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They say if you carry a cowrie, wealth will follow. So will love. So will favor. But in the same breath, some will warn: hide it from your pastor. The African cowrie—smooth, curved, mysterious—is a small object with a massive reputation. Found in the oceans, worn in braids, tucked into purses, used in prayers, feared in myths, cowries have travelled far, both physically and spiritually, across the African continent and deep into the soul of its cultures. But where do they come from, and why do they still stir such powerful emotions? Origins of a Shell Soaked in Symbolism Cowries are marine mollusk shells, most commonly from the species Cypraea moneta. Though found in the Indian and Pacific Oceans, they made their way into African societies centuries ago, riding on the waves of Indian Ocean trade routes. Arab traders, Portuguese merchants, and East African sailors brought them ashore not as trinkets, but as currency. And they caught on quickly. Historians believe that as early as the 14th century, cowries had become a widely accepted medium of exchange across West Africa. In the old Mali Empire, one could buy a goat, a bag of salt, or a bride with strings of cowries. But the shell was never just about commerce. Power, Protection, and the Pulse of the Spirit World In Yoruba cosmology, cowries were more than money; they were eyes. Eyes of the Orishas. Conduits of communication between mortals and the divine. Babalawos, the spiritual priests of Ifá, cast cowries like dice to divine futures. Aje, powerful feminine forces associated with creation and destruction, were said to be protectors of the cowrie’s mysteries. It’s this connection to the metaphysical that shaped the cowrie’s dual reputation. To some, it became sacred. To others, especially under colonial Christianity, it was something else. Today, many still associate cowries with divination practices, thanks in part to Nollywood portrayals where a string of cowries often signals that someone is in touch with “dark powers.” But this fear is largely born of misunderstanding. To the Yoruba, Igbo, and even the Akan of Ghana, some of the most prominent cowrie users historically, these shells are not evil. They are energy. They are the essence. A Symbol Now Flaunted Over time, as colonial rule imposed new currencies and cultural systems, the literal use of cowries as money declined. But their symbolic value only deepened. Where once they bought wares, today they adorn waists, necks, ears, and foreheads. Cowries have made a stunning comeback in African fashion, worn by both spiritualists and stylists. Braided into hair, stitched into agbadas, looped onto anklets. They carry a silent but confident nod to heritage. Cowries have become the aesthetic language of African pride. They’re seen on contemporary beadwork, minimalist jewelry, and even avant-garde fashion lines that reimagine African royalty. But with popularity comes dilution. Can the Cowrie Stay Sacred in a Mass-Market World? The resurgence of cowries in mainstream culture begs a vital question: Can a spiritual object survive commodification? While natural cowries are still harvested sustainably in many regions, mass production—especially of plastic imitations—has raised sustainability concerns. The deeper issue, however, lies in the cultural flattening. What happens when a sacred object becomes a fashion accessory stripped of its history? To keep its integrity intact, cultural educators, artisans, and spiritual leaders are pushing back—hosting workshops, leading storytelling sessions, and insisting that context matters. That it’s not just what you wear, but how and why. Why Cowries Speak to the Feminine Soul The cowrie’s slit-like opening, its smooth belly, its protective curve—these are not just anatomical features. In many African societies, they’re read as symbols of the womb. The feminine. The origin of life. This is why cowries are often worn by women trying to conceive, or sewn into fertility belts. It’s why they appear in dances celebrating womanhood, in initiation rituals, in goddess altars. The cowrie is the quiet symbol of creation, intuition, and inner power. To wear it is to call on ancestral memory. A Legacy That Refuses to Fall Some say the cowrie “died” when coins replaced it. But that’s far from the truth. The cowrie simply changed clothes. It went from currency to crown, from market to meaning. Yes, its reputation is complicated. But perhaps that’s what makes it so compelling. It’s not just a shell. It’s a mirror. It reflects what we see in ourselves—our history, our fears, our beauty, our power. And if you’ve ever felt drawn to one, found one on the sand and kept it, even if you didn’t know why, then maybe it’s calling you too. So, what does the cowrie mean to you? A charm? A crown? Written by Kemi Adedoyin

