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Written by Dumebi Favour Ezekeke When people think about skincare these days, the first thing that comes to mind is usually high-end luxury brands like La Mer, Estée Lauder, or Dior. Or they think about Korean beauty, with its ten-step routines and glass skin promises. But before we started following global trends and sourcing chemicals to perform so-called “natural” tricks, there were oils, clays, and herbs in Africa that were used for centuries to nourish, heal, and protect the skin. Some of these remedies are still being used quietly today. They include: ● Shea Butter (West Africa): Growing up in a typical west African household, it was almost criminal to not have a container or two of shea butter lying around. Whenever children suffered a cut, burn or rash with no explanation, the first thing you would hear was; ‘Go and bring the shea butter container’. Although it does go by different names in different ethnicities (i.e Ori in Yoruba, Okoma in Igbo, Nkuto in Ghana, Karité in Senegal/Mali), its benefits to the skin are universal.   Shea butter is rich in vitamins A and E, making it one of the most effective natural moisturizers. It softens dry skin, reduces inflammation, soothes irritations, and even aids in fading scars and stretch marks. In some cultures, it was massaged onto newborns to protect their delicate skin and used on mothers to aid postpartum healing. Although its packaging continues to change with the trend, it still remains as useful and as effective as when it sat in simple containers in our grandparents’ rooms. ● African Black Soap (Ghana and Nigeria) Made traditionally from the ash of plantain skins, cocoa pods, and palm kernel oil, it has a reputation for gently cleansing while balancing the skin. Many women still swear by its ability to fade blemishes and even out skin tone without stripping natural oils. In fact, in some Ghanaian communities, black soap was also used for hair and even for bathing newborn babies because of its mild but effective nature. Black soap is more than just a cleanser. It is antibacterial, making it useful for calming acne and reducing body odor. Because it contains natural oils, it does not leave the skin feeling tight or overly dry. In some Nigerian households, families would buy large blocks of the soap at local markets and cut them into smaller pieces for daily use. In Ghana, it was also sometimes grated and mixed with honey or shea butter to make it even gentler for sensitive skin.Today, you could find it as Dudu Osun (or Ose Dudu) in Yoruba households and Alata Samina in Ghana. Regardless of its name, its benefits remain the same. ● Aloe Vera (North and East Africa)Aloe is not new. It was cultivated in ancient Egypt and referred to as the “plant of immortality.” For centuries, it has been applied directly to the skin to soothe burns, calm acne, and lock in moisture. In places like Sudan and Somalia, families would keep aloe plants in clay pots and use the fresh gel as a quick remedy for dryness or irritation. But its use doesn’t stop at skincare. Aloe vera has long been trusted in African households for maintaining natural hair. The gel can be massaged into the scalp to reduce dandruff, ease itching, and encourage healthy growth, while also doubling as a natural conditioner to soften and detangle curls. Today, aloe sits at the heart of many “natural hair” routines, showing how traditions quietly shape even the modern beauty industry. ● Clays like Rhassoul and Kaolin (North and West Africa)Long before “detox masks” became a thing, clays were part of traditional African skincare. In Morocco, rhassoul clay was used in hammams (traditional baths) to cleanse, soften, and brighten the skin. Rich in magnesium, silica, and potassium, it was applied to both the body and hair, often mixed with rose water or argan oil for added nourishment. Hammam rituals were not just about beauty but about purification; a deep cleansing of both body and spirit. In Nigeria and other parts of West Africa, kaolin clay was sometimes applied as a natural face mask to absorb oil and refresh the skin. Known locally as nzu in Igbo culture, kaolin was also ingested in small amounts for medicinal purposes. Its versatility made it a household staple: soothing skin irritations, calming inflammation, and serving as a natural exfoliator. These clays are mineral-rich, gentle on the skin, and remind us that African beauty routines were always about working with the earth, not against it. Even today, you’ll find rhassoul and kaolin in modern masks and scrubs, though their traditional use remains unmatched in simplicity and purity. ● Honey (across Africa)Another timeless beauty staple is honey, treasured across many African cultures not only as food but also as medicine and skincare. In ancient Egypt, honey was mixed with milk to create face masks for glowing skin. In Ethiopia, raw honey was applied to wounds and burns for its antibacterial properties, while women used it as a natural humectant to lock in moisture. Honey’s benefits are wide: it hydrates dry skin, reduces breakouts thanks to its antimicrobial nature, and gently exfoliates when used as a scrub. In some households, it was combined with shea butter or black soap to make soothing pastes for sensitive skin. Today, you’d find honey infused in luxury serums and scrubs, but that does not deter the fact that it still remains twice as effective in its purest form.

