019. What is at stake is not only a marriage certificate, but the architecture of protection and dignity that legal recognition alone can provide.
- A couple turned away from a government registry office has taken their rejection to the high court, armed with a narrow but pointed legal argument that the law contradicts itself.
- The government is defending a Marriage Act that defines union strictly between a man and a woman, while organized religious and traditional groups — some arriving in ceremonial dress — are seeking to formally join the opposition.
- Public support for LGBTQ+ acceptance in Botswana has slipped from 50 to 41 percent since 2019, signaling that legal progress and social sentiment are moving in opposite directions.
- LGBTQ+ advocates and affected individuals are pushing back through public campaigns and personal testimony, pointing to real losses — blocked border crossings, forfeited wedding funds, denied inheritance rights — as evidence of what the law costs.
- July hearings will determine whether Botswana becomes only the second African nation to legalize same-sex marriage, a ruling that could ripple far beyond its borders.
Bonolo Selelo and Tsholofelo Kumile met at a Pride event in Gaborone's national museum in October 2023 — Kumile nervous about a tarot reading, Selelo offering reassurance. Within two months they were living together. On a hiking trail the following Easter, Selelo proposed. When they later walked into a government office to register their intent to marry, they were turned away. They decided to fight.
Selelo, a lawyer, understood exactly what was missing. Without marriage, Kumile would have no inheritance rights, no authority to make medical decisions, no legal shield if Selelo were no longer there to protect her. The couple is now challenging Botswana's Marriage Act, which defines marriage as a union between a man and a woman. Their argument rests on the country's Interpretation Act, which states that words importing one sex include the other — a quiet contradiction they intend to make loud. Hearings are scheduled for July 14 and 15.
The opposition is organized. The Dingwetsi Association, a traditional women's group with roughly 2,000 members, is seeking to join the case, its members appearing at hearings in ceremonial headwraps and tartan blankets. Religious leaders have been more direct in their hostility. With around 80 percent of Botswana's population identifying as Christian, much of the country's moral establishment stands against the couple.
Yet the human cost of the current law is not theoretical. Tshepo Ricki Kgositau, a transgender activist, married her husband in South Africa in 2017, but he was barred from entering Botswana for their traditional wedding because her gender had not yet been legally changed. The money they had spent on the celebration was lost. For Brendon Tereki, who met his partner on Facebook and shared his first public kiss with a man on their first date, the case is simply the difference between a future he can reach and one that remains closed to him.
Botswana decriminalized same-sex relations in 2019, and that ruling held on appeal in 2021. But public acceptance has declined since then, dropping from 50 to 41 percent by 2024. The legal and social currents are running against each other, and two women who met by chance in a museum are now at the center of a question the continent has rarely been asked to answer.
Bonolo Selelo was wandering through Botswana's national museum during a Pride event in Gaborone when she noticed Tsholofelo Kumile across the room. What began as a conversation—Kumile was nervous about a tarot reading, and Selelo offered comfort—stretched into hours of talking. That October day in 2023 became the start of something neither woman expected to fight for in court.
Two months after they met, they moved in together. During an Easter holiday hike in 2024, Selelo proposed. A year later, they walked into a local government office to register their intent to marry and were told the law did not permit it. The rejection was not a surprise, but the couple decided to challenge it anyway. Selelo, a lawyer, understood the stakes. She worried about what would happen to Kumile if she died without the legal protections that marriage provides—the inheritance rights, the medical decision-making authority, the basic scaffolding of security that heterosexual couples take for granted. "I wouldn't want her to be harassed if I am no longer there to offer that protection," Selelo said. Marriage, she believed, was the only institution that could give Kumile that shield.
Their case is scheduled for hearings on July 14 and 15. If they win, Botswana would become only the second African nation to legalize same-sex marriage, following South Africa's decision in 2006. But the path is steep. The government is defending its Marriage Act, which defines marriage as a union between a bride and bridegroom, a man and woman in the conventional sense. Selelo and Kumile are arguing that another law, the Interpretation Act, contradicts this—it states that words importing one sex include the other. It is a narrow legal argument, but it is the one they have.
