Recent Posts

Written by Kemi Adedoyin In Eastern Nigeria, a grandmother leans over a pot of simmering egusi soup, instructing her granddaughter in measured, melodic Igbo: “Gbaa mmiri na ofe.” The child hesitates, confused, then responds in hesitant English, “What did you say, Grandma?” The elder sighs not just at the language barrier, but at what it signifies. Across Africa, scenes like this unfold every day. The question lingers in the air like unspoken history: Are we losing our mother tongues?A Crisis of Language & Identity Languages are not just tools for communication; they are vessels of worldview, memory, and identity. The African continent is home to over 2,000 languages, accounting for nearly a third of the world’s linguistic diversity. From Twi in Ghana to Shona in Zimbabwe, Lingala in the DRC, and Wolof in Senegal, African languages are deeply tied to indigenous knowledge systems, oral traditions, and cultural values. Yet many of these languages are at risk. UNESCO classifies more than 200 African languages as endangered, with some like Kw’adza (Tanzania) or Oropom (Uganda/Kenya) facing extinction. Alarmingly, even widely spoken tongues like Yoruba or Xhosa are experiencing subtle erosion, not in raw speaker numbers, but in fluency, context, and intergenerational transmission. Colonial Hangover or Modern Convenience? The decline of African mother tongues cannot be divorced from our colonial past. European powers imposed their languages, English, French, as tools of governance, education, and commerce. Post-independence, most African states retained these languages in their official capacities, cementing their dominance. It’s not uncommon to hear an African parent proudly say, “My child speaks perfect English,” but bristle when the same child struggles to speak their native dialect. In many urban African homes, English or French is the default medium of instruction, especially among middle-class families who associate mother tongue use with backwardness or rural life. Diaspora Dilemmas In the African diaspora, the situation is even more complex. African immigrants often find themselves raising children in countries where their languages are almost absent from the public sphere. A Nigerian-American child might know how to say “bawo ni” (how are you) in Yoruba, but not much else. In the UK or U.S., maintaining African languages often competes with assimilation pressures and a lack of institutional support. Yet, there’s also growing nostalgia. Many second-generation Africans are actively trying to reclaim what was lost. Language apps now teach Amharic, Tigrinya, Zulu, and Akan. Online platforms like YouTube and TikTok feature young Africans learning or laughing through tongue-twisters from their motherlands. That longing reveals something profound: even when language is lost, the desire for connection endures. Language is Power and Policy The slow vanishing of African languages is not just a cultural loss. It could be a political one. As Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o wrote in Decolonising the Mind, “Language carries culture, and culture carries the entire body of values by which we come to perceive ourselves and our place in the world.” To abandon African languages is, in some ways, to continue the colonial project of erasure. In Tanzania, the government has promoted Kiswahili as a unifying national language, even using it in parliamentary proceedings. South Africa’s constitution recognizes 11 official languages and encourages everyday use. In Senegal, Wolof is increasingly used in education and media, even if French remains dominant. Technology, too, is offering hope. Google recently expanded support for African languages in Translate. African developers are creating voice-to-text systems in Hausa, Igbo, and Kinyarwanda. What Happens When a Language Dies? When a language disappears, it’s not just words that are lost. Proverbs, lullabies, ritual chants, indigenous plant knowledge, and traditional law all evaporate into silence. No English translation can truly capture the wisdom of a Yoruba, Igbo, or Ewe proverb. Translate it literally, and the magic leaks out. Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o once remarked, “If you know all the languages of the world but don’t know your mother tongue, that is enslavement.” To lose a language is to lose a way of seeing the world. Can Africa afford that? So, Is the African Mother Tongue Vanishing? Yes and no. Some languages are dying. Others are transforming, evolving, or being revitalized. What’s clear is that we’re at a crossroads. If current trends continue unchecked, we could lose hundreds of tongues in a few generations. But if we act with intention and creativity, African mother tongues may not just survive. They could thrive. Parents must speak to their children in their language. Schools must value them. Governments must legislate for them. And we writers, techies, artists, and dreamers must use them. Not as relics, but as living, breathing vehicles of who we are. Because in the end, language is not just a means of communication. It is memory and rhythm. And it is ours to keep or let slip away.

Written by Kemi Adedoyin Where the Game Starts Every African man remembers a game. Not just one they played, but one that shaped them. In a dusty compound in Kano, boys chase each other through a chalk-drawn game of suwe. In a backyard in Kampala, bottle caps become racecars. In Abidjan, the sharp clap of ampe echoes as girls jump in rhythm, and a boy who wants to join is pulled back, told “that’s not for boys.” These games were never just games. They were rehearsals and tiny tests of masculinity. You learned to fight, to joke, to hide pain, to win. You learned what was allowed and what wasn’t. Who to be tough with and when to be silent. You learned that certain emotions had no place under the mango tree, or on the football pitch. No one ever said it outright. That’s the thing. No one told you: This is what a man does. You just knew not to dance too freely. Not to fall too hard. Long before African boys grow beards or hold jobs, they carry invisible rules in their bones. Things We Were Never Told In many parts of Africa, boyhood is not given time to linger. The shift from boy to man often happens too quickly, and without permission. You’re rarely sat down and told what a man is. Instead, you learn by watching. Fathers who speak little. Brothers who tough it out. Uncles who never explain their anger. And you copy them, even when you don’t understand what they’re holding back. One moment you’re hopping over bottle caps with laughter in your throat. The next, someone says, “You’re the man of the house now.” And the games end. But what do we lose when the games stop? When touch becomes guarded, when softness is mocked, when the boy inside the man is locked away for good? In the quiet, in private, many African men remember those early years with a kind of ache. They remember the joy of play before performance crept in. They remember the friend who hugged them without hesitation. The uncle who held their hand too long. The laughter that didn’t need defending. Some of them are finding ways back. Now, a group of men in their 30s gathers on weekends to play childhood games like igisoro, dara, ludo, and talk about what they wish they’d been told as boys. They speak, haltingly, about fear. About fathers who never spoke. About the moment they learned to stop crying. And perhaps, in these games, in these circles, in these small acts of return, a new masculinity is being shaped, one that begins not with power, but with play. What if African masculinity isn’t something to be fixed or softened but simply remembered?What if, beneath the tough man in the agbada or suit, the silent boss, the impatient father, there’s a boy still waiting to be seen? In many traditional African societies, masculinity wasn’t just about protection or provision, it was about presence. A real man was one who stayed. One who nurtured crops and children. One who wept at funerals without shame. One who mentored, held, showed up. These qualities don’t arrive with age. They are seeded in boyhood in how we are allowed to play, to speak, to grieve, to fail. Masculinity Has Memory The future of African masculinity will be shaped in backyards, schoolyards, living rooms, and football fields. It will be shaped by whether boys are told they can cry and climb trees. Whether they are allowed to lose and be loved. Whether they are taught to win without dominance, to lead without violence. Because the boy who would be a man is always watching, learning, remembering. And if we give him permission to be full, to laugh, stumble, hold hands, ask for help, maybe the man he becomes will not have to break to feel whole.