Written by Kemi Adedoyin In Africa, the calendar is not just measured in months or seasons but also in gatherings. A year feels unfinished if you haven’t stood in a crowded square, tasted smoke rising from a street grill, heard trumpets, drums or chants cut through the air, or seen costumes so bold they seem to step out of myth. Festivals are not extras in African life, they are the punctuation marks of the year, the cultural heartbeat that reminds us of who we are, where we come from, and where we’re going. From the sacred Osun-Osogbo Festival in Nigeria to Ghana’s Panafest, to South Africa’s Reed Dance and to Morocco’s Gnaoua World Music Festival among many others, every corner of the continent tells a vibrant story through celebration. And for Africans in the diaspora, it can be a moment to return back to reconnecting to their land. But why are these gatherings so essential? And which ones should you mark on your calendar if you want to experience Africa at its most alive? The Importance of an African Cultural Festival African festivals are more than entertainment; they are acts of cultural survival. Every mask, drumbeat, and dance step says something. When people gather for Homowo in Ghana, they are preserving a centuries-old ritual that once marked famine and triumph. When Benin hosts the Ouidah Voodoo Festival, it is reclaiming a spiritual tradition once demonized by colonial narratives. The African festivals are even more crucial as they are lifelines to spirituality. And for Africans outside the continent, it’s a reunion. This is why we have Afro Nation or Afrochella (now AfroFuture. They provide a way to belong, even thousands of miles away, through music, food, and collective memory. To come home is merely just visiting, it is to recharge at the wellspring of culture. Why the Year is Never Complete Without African Festivals Ask an African what they remember most vividly from a year past, and chances are it’s not the bills, the elections, or the daily grind, it is most likely a festival moment. The masquerade that startled a child. The pounding drums, the outfit prepared months in advance, the taste of the food and local drinks. Festivals offer something that neither modern life nor digital screens can replicate, which is presence. They force us into the immediacy of sound, movement, and togetherness. They dissolve hierarchies. You could see politicians dance alongside mechanics, academics eat alongside traders. For a brief moment, the rigidities of life bend to the softness of joy. And perhaps most importantly, festivals ensure that Africans never lose themselves to the noise of globalization. Festivals can be an act of resistance. They remind us that being African is not just about geography, but about rhythm, ritual, and relentless celebration. The Top Cultural Festivals in Africa You Shouldn’t Miss If you want to understand the continent, not from news headlines, but from the inside, you must experience its festivals. Here are some of the most iconic and unmissable cultural festivals in Africa: 1. Osun-Osogbo Festival (Nigeria) Every August, devotees, tourists, and artists gather in Osogbo, Nigeria, to honor Osun, the Yoruba goddess of fertility. The sacred grove, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, becomes alive with chants, processions, and offerings. It’s one of Africa’s most enduring spiritual traditions. 2. Timkat (Ethiopia) Timkat, celebrated every January, reenacts the baptism of Christ. Priests in white robes parade with replicas of the Ark of the Covenant, while thousands of faithful immerse themselves in water for renewal. In cities like Gondar, it becomes a breathtaking sea of devotion and pageantry. 3. Lake of Stars Festival (Malawi) Set on the shores of Lake Malawi, this three-day event mixes African music, art, and cultural workshops. What started in 2004 as a small gathering has become one of Africa’s most celebrated arts festivals, attracting performers and audiences from across the world. 4. FESPACO (Burkina Faso) The Pan-African Film and Television Festival of Ouagadougou (FESPACO) is Africa’s biggest film festival. Every two years, filmmakers, critics, and cinephiles converge in Burkina Faso to celebrate African cinema and storytelling. 5. Ouidah Voodoo Festival (Benin) Every January 10th, Ouidah transforms into a stage for drumming, dancing, and rituals celebrating Vodun (Voodoo). It’s a spiritual homecoming, honoring ancestors and reclaiming traditions once misunderstood or demonized. 6. Cape Town International Jazz Festival (South Africa) Dubbed “Africa’s Grandest Gathering,” this festival draws jazz icons and music lovers from around the globe. More than just jazz, it’s a cultural showcase of African rhythm, fusion, and innovation. 7. Durbar Festival (Nigeria) In Northern Nigeria, Durbar marks the end of Ramadan with processions of horsemen in elaborate attire, Islamic prayers, and communal feasting. It is a dazzling blend of religion, royalty, and tradition. 8. Chale Wote Street Art Festival (Ghana) Accra’s streets become a canvas each August, with murals, performances, installations, and experimental art. Chale Wote has turned Jamestown into Africa’s most vibrant laboratory of creativity. To say “the year isn’t complete without an African festival” is not cliché, it is the truth. It is recognition that festivals are not add-ons to African life but its very fabric. They are where the sacred meets the everyday, where the ancestral meets the modern, where the continent meets its diaspora in one heartbeat. So yes, the year may have twelve months, but for Africans, the year is not measured only in dates. It is measured in festivals. And without them, the year does not just end quietly, it ends unfinished.

