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By Kemi Adedoyin There’s a particular quality to the air when summer settles in. It’s like a promise. The cities feel looser, the music a little louder, the skin more confident. People start to move differently. Even the dust on the roads rises with more drama, as if the earth itself wants in on the performance. Summer in Africa isn’t marked by a fixed calendar month, nor is it the simple inverse of winter. It’s sensory. Sometimes it’s Detty December’s dry heat in Lagos, sometimes it’s July’s coastal breeze in Dakar or Accra. But whenever it comes, it comes fully. Sun spilling through open markets, hands sticky with mango juice, someone’s cousin’s wedding, where half the village shows up. You don’t just do summer here, you live through it. Where We Go When The Sun Comes OutThe season calls us outside. Not with gentle suggestion but with full, chest-beating insistence. You’ll find people answering the call in different ways: some with a quiet beach day, others with a rooftop afterparty that begins at noon and ends when the last speaker dies. In Lagos, it’s the poolside takeovers – hotel pools converted into hedonistic playgrounds. Entry wristbands, DJs spinning amapiano into highlife, plastic cups balanced on inflatable flamingos. The fashion is deliberate. Midriff-baring crochet, wrap skirts knotted carelessly, the occasional man in linen doing too much and just enough. At the beach, maybe in Cape Town or Diani, it’s coconut water straight from the shell, grilled fish with sauce that bites back, and the soft chaos of beach football right where the tide meets the sand. Vendors sell bracelets, suya. It’s ladies applying sunscreen, teenagers flirting, and then looking away too fast. Some escape the city. A lodge in Naivasha, a road trip through the Cape Winelands, or a hiking weekend in the Simien Mountains. Instagram becomes a catalogue of curated soft life – sandals against red soil, panoramic views from infinity pools, captions that say “needed this” because everyone understands what that means. The Season of Festivals: Art, Sound, and Street NoiseFestivals do not wait quietly in the corner. They arrive with drums, glitter, cracked speakers, and hundreds of bodies moving in unison. Summer in Africa is a timeline of these moments. It is cultural, musical, sometimes spiritual, but all layered with meaning.Chale Wote in Accra is less an event and more a portal. Jamestown becomes a living gallery, walls covered in murals, women in gold dust and headwraps performing slow dances, children painting the pavement. The energy is both future-facing and deeply ancestral as always. Lake of Stars in Malawi is more intimate. Music on the edge of water, poetry that disappears into wind, beach tents strung with fairy lights. It’s the kind of place where people fall in love, or at least write about it as if they did. Durban July, if we’re being honest, is not about the horses. It is the Super Bowl of fashion risk-taking, where mesh meets leather, and entire bloodlines turn up coordinated in emerald or ivory. Everyone is somebody, or performing as such. And if you didn’t know, this years’ Durban July came dressed as a love letter to the country. The theme, Marvels of Mzansi, invited people to show off what makes South Africa unforgettable and they did. Think gold-dusted fabrics, Xhosa beadwork reimagined, structured gowns shaped like baobabs, and jackets that looked like walking murals. Celebrities leaned all the way in. Oh yes! Mihlali’s metallic Ndebele print fit got the internet talking, while others arrived draped in velvet, feathers, cowhide, or full Skhothane-style opulence. The horse race was just background. The main event is Fashion in full South African volume. And then there’s Nyege Nyege in Uganda. The only place where underground African electronica, experimental visuals, and riverbank campouts feel like a necessary combination. It is sweaty, surreal, and sacred. What We Wear: A Season of Skin and Statement The fashion in summer is an act of storytelling. What you wear signals who you are or at least who you’re experimenting with becoming. The women wear crochet bikinis like they were born in them, pairing them with mesh skirts or denim shorts that barely qualify. There are bumpshots, the tight, high-waisted shorts that women wear unapologetically, paired with spaghetti tops, or bralettes disguised as blouses. Waist beads glint beneath sheer fabrics. Braids are long, lashes longer, and nails bright enough to reflect the sun. Even the men are leaning in. The minimalist, linen-clad softboy with a bucket hat. The Adire two-piece loyalist. The gym regular who wears vests even when they’re not called for. The men who experiment with anklets, glossed lips, shoulder bags and look better for it. Ankara and Kitenge have also evolved. Less stiff, more sensual. Tailored to frame rather than fit. Halter jumpsuits with open backs, wrap dresses with leg slits that follow the breeze, even the popular sundresses that almost every African lady has in her wardrobe. The Taste of Summer: Hands, Smoke, Fruit Juice on Your Chin The food isn’t particularly fancy, but it’s full of flavour and served hot, or cold, or both at once. Fruit vendors make a killing. There are mangoes that taste like childhood, pineapples you can smell from the next street, and oranges that exist mainly to be squeezed into juice. No one is drinking water unless it’s infused or frozen. And let’s not forget the smoothie. Suya smoke curls through city corners. There’s grilled fish in banana leaves, kebabs laced with pepper so strong it silences conversation. Puff-puff, plantain chips, shawarma, meat pies. In some cities, these are dinner. In others, they are just the warm-up. You will drink something bright. Say zobo, ginger juice, palm wine, tamarind, and locally brewed lagers. Hydration is a group effort. The grill is always out, and someone’s uncle swears his marinade is the reason the meat “tastes different.” And Then There’s Just the Vibe Not every celebration is loud, but every one is intentional. The weddings, for instance, have taken