Written by Kemi Adedoyin There’s a desire many Africans have. A desire to be lighter, fairer, closer to some imagined ideal of beauty. Across the continent, skin bleaching has become one of the most persistent and polarising issues, an aesthetic decision wrapped in layers of history, economics, self-worth, and global influence. It’s on the shelves of corner shops, stacked next to toothpaste and hair relaxers. It’s whispered in compliments like, “You’ve gotten lighter, what’s your secret?” It’s flaunted on Instagram in curated selfies and heavily-filtered perfection. And perhaps most painfully, it is etched into the skin of countless African women and increasingly, men who risk their health to conform to a standard. But this isn’t only about vanity. It’s about society. About what we’ve internalized, and about the price people pay to belong. Where It All Began Skin bleaching didn’t begin in a beauty salon. It began in the mind. Beyond creams and chemicals, what made dark skin something to fix? Who taught us that lighter was better? And why did that lesson stick? Before most African countries gained their independence, the lighter you were, the closer you seemed to power. Europeans not only dominated political systems but also defined beauty standards. In colonial courts, churches, and schools, whiteness was not just idealized; it was institutionalized. Dark skin became associated with servitude, backwardness, and inferiority. Lightness was aspirational. Darkness was a burden. In post-independence Africa, these hierarchies did not vanish. They mutated. In the decades that followed, the emergence of Western media: films, fashion, and advertising, continued to center Eurocentric features. The African elite, often Western-educated or exposed, became the new standard-bearers of modernity. In many countries, fairer-skinned individuals began to be perceived as more educated, more polished, and more desirable. Even in local TV dramas and music videos, it’s the light-skinned woman who is cast as the love interest, and the light-skinned man who gets the promotion. Over time, bleaching became less about becoming white and more about becoming worthy. It was a ticket, real or imagined, to love, to status, to safety. A way to be seen in a society that often looked right through you if you were dark. It’s no coincidence that many bleaching products are called perfect white, caste, brightening cream, lightening & glow. They are selling more than skin tone. They are selling transformation. The promise of being upgraded. And when society is built to reward lightness, is it any surprise that people start chasing it? Today, this pursuit is no longer just about the colonial hangover. It is fed by modern pressures: class divisions, romantic preference, and even algorithmic bias. The beauty industry thrives on insecurity, and in Africa, it has found a goldmine in skin color. Bleaching by the Numbers According to the World Health Organization, over 75% of Nigerian women use skin-lightening products, with similarly high rates reported in Togo, Senegal, Mali, and South Africa. The global skin-lightening industry is projected to surpass $11 billion by 2026, with a dangerous obsession in Nigeria and Africa contributing a significant share. It is a booming business. From street-side concoctions mixed in plastic bowls to high-end cosmetics branded with pseudo-scientific claims, the market is unregulated and saturated. Creams, soaps, injections, pills, all promising a better version of yourself, if only you were lighter. But the consequences are dire. Prolonged use of hydroquinone, mercury, and corticosteroids, common ingredients in many bleaching products, can cause permanent skin damage, kidney failure, and even cancer. Still, the allure of being light outweighs the fear for many. Beneath the statistics lies a deeper story: one of people who believe they must change their skin to change their fate. The Digital Skin Social media has only made the issue more complicated. Filters blur the lines between skin tone and fantasy. Influencers push lightening products to millions of followers under the guise of skincare. Some celebrities even deny bleaching while visibly altering their appearance over time. Online, a new kind of pressure thrives, one where “glow up” often means “lighten up.” The hashtags may say #melaninmagic, but the algorithms reward Eurocentric beauty. There’s an emerging trend of people using digital enhancement to appear lighter, even when they haven’t physically bleached. In a way, bleaching has evolved from skin-deep to pixel-deep. Even in the digital realm, dark skin is still being airbrushed away. The Path Forward The fight against skin bleaching is not about shaming those who bleach. It is about dismantling the structures, social, historical, and economic, that make bleaching feel necessary in the first place. It’s about teaching our children that beauty is not a spectrum where the lightest always wins. It’s about reforming media and advertising to reflect real African beauty in all its hues. It’s about governments regulating harmful products and holding brands accountable. It’s about conversations in homes, in salons, in churches, on the streets. And perhaps most importantly, it’s about healing. Because skin bleaching is a wound, a painful one, that tells us we are not enough as we are. But we are. To be African is to be many things-resilient, resourceful, radiant. Our skin has survived the sun, war, famine, and myth.