African Must-See Movies: Stories You Shouldn’t Miss What if the best way to understand Africa was through movies? African cinema tells stories of struggle, survival, love, politics, and dreams. These films carry the rhythm of African life, the voice of its people, and the questions we still wrestle with today. Here are 11 movies that capture the heart of the African continent, each with a story worth knowing. Night of the Kings Inside a prison in Abidjan, a young man is forced to tell stories through the night to keep himself alive. As he speaks, the prisoners around him act out his words in song, dance, and ritual. Directed by Philippe Lacôte, this is more than a prison drama; it’s about the power of storytelling in African culture, where words themselves can be survival. 4.4.44   At its core, this is a story about fate and how choices from the past refuse to stay buried. Secrets return, and the present is forced to reckon with them. Directed by Izu Ojukwu, the film mixes suspense with deeply Nigerian textures, showing how African cinema often blends mystery with culture and morality. Saloum Three mercenaries – the Bangui Hyenas, escape a coup in Guinea-Bissau and crash-land in the eerie stillness of Senegal’s Saloum Delta. At first, it feels like a slick action adventure. But as night falls, something older, darker, and supernatural awakens. Director Jean Luc Herbulot reinvents African genre cinema, fusing Western tropes, mystical folklore, and horror into one. Saloum is as much about violence and revenge as it is about confronting ancestral spirits, and the price of secrets buried too deep. Bàttu In Dakar, beggars are removed from the streets in the name of “progress.” But instead of disappearing, they rise to resist. Directed by Cheick Oumar Sissoko, Bàttu is based on Aminata Sow Fall’s novel and questions how a society treats its most vulnerable. It’s a story of human resilience, a moral drama that critiques the cruelty of exclusion and questions whether development can ever be just if it leaves the vulnerable behind. Queen of Katwe Phiona Mutesi, a young girl selling maize in Kampala’s Katwe slum, stumbles upon a game of chess. What begins as curiosity transforms into destiny, as she rises to become a national chess champion. Directed by Mira Nair, the film is both tender and triumphant, balancing the grit of everyday life with the glow of possibility. Lupita Nyong’o’s performance as Phiona’s mother is magnetic, grounding the film in the fierce, everyday strength of African womanhood. This is not just a sports drama, it’s an ode to hope born in unlikely places. Mother of George Adenike and Ayodele are newly married, but as the months pass without a child, family pressure mounts. Adenike faces a painful choice: preserve tradition or preserve her marriage. The film is visually stunning, filled with color and texture, while exploring how tradition, family, and personal choice collide. It is a story of love under pressure, directed by Andrew Dosunmu, it is one that resonates across cultures but is deeply rooted in Nigerian life. The Athlete Before the world knew his name, Abebe Bikila ran barefoot to Olympic gold in Rome, becoming not just a champion but a symbol of African pride on the global stage. The Athlete, co-directed by Rasselas Lakew and Davey Frankel, captures both his triumphs and his tragedy, including the car accident that left him paralyzed. Yet even in despair, Bikila’s dignity shines. How to Steal 2 Million Fresh out of prison, Jack is drawn into one last heist with his old crew. But betrayal simmers, loyalties fracture, and survival becomes the only currency. Beneath the heist narrative lies a story about friendship, greed, and the heavy weight of choices made in desperation. God is African When a Nigerian student in Johannesburg gets caught up in student activism, he is forced to confront not only South Africa’s turbulent politics but also the question of pan-African solidarity. Akin Omotoso mixes humor, sharp commentary, and a youthful energy that reflects the restless urgency of a new generation. It’s a film that speaks to the continent’s diversity and shared struggles. Bamako In a courtyard in Bamako, ordinary life carries on, but at the same time, the World Bank and IMF are put on trial for Africa’s economic troubles. Bamako is part courtroom drama, part political essay, and part everyday realism. It forces viewers to confront the global forces that shape African lives, without ever losing sight of the small, intimate details of ordinary existence.. A Country Called Ghana Directed by Kwaw Ansah, one of West Africa’s most celebrated filmmakers, this film looks at Ghana through the lens of history, corruption, and identity. It is a love letter to the nation but also a sharp critique of its struggles. Ansah uses film not just to tell a story but to question what it means to be a citizen of a country still defining its place in the world.