Once, our skin was scripture and once, the ink was language.Before paper, before politics, before photos could freeze memory, the African body was our canvas. A site of story and a vessel of spirit.  Before tattoos became Instagram filters and modern markers of rebellion or art, they were sacred scripts etched on skin as symbols of survival, lineage, status, and spirit. Across African cultures, tattoos and scarifications were not simply decorations; they were declarations of who you were, where you came from, who you belonged to. And often, who you might become. Tattoos were the truth. The art of marking the skin was known by different names, executed through different tools, and rooted in diverse traditions but its purpose was uncannily shared: to remember, to signify and to speak. In ancient Nubia and Kemet (Egypt), tattoos were found on female mummies dating back as early as 2000 BCE. Dots and dash-like patterns along the abdomen and thighs were believed to protect women during childbirth — an amulet worn not around the neck, but beneath the skin. In West Africa, the Yoruba called it ila, the Hausa, zane. Among the Amazigh (Berber) women of North Africa, facial tattoos in geometric arrangements spoke of identity and fertility, a visual code passed down from mother to daughter. The Dinka of South Sudan wore forehead marks after initiation; the Fulani, delicate curves that framed the eyes like poetry. Each culture had its grammar, its aesthetics, its rites. But the skin was always more than flesh. It was an archive. When the Skin Was a Passport In precolonial Africa, tattoos (and scarifications, often interlinked) served roles far deeper than aesthetics. They were passports, immediately communicating your ethnicity, family lineage, social class, or spiritual calling. Some markings were tribal, others medicinal. Some healed spiritual afflictions. Some repelled evil spirits. Others marked rites of passage: from girlhood to womanhood, boyhood to warriorhood. To be marked was to be seen. To be unmarked, sometimes, was to be unmade. Initiation into adulthood often came with pain not to glorify suffering, but to symbolise inner transformation. These markings weren’t about trends. They were about thresholds. They chronicled a journey. The pain had meaning, the meaning gave purpose, and the purpose bound one to community. It was not narcissistic individualism. It was communal symbolism. Then Came the Silence Colonialism rewrote the African body. Missionaries labelled our marks “pagan,” “barbaric,” “demonic.” Colonial administrators outlawed or discouraged traditional body art as backward, replacing skin-storytelling with stitched uniforms, Western names, and sanitized ideologies of the civilized. Churches preached salvation through erasure. Mosques, too, in some regions, warned against body modifications, even when centuries of practice said otherwise. With time, many tattooing and scarification traditions disappeared. Some forcibly, others voluntarily, as younger generations, seeking upward mobility, were taught to be ashamed of their cultural expressions. In urban centres, scarified faces were replaced with powdered ones. Adorned bodies became covered bodies. Identity became something to be hidden not worn. But the skin, ever loyal, remembers. Tattoos never left Africa. They simply changed form. No longer bound by initiation rites or community sanction, the modern African tattoo is deeply personal. It might be a phoenix, a child’s name, a favorite quote, or a reclaimed ancestral symbol,  a lover’s birthdate. For some, it’s pure artistry. For others, it’s healing. Some do it to rebel; others, to reconnect. They say, I own my body now. I choose my story. Today’s Ink Tattoos never left Africa. They simply changed form. No longer bound by initiation rites or community sanction, the modern African tattoo is deeply personal. It might be a phoenix, a child’s name, a favorite quote, or a reclaimed ancestral symbol,  a lover’s birthdate. For some, it’s pure artistry. For others, it’s healing. Some do it to rebel; others, to reconnect. They say, I own my body now. I choose my story. The Modern Tension Between Sacred and Sinful Despite the boom, tattoos remain controversial in many African societies. Ink is still taboo. Many parents view tattoos as symbols of recklessness, criminality, or lost morality. In conservative households, a visible tattoo can cost someone respect, employment, or marriage prospects. The Modern Tension Between Sacred and Sinful Despite the boom, tattoos remain controversial in many African societies. Ink is still taboo. Many parents view tattoos as symbols of recklessness, criminality, or lost morality. In conservative households, a visible tattoo can cost someone respect, employment, or marriage prospects. The stigma is often less about culture and more about colonial conditioning. What was once traditional is now labelled “un-African.” What was once sacred is now suspect. But this generation is asking difficult, necessary questions: Why are our ancestral marks considered defiance, while Western tattoos are seen as cool? Why do we fear what once gave us identity? Who decides what African looks like? Ink on Skin as Memory Tattoos are not new to Africa. What’s new is the language of autonomy around them. Today’s African youth are reinterpreting old symbols with new meaning, sometimes spiritual, sometimes aesthetic, sometimes political. For queer Africans, tattoos may signal chosen family. For feminist Africans, they may mark bodily autonomy. For diasporic Africans, they may signify a return to roots long buried. Tattoos were never just about beauty. They were about belief, belonging and about memory made flesh. Even now, beneath the skin of modernity, the ancient urge to mark meaning remains. Africa’s skin has never been blank. And its stories will not fade. Written by Kemi Adedoyin