I have never really been one to enjoy things ironically. It is perhaps strange in the era of 4chan voters and “ironic” consumption of Nazi culture, for a millennial to be so shy about irony. The truth is I’ve always been perplexed by such an ability in others; I once saw it as indicative of a luxurious access to things I did not have. In order to enjoy things ironically, I reasoned, one would have to have the kind of money and time to spend on things just for a laugh.

Yet, I myself have no excuse for my love of vaguely misogynist standup comedy. I cannot claim that I watch it ironically; that I laugh at the jokes just for a laugh, with a wink and nudge aimed at my more evolved self. I wish it were the case, so I wouldn’t have to humiliate myself on the internet. But here we are.

I was ashamed at some part of me. The part that could not express the complexity of my pained joy

The affliction became clear to me the night I watched a set with a friend. It was from a comedian I had seen in numerous black American films. He’d always played the token white guy or a hot-headed Irish-American cop. His name is Bill Burr. The friend I showed this special to was perhaps the most fitting witness of my plight. He was a card-carrying Democrat in an ocean of the republican midwest. An American liberal who had cried himself into a drunken sleep upon the election of Trump. He settled in, on that night, his Black Lives Matter badge glistening in the light of the TV, ready to laugh.

Burr began his set with his usual post-apocalyptic fantasies: jokes about the dark realm of the super-wealthy that controls the Earth (I laughed), jokes about the idiocy of adopting dogs that may have post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) – I confess, I laughed, and so on.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest ‘I was laughing uncontrollably as Bill Burr’s joke continued.’ Photograph: Sipa USA/Rex/Shutterstock

And then finally he began a joke with: “There’s no reason to hit a woman,” and then a pause. “Really?” he asked his stupefied audience. There were some uncomfortable chuckles from the audience – and even via the TV, one could sense the discomfort. I, on the other hand, was tearing up. Laughing uncontrollably as the joke continued. I looked over at my friend in between gulps for air and saw that his mouth was agape. He was horrified.

In the language Setswana, there is a saying: the greatest laughter is death – sometimes the tragedy of a situation is so great, that one can only laugh in the face of it. It is a laughter, not of triumph or defiance, but a laughter of defeat, of resignation. Whenever I think of this saying, I am reminded of high school – when my best friend and I would limp to school and share the tales of our whippings, the humiliations at the hands of our angry fathers, and how instead of weeping, we laughed. We laughed until the tears came out anyway, but this time they weren’t tears of pain and trauma, but tears of laughter in the face of defeat.

That night, when my friend and I watched that standup special, he kept pausing the video to look at me. “I can’t believe you’re laughing at this,” he’d say, and I’d feel a sudden anger. One, at the audacity to pause something that was bringing me joy, but also another a type of anger. A vicious feeling that made me want to say: “Cut the crap, you’re not really a feminist.” Neither angers were suitable or indeed real. I was ashamed at some part of me. The part that could not express the complexity of my pained joy. Why did I laugh so vigorously at these vaguely “men’s rights” jokes? Why, after all these years of therapy and PTSD counselling, did I still feel the need to laugh in the face of tragedy?

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I spoke to more women and they too confessed to their own twisted vices: a secret love of sexist rap music, secret crushes on womanising male leads, closeted “yo mama jokes” fanaticism. I began to wonder, why in this time of #MeToo and other campaigns to lift up the voices of abused women, did we still feel attracted to these dehumanising streams of entertainment.

I cannot claim my answer will be right for all. But, nonetheless I have a theory: perhaps, to live in a time so overwhelming, a time when the president of America confessed to harassing women with impunity, that in the darkened audience of a standup special, singing along to rap in our cars, and scribbling yo mama jokes on napkins during our breaks – perhaps in these roles, we gain a small power – the power of being anonymous in a crowd of complicity, a chance for once to be the tormentor and not the victim, to escape our vulnerability for even just a few moments.

Or maybe we’re still just laughing in the face of tragedy.

• Siyanda Mohutsiwa is a satirical writer and speaker from Botswana