Written By Dumebi Favour Ezekeke On the 26th of July, 2025, Grammy-winning singer Ciara shocked the world again. Not with a new single or a popular dance trend, but by becoming one of the first public figures to receive citizenship in the Benin Republic. This was celebrated in a public ceremony in Cotonou and by an Instagram post where she thanked the Beninese government for “opening its arms and heart to her.” While this news went viral, she is not the first celebrity or African American to trace their origins and find their way back to Africa. In January 2020, African American rapper and songwriter; Ludacris received citizenship in Gabon along with his mother and daughters. In May 2024, music legend Stevie Wonder also received Ghanaian citizenship from then-President Nana Akufo-Addo. Public figures aside, Africans in the diaspora are coming back to Africa in growing numbers. Some are obtaining citizenship, while others are pursuing education and deepening their understanding of their heritage. Many are also choosing to develop or start businesses on African soil that they hope will be impactful to the next generation. These changes stand out, especially at a time when diaspora wars on social media platforms seem to have reignited. This article looks at the reasons for this emigration, the history behind it, and why, for many people of African heritage, all roads now lead back to the motherland. What Sparked the Mass Return? In the year 2000, Ghana did an audacious thing. The country passed the ‘Right of Abode’ Law. This basically meant that any person of African descent in the diaspora, could live or work in Ghana without a permit. Provided that they are contributing substantially to the country’s development. Seven years later, Ghana stretched its hands out to the diaspora again with the Joseph Project. Which commemorated 200 years since the abolition of slavery by the British Parliament and again, calling the African diaspora to return home. This event went farther than the first, but it still stayed in the shadows. It was the Year of Return in 2019 that truly lit the match on all that the country had been trying to do since 2000. What started as a campaign mainly aimed at natural-born Ghanaians who had relocated abroad for one reason or another, spilled over to the wider diaspora and became an internet frenzy. Instagram reels of people taking videos on Ghana’s streets. Emotional videos of first-time visitors walking through the door of No Return. Celebrities like Steve Harvey going on his show to publicly discuss how he felt when he walked through the door. And influencers posting ‘before and after’ DNA results followed by their arrival into Accra, became the order of the day. To a layman, this could’ve felt like mere tourism. But for the people of African descent, it was way deeper than that. People started looking at land, scouting for business opportunities and applying for residency. By the end of the first year, over a thousand people from the diaspora had either been granted citizenship or Right of Abode in Ghana. And, this number is predicted to increase in the coming years, because this trend of returning is simply at the beginning. Now you may be wondering why Ghana is the core focus of this section. The truth is that they were the first to take up the baton. Over time, other African countries joined the race in their own ways too. In East Africa, Kenya began connecting with its diaspora through investment conferences, heritage tours and programs that made it easier for Kenyans abroad to reconnect with their roots. In West Africa, Gabon made headlines in 2020 when it welcomed Ludacris and his family as citizens. Ludacris, on the other hand, seemed to take it a step further by posting viral videos on social media that showcased his daily activities and experiences with the people of Gabon. Benin Republic also opened its doors in September, 2024. By enacting the My Afro-Origins Law. Which basically grants citizenships to people who can trace their ancestry to Africans taken from the region during the trans-Atlantic slave trade. Less than a year later, this policy became more than words on paper when Ciara honored it and received a Beninese citizenship. So far, Ghana, Guinea-Bissau, and Benin Republic are the only countries in West Africa to enact such “My Afro” laws, but it is a wave that is likely to grow in the coming years. Why is This Happening Now? Africans on the continent often react with shock or disbelief, when they hear that people from the diaspora are choosing to return. Especially at a time when so many locals are trying to leave. For those at home, leaving often means chasing better opportunities, safety, or stability. For those abroad, coming back can mean searching for belonging, reconnecting with culture, or investing in the future here. The contrast is striking, and it shows how different experiences can shape how we see the same place. In April 2025, Edith Kimani hosted a public debate on  Deutsche Welle (DW) where Ghanaian locals openly questioned whether returnees were simply coming back because they had made enough money abroad and now saw little future there. But for the returnees, the story couldn’t be more different. It was not about the money but the pull of belonging. That indescribable comfort of tracing your roots, reconnecting with family and being seen for who you truly are, without anything attached. Similarly, in a research on Sierra Leonean diaspora tourists, participants described how visiting their homeland eased isolation, deepened emotional ties to the land and brought psychological healing. Steve Harvey once captured these feelings in much simpler terms: In foreign lands, he felt weighed down by race and labels. But back home, those labels slip away. ‘You’re no longer known as the “other”, you’re just yourself; walking, living and belonging”. This proves that these changes are not just mere social media trends or FOMO. It’s a deep human urge

Written by: Dumebi Favour Ezekeke Are dolls mere toys? African girls of the 21st century, like me, still vividly remember our Barbie years. Yes. That period when a doll and a string of cartoons sparked an entire era of pop culture, music, beauty, and fashion standards. At the time, our interactions with these dolls seemed harmless. Barbie dolls came across as a beautiful and incredibly cool representation of a female lead character we saw on our screens. But I remember wishing my Afro hair could grow long and silky like Barbie’s. I wished my waist could shrink into the kind of figure that let you wear Barbie’s outfits. I wanted the songs, the sparkle, the fantasy. And I know I wasn’t the only one. In fact, the Barbie culture ran so deep that it seeped into celebrity culture and mainstream music. Nicki Minaj, for instance, continues to embody what a “real-life” Barbie should look like. And at the time she took on the name, girls like me; watching from the other side of the screen, saw her as proof that Barbie could be real. But the sad part was, she still didn’t