Botswana decriminalized same-sex relations in 2019 when the high court struck down a colonial-era ban as unconstitutional. That decision held on appeal in 2021. Yet public opinion has shifted in the wrong direction since then. A 2021 survey found that half of Botswanans said they would not mind having gay neighbors or actively welcomed them—the fifth-highest acceptance rate among 34 African countries surveyed. By 2024, that figure had dropped to 41 percent. The country is becoming less welcoming, not more.
Opposition to the couple's case is organized and vocal. The Dingwetsi Association, a traditional women's group founded in 2015 to promote heterosexual marriage and combat divorce, is seeking to join the case. Its founder, Grace Silver, said the group now has about 2,000 members. They wear traditional headwraps and tartan blankets to signal their married status, and several showed up in full regalia to a March hearing. "This is our culture. We need to protect it," Silver said. Alongside them stands the Botswana House of Prayer and Transformation. One of its leaders, Moshe Morebodi, was blunt: "Same-sex human rights are a subset of a satanic sect." About 80 percent of Botswana's population is Christian, and much of that Christian establishment has lined up against the couple.
But there are voices on the other side. Legabibo, an LGBTQ+ rights group, is running a campaign called "Lorato Ke Lorato"—Love Is Love—to shift public perception. Tshepo Ricki Kgositau, who runs a foundation supporting transgender Botswanans and sits on an LGBTQ+ task team within the Methodist Church of Southern Africa, has watched the backlash with dismay. "It has been really disappointing to see the very conservative and narrow interpretation by some conservative faith community members," she said. She knows the cost of the current law intimately. In 2017, she married her husband in South Africa, but when he tried to enter Botswana for their traditional wedding, he was barred because she had not yet legally changed her gender—a process that requires a court ruling. They lost the money they had spent planning the celebration. "It was absolutely devastating," she said.
For others, the case represents something larger than law. Brendon Tereki met his partner, Tashatha, on Facebook two years ago. Their first public date together, at a bar in Gaborone, was also Tereki's first time kissing a man in public. "He has made me open up more than I ever thought," Tereki said. "I really want to get married." The couple's fight is not abstract to him. It is the difference between a future he can claim and one he cannot.
Citas Notables
I wouldn't want her to be harassed if I am no longer there to offer that protection. And, for me, marriage would give her that added protection that no other institution would be able to give her.— Bonolo Selelo, on why legal marriage matters for her partner's security
This is our culture. We need to protect it.— Grace Silver, founder of the Dingwetsi Association, opposing the case
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
What made Selelo decide to take this to court rather than just live together?
She's a lawyer, so she understood the practical vulnerabilities. Without marriage, Kumile has no legal claim to her assets, no say in medical decisions, no inheritance rights. Selelo was thinking about what happens when she's gone—whether Kumile would be protected or left exposed.
The government's argument seems straightforward—the Marriage Act says man and woman. How do they counter that?
They're pointing to a different law, the Interpretation Act, which says words importing one sex automatically include the other. It's a narrow opening, but it's there in the legal code. The question is whether the court sees it as binding.
Public opinion has actually gotten worse since same-sex relations were decriminalized in 2019. Why would that be?
Decriminalization was a court decision imposed from above. It didn't shift hearts. And now there's organized opposition—churches, traditional groups—making their case loudly. Without a cultural shift to match the legal one, people can feel threatened by change they didn't choose.
The Dingwetsi Association talks about protecting culture. Do they genuinely believe same-sex marriage threatens their way of life?
They frame it that way. But their group was founded to address divorce and family breakdown. What they're really defending is a particular vision of what family should look like. To them, same-sex marriage is incompatible with that vision.
What's the significance of South Africa being the only other African country with legal same-sex marriage?
It shows how rare this is on the continent. Thirty-two of 54 African countries still criminalize same-sex relations. Some have actually gotten harsher in recent years. If Botswana wins, it breaks that pattern in a region that's been relatively more progressive than the rest of Africa.
Does the couple have a realistic chance?
That depends on the judges. The legal argument is sound but not overwhelming. The real question is whether the court is willing to read the Interpretation Act as superseding the Marriage Act's traditional definition. It's a close call.