look like the average Black girl. These dolls carried quiet messages about what beauty should be. And somehow, we were made to feel wrong for not being a part of it. This reflects the deeper truth about dolls and their significance; they are not just toys. They are symbols. And Barbie is not the only one that has carried this kind of weight. Long before her, African doll-making was a practice deeply tied to womanhood, fertility, ancestry, and identity. But the message of “civilization” that colonialism brought along branded these traditions as primitive. It called the craft “witchcraft” and erased it from cultural memory. But what did we lose when we stopped making our dolls? What stories did traditional African dolls tell? Unlike the average Barbie or commercialized dolls found in markets today, African traditional dolls rarely aimed to replicate the female body or push any standards of what physical beauty should look like. Even though the process itself was often an art passed down from mother to child. In many parts of Southern Africa, for instance, girls were taught by older women (usually their mothers) in their families, to sew, crochet and design clothing for their dolls. According to the Australian Institute of Arts, this early engagement of doll making for young girls helped in shaping their abilities to imagine, create or express themselves.  In other words, under such circumstances, the doll itself (or what it should look like) was never the issue. It was the act of creating that mattered. Doll making wasn’t just about shaping creative processes. It was also about giving young African girls a sense of belonging. Like; ‘I am allowed to create what I play with and not just buy it off the market’. Read that again.  This freedom meant that no two dolls had to look alike. Some had elongated necks stacked with beads. Others had exaggerated heads or no facial features at all. Some were wrapped in fabric with intricate patterns, while others were carved from wood and adorned with cowrie shells. They didn’t come out of factories, they came out of the mind.  This may be one of the reasons why it was easy (especially under colonial and missionary eyes), to look at these dolls as figures of witchcraft and not as symbols of cultural and creative exploration.  The creative exploration of female identity through traditional doll-making was only one version of its significance. Dolls were also often deemed as gifts, goodluck charms and symbols of deep cultural and spiritual meanings. Some notable examples of such dolls includes: Ndebele Dolls: Deeply rooted in the Ndebele culture of Southern Africa, Ndebele dolls were not just symbols of tradition, but of femininity itself. They were often gifted to young girls by their mothers or grandmothers at different stages of life. And because of this, the dolls came in different variations. There were dolls for fertility, for coming of age, for ancestral lineage, and for spiritual connection to the community. Each one marked a moment. Each one carried a message. They were the clearest depiction of what Ndebele femininity looked like, or what a woman was expected to grow into as she got older. Ere Ibeji Dolls Alternatively known as ‘twin memorial dolls’, the Ere Ibeji are deeply rooted in the Yoruba tradition of Southern Nigeria. They were often sculpted after the death of one twin, not as toys, but as spiritual placeholders. These dolls were never played with. Instead, they were cared for by the mothers as if they were the living child. Many times, the mothers bathed the carved figures in special oils, dressed them, fed them, and even danced with them during festivals. The making of these dolls was rooted in the belief that twins share one soul. So, when one passes, it becomes necessary to create another figure to maintain spiritual balance between the twins, regardless of the distance or realm one of them may have crossed into. Namji dolls Namji dolls of Cameroon also held deep cultural and spiritual significance, much like the Ndebele dolls. These dolls were often given to brides on their wedding day as symbols of good fortune during childbirth. They were carved from wood and adorned with beads, cowrie shells, and sometimes coins. Each item is believed to carry spiritual or fertility power. Some were also given to young girls, who cared for them like real children, learning early how to nurture and take responsibility. More than just symbols of motherhood, Namji dolls carried the spiritual weight of femininity in the Namji culture.  How African Traditional Dolls became witchcraft The answer to this question can be summed up in one word; colonialism. Sure, in our history and government classes back in secondary school, most of us were told that colonialism was justified because it came to ‘civilize’ the so-called primitive cultures and

Between Wi-Fi, weekend brunch, and wallet panic: A playful but piercing look at Africa’s most fragile social tier. The Soft Life Starter Pack There’s a kind of African who will argue with a market woman or their Uber driver over 50 rand, 2,000 francs, or 1,500 naira then walk into a restaurant and pay four times that for a Daiquiri cocktail and steak. They might earn in cedis but dream in dollars. They probably have a 9–5, three side hustles, and one burner Twitter account. They rent in Lekki or Kilimani, live on data bundles, say things like “I’m in tech,” and buy things in instalments. They’ve made soft life a mantra, but still sweat each debit alert like it’s a robbery. This, allegedly, is the African middle class. But who are they, really? And do they even exist? Definitions Are for the IMF The World Bank tried to define the African middle class. Then gave up. The African Development Bank had a go too: they said if you earn between $2 and $20 a day, you’re middle class. Two dollars a day. Middle Class? Your rent just laughed in three languages. See, the problem is that most of these definitions were cooked up in Geneva boardrooms and tested against economies that aren’t trying to survive both corruption and currency crashes. What does “middle class” mean in societies where you have DSTV but no electricity, where a Master’s degree still doesn’t get you your own apartment, or where you can afford a quick trip to Dubai but can’t afford to fall sick? We’re not dealing with a class. We’re dealing with vibes, a lifestyle held together by social pressure, secondhand Wi-Fi, and just enough money to look like you have more money. Everyone is Faking Stability In African cities today, appearance is capital. You dress the part, speak the part, tweet the part, even when your reality is bouncing like a bad cheque. You might look like a “young African professional,” but: Your salary disappears on the 3rd of the month. You go to therapy and pay with borrowed money. You’re investing in crypto but owe your tailor. It’s more of survival. We live in societies where success is often measured by what you show, not what you save. Where weddings are funded by loans, and Instagram reels have more influence than economic policies. The middle class here isn’t rich; they just have access to language, to visas (if they’re lucky), to a certain kind of curated modernity. But that access is slippery. You miss one paycheck, and the whole illusion collapses. The Hustle is the Economy One thing is true- there are no stable jobs. There are only gigs, grants, freelance contracts, and partnership opportunities. That’s why the African middle class is always in motion. By day, they’re accountants. By night, they’re MCs. On weekends, they run a thrift business on IG, and Monday mornings, they’re writing pitch decks for someone else’s startup. This is the real engine of urban life in Africa: educated, ambitious people doing the most to stay afloat. They sell wigs, they host webinars, they run social media pages for brands that can’t pay them. It’s a condition. One that’s too educated to be poor, too broke to be rich, and too tired to explain it. So, Are They Real or Not? Yes, the African middle class exists. But not in the way it’s written in reports. They are not a number. They are a mood, a compromise. They are stuck in traffic, making voice notes about their startup. They are fluent in three languages: English, emoji, and silence. They are tired, hopeful, stylish, and occasionally delusional. What defines them is not income, it’s instability wrapped in confidence. The Most Expensive Illusion on the Continent Being middle class in Africa often means this: You earn just enough to dream, but not enough to rest. You belong everywhere and nowhere. You know the taste of imported wine and the sting of a bounced debit card. Maybe the African middle class isn’t fake. Maybe it’s just fragile. Written by Kemi Adedoyin 

Written by Kemi Adedoyin With so many official languages in Africa, no one has ever heard of N|uu to be considered as an official language.  Once spoken freely across the arid plains of the Northern Cape, N|uu predates all languages by thousands of years. It is one of the oldest known languages that shaped how the ǂKhomani San people understood the world. Today, only one person speaks it fluently: a 90-year-old woman named Ouma Katrina Esau. She is the last echo of a language that has survived colonization, forced assimilation, and near-erasure. A Language That Carries Time N|uu belongs to the Tuu family of click languages, spoken by the ǂKhomani San people, who are indigenous hunter-gatherers and whose history stretches back over 20,000 years. If you’re wondering who the San people are, think of the Africans or the main actor in the movie “The Gods Must be Crazy”. The language is considered a highly endangered language complex, boasting over 100 distinct phonemes, including five different types of clicks. Each sound, each rhythm, holds cultural and ecological knowledge passed down orally through generations. Erasure by Force But like many Indigenous languages, N|uu was nearly extinguished not by time, but by policy. Colonial expansion in southern Africa violently displaced the San from their lands. Then came apartheid, which classified the ǂKhomani as “Coloured,” erasing their ethnic identity and forcing them into Afrikaans-speaking communities. San children, including Ouma Katrina, were forbidden from speaking their mother tongue in school. Many were beaten for it. Over time, younger generations lost the language entirely, not out of choice, but out of fear and shame. By the late 20th century, N|uu had all but disappeared. It was widely assumed to be extinct. But in the early 1990s, researchers discovered that several elderly San women in the Northern Cape still spoke it haltingly, privately, and with deep emotion. Among them was Katrina Esau, who had never received a formal education but held within her a full, living memory of the language. A Personal Mission Becomes Global After the death of her sister Anna in 2021, Ouma Katrina became the last known fluent speaker of N|uu. For most people, this would be a burden too heavy to carry. But for her, it became a mission. With the help of her granddaughter, Claudia Snyman, and the support of a small group of linguists and cultural workers, Ouma Katrina began teaching basic N|uu to local children. She introduced a new generation to a language they’d never heard, but that belonged to them. She also worked with experts to create a digital N|uu dictionary, developed learning materials and co-authored a children’s book, Qhoi n|a Tijho (Tortoise and Ostrich), written in N|uu and English. Her voice has been recorded and archived, capturing pronunciation, tone, and cadence. For her efforts, she has received multiple national honors, including the Order of the Baobab (Silver), and was awarded an honorary doctorate from the University of Cape Town in 2023. But accolades mean less to her than the children who now know how to say “hello” or sing a lullaby in N|uu. The Fragility of One Voice Despite her work, the reality remains sobering that there are no other fluent speakers. Children are learning basic words and phrases, but none have achieved fluency. The challenge is immense. A language that evolved over millennia cannot be revived in a decade, especially without systemic support, government funding, or integration into formal education systems. Still, the fact that N|uu exists at all today is nothing short of remarkable. And it exists because of one woman’s refusal to let it vanish. What’s at stake is more than words. When a language dies, an entire way of seeing the world disappears with it. Ecological knowledge, oral history, philosophy, humor, spirituality – all embedded in the structure of a language- are lost. The erosion of N|uu mirrors a global crisis; nearly half of the world’s 7,000 languages are at risk of extinction by the end of the century. Most of them are Indigenous. Most are unrecorded. Most will be lost silently. What Is Lost When a Language Dies? Losing a language is not just a linguistic tragedy, it is the loss of a worldview. Languages shape how people relate to nature, time, memory, and each other. The disappearance of languages like N|uu also raises critical questions about what development and modernity have cost Indigenous communities, whose cultural knowledge has often been dismissed in favor of colonial languages and frameworks. A Legacy Beyond Language Ouma Katrina’s work has transformed her from a quiet matriarch into a cultural icon. But she doesn’t see herself that way. To her, teaching N|uu is about restoring dignity to herself, to her people, and to the land that shaped them. She often says she is not fighting for herself but for future generations. For the children who will one day know who they are not just by what they see, but by what they say and how they say it. If the clicks of N|uu survive, even in fragments, they will carry her voice. And that voice will remind the world that no language, no matter how endangered, is truly dead until we stop listening. N|uu is also a cautionary tale. It shows how the survival of a language may come down to one person’s determination.

 Written by: Kemi Adedoyin If fashion is the mirror of culture, what happens when a designer decides to make it a canvas for art and storytelling? Kalu David, the creative force behind DavidBlack, a Lagos-based fashion brand, insists that every piece deserves intention, artistry, and meaning, the kind that lingers beyond the “like” of an Instagram scroll. We caught up with Kalu, and in this candid conversation, he talks about childhood Barbie dolls, the soul of intentional design, and the uphill climb of building a global brand from Nigeria. Tell us about yourself — your name, what you do, and the country you currently reside in. I am Kalu David, a fashion designer and artist based in Lagos, Nigeria. What key factor influenced your decision to start DavidBlack? Honestly, I just wanted to create. To explore and show what is possible through the art and beauty that is in creation through fashion and storytelling. What gap do you think you’re filling in the fashion market, and how are you doing this through DavidBlack? Fashion is taking a whole new turn every day, especially in this time and age. People are indulging more in fast fashion and what’s popular. Very few sit down to research or create something with deeper meaning beyond the surface. I want people to understand that intentional craftsmanship should be the soul of fashion. That’s what DavidBlack stands for. You can see it in our collections and pieces, in how deliberate our designs are, and in our commitment to sustainability. Take us back — what’s your earliest memory of getting into fashion? I’ll never forget this. As a child, I confiscated my cousin’s Barbie doll. I would make beautiful gowns for it with scraps of fabric and a hand needle. One of our neighbors’ daughters had a doll too, and she would actually pay me to make dresses for hers (laughs). Remembering that now brings back so many beautiful memories and makes me realize just how much I’ve always loved designing. What does your day-to-day look like, especially when working with artisans and your production team? Every day feels different. It can get hectic, especially when we’re experimenting with a new design or preparing for a collection. Some days are full of brainstorming and bringing ideas to life, others are for client meetings, fabric sourcing, or overseeing our content creation. What are some of your favourite pieces so far, and why do they stand out to you? It’s unfair to choose, but I’ll say The Pinnacle Suit and The Art Set. Every piece from the collection stands out, but what I love most about these two is the fact that, beyond the visual beauty, they carry stories. The intricacy of every detail draws you in, and it’s fascinating how different people interpret the art in different ways. What’s been the most remarkable memory you’ve had since starting DavidBlack? Seeing our SS25 collection come to life against all odds. That moment was unforgettable. What would you consider a major challenge when it comes to building a global brand as an African creative? Lack of investors and funding. The big guys don’t believe an African fashion brand can grow into something truly global. International brands have boards and investors fighting to keep them relevant. Here, many brands either fold because the bills are too heavy or remain stuck because they can’t access funds to expand. We need investors like LVMH, Kering, or the Wertheimer brothers — people who are business-savvy enough to see the potential in African brands and take them global. What’s something you deeply want DavidBlack to be known for? For creating art through fashion. I want people to wear DavidBlack and feel that they’re wearing a piece of art, not just another outfit. If you had to start all over again, what’s something you’d do differently? There’s so much I would do differently, but mostly I would crawl before I stand, and walk before I run. What’s one key lesson building a brand has taught you? I have learnt resilience. Entrepreneurship forces you to be everything at once — the creative, the manager, the problem-solver. Is there anything else you’d like to share with us? I would really hope the creative industry, especially here in Nigeria, opens its doors and arms to new and emerging creatives, and that everything doesn’t have to keep going in circles, from people who are already in the circle bringing in people they want in the circle and shutting out people who deserve a chance in the circle. Kalu David’s story reads like a love letter to intentional craftsmanship in an era of fast fashion. His collections command curiosity and respect, and his journey keeps reminding us that African fashion is art, and resilience is often the unsung fabric holding it all together.

 Written by: Kemi Adedoyin Adire (ah-DEE-reh) – A Yoruba word, “adi” (to tie) and “re” (to dye) translates to tie and dye. The weight of what Adire truly gives is an art form, a language without alphabets. It is history, crafted by women.Today, Adire hangs in global fashion showrooms, parades through Instagram feeds, and sells in open markets across West Africa. But something feels off. A closer look at these prints, the slick polyester feel, and then the label: Made in…. We are now importing the very thing we invented. Before Adire came into the cultural wardrobe of the Yoruba people, indigenous clothing leaned heavily on Aso-Oke, Etu, and Sanyan, rich handwoven fabrics that signified social status and occasion. These were often worn during ceremonies and rites of passage, carrying as much spiritual significance as aesthetic. Clothing for Africans wasn’t just about covering the body, it was storytelling, identity, and pride. So when Adire was born, it didn’t replace the old ways. It extended them. Adire began in Abeokuta, Nigeria, in the early 20th century, pioneered by Yoruba women, especially members of the Egba tribe. These women were textile traders and artists, especially the Aladire (a professional decorator for adire), who combined local innovation with foreign influence. How? When Europeans introduced imported cotton into West Africa, Egba women saw potential. Instead of wearing it plain, they dyed and decorated it using onko (local indigo), raffia ties, cassava paste, and feathers to create patterns. While Abeokuta in Ogun State is widely credited with pioneering its popularization, especially through Egba women, many in Osun State also claim origin. Cultural figures from Osogbo argue that Adire existed in various forms long before colonial trade routes, pointing to Osun’s spiritual depth and longstanding dyeing traditions. Adire was born out of creativity, trade, and cultural evolution. It was women-led. Women-owned. Women-powered. The ProcessTrue Adire is hand-dyed using natural indigo dye extracted from plants like Elu (Indigofera). There are three main techniques: ● Adire Oniko: tying parts of the fabric with raffia or thread before dyeing. ● Adire Eleko: applying cassava paste to draw motifs that resist the dye. ● Adire Alabere: stitching patterns with thread that are removed after dyeing. Each design holds meaning. For example, Ibadán dun (“Ibadan is sweet”) means a celebration of pride and city identity. A System Built Around WomenAt its peak, Adire was a thriving industry driven by female collectives. In Abeokuta, Ibadan, Osogbo, and beyond, entire families were sustained through Adire production. Young girls apprenticed with their mothers. Markets buzzed with women selling freshly dyed cloth. It wasn’t only culture, it was commerce as well. Fast forward to today, and the story is far more brittle. Imported Adire knockoffs that are synthetic and mass-printed are now flooding African markets. These fakes are falsely branded as “African prints.” And these results to ● Local dyers losing customers. ● Mothers no longer teaching the trade as it’s no longer profitable. ● Whole families who once relied on Adire are turning to other forms of crafts The very communities that built this heritage are now priced out of it. Imitation Crisis Might ContinueIt’s easy to talk about globalization and access, but what we’re witnessing isn’t only expansion, it’s cultural theft under economic pressure. Originality is replaced by replication, and even worse, many buyers, especially in diaspora communities, can no longer tell the difference. Imagine a child wearing Adire to an Independence Day parade, not knowing the cloth was printed in a factory, not in the same country whose independence they are celebrating. What We Lose as Africans● Craftsmanship: The years of apprenticeship it takes to master resist dyeing can’t be replicated. ● Local enterprise: Women-owned Adire businesses once sent children to school, built homes, and supported extended families. ● Intergenerational knowledge: Without demand, no one learns. The skills vanish. ● Cultural authority: We lose control over how our identity is represented and reproduced. Preserving Adire Is Preserving PeoplePreserving Adire is to protect the ancestral knowledge stitched into every design. Here’s what it takes: 1. Invest in Local Artisans: Government and private initiatives must go beyond festivals and fashion shows. Invest in Adire cooperatives, provide access to raw materials, and offer export support for authentic African products. 2. Cultural Education: Teach young Africans not just how to wear Adire, but how to recognize real from fake. 3. Creative Collaboration with Boundaries: We welcome innovation. But collaborations must center and credit local artisans. Global designers can work with African dyers without erasing them. 4. Shift Our Mindset: We must stop viewing African products as inferior unless validated abroad. If our people produce it, it matters. It’s premium. It’s powerful. What We Keep, Keeps UsCulture and Heritage don’t vanish all at once. It fades when the small things stop mattering, when we stop asking where our fabrics come from, who made them, and what they were meant to say.Adire is still here. Not as a trend, but as a thread, that is, one that connects us to meaning, to one another. So we don’t need to shout to preserve it. We just need to choose it. To keep buying what’s made with care. To honour the hands behind the work. To teach the stories behind the cloth. Because when we protect what’s ours, we don’t just preserve heritage, we pass on something worth inheriting. And that, too, is legacy.