In Somalia, poetry was more than art. And at its heart stood the Gabay, a grand, rhythmic battle of wits, pride, and power. For those unfamiliar, imagine this: two poets facing off in front of their communities, trading verses like jabs, weaving metaphor into metaphor, each line more biting than the last. A masterful language, deeply rooted in culture, history, and an intricate understanding of the Somali poetic tradition. Let’s explore why Gabay is one of Africa’s most fascinating cultural treasures. What Is Gabay?At its core, Gabay is a complex, high-level form of Somali poetry, often considered the most esteemed of all Somali verse. It’s part of a wider poetic tradition in Somalia, where oral poetry has long been the primary medium of communication, expression, and even governance. In the absence of a widely used written language for much of its history, Somalia became one of the most deeply oral societies in the world. Poetry was how knowledge was stored and passed down. A Gabay is long, meticulously structured, and linguistically demanding. It follows a strict meter (miisaan) and alliteration pattern, requiring not only creativity but also technical mastery. A good gabay is layered that is rich in imagery, metaphor, cultural reference, and moral weight. It’s a performance, a sermon, and a sword, all rolled into one. But Gabay was never just about sounding good. It had real social impact. Through poetry, Somalis negotiated marriages, brokered peace, insulted rivals, praised leaders, criticized injustice, and remembered history. The Legendary Poets of the PastNo history of gabay is complete without the towering figures who turned verse into an art of diplomacy, resistance, and reputation. Sayyid Maxamed Cabdulle Xasan (1856–1920)Known to the British as the “Mad Mullah” but revered by Somalis as a fierce anti-colonial leader and master poet, Sayyid Maxamed used gabay to rally his people against colonial forces. His poems were fire and strategy rolled into rhyme criticizing collaborators, motivating warriors, and invoking moral authority. His gabay titled “Gudban” is one of the most celebrated resistance poems in Somali history. Salaan CarrabeySalaan Carrabey’s verses were known for their beauty and sharp critique. He famously challenged the Sayyid in poetic exchanges that are still studied and recited today. Their poetic “duel” was a symbolic clash of ideologies, identity, and leadership within Somali society. Ali Bu’ul (mid-19th century)Another legend, Ali Bu’ul, is credited with perfecting the gabay form and introducing vivid metaphors drawn from pastoral life. His verse “Amaan Faras” (Praise of My Horse) is one of the most iconic Somali poems, rich in literary technique, cultural pride, and metaphorical mastery. Elmi BoodhariThough less focused on dueling, Boodhari revolutionized Somali poetry by bringing deep, personal, romantic love into the poetic canon, breaking from the more political or clan-focused gabay. His tragic love for Hodan remains a legend, showing that gabay could be vulnerable and intimate too. Women in the Poetic Arena Though men dominated the gabay, Somali women also developed powerful poetic forms of their own. The buraanbur, for example, is a rhythmic, chant-like poetry often used by women during weddings, mourning, and moments of resistance. It was and still is a powerful tool for expressing joy, pain, wisdom, and protest. In fact, during Somalia’s anti-colonial struggles and civil unrest, many Somali women used poetry to challenge injustice and demand change. Their voices, though often sidelined in history books, remain central in the oral traditions still carried today. What Gabay Reminds Us As AfricansGabay reminds us of a time when words had weight, when a well-crafted line could change minds, save lives, or ruin reputations. It also reminds us of the depth and sophistication of African oral traditions. These were not simple stories. They were structured, philosophical, morally charged systems of thought. For Africans in the diaspora, the gabay offers something deeply personal: a call to remember that our intellectual traditions didn’t begin in classrooms or colonized libraries. They thrived under moonlit skies, around fires, through memory, rhythm, and voice. Gabay is evidence that Africa has always had its own literature, criticism, and performance art that is rich, complex, and world-class. In the End, the Pen (or the Tongue) Was Always MightierThe Somali gabay is not a relic. It’s a living tradition that speaks of what it means to be human, to belong, to struggle, and to speak truth with power. In a continent overflowing with stories, gabay stands as one of the sharpest tools in our cultural arsenal. An African art form where brilliance was judged not by wealth or violence, but by the sheer force of thought.

There are people who speak loudly, and those who speak clearly. Mamy Tall was the latter. She knew who she was. And she wasn’t afraid to build from that truth. “I knew I wanted to be an architect since I was 8 years old,” she once said, recalling a childhood filled with sketching, tinkering, and curiosity. That energy never dimmed. It carried her through architectural studies in Montreal, past barriers in a male-dominated field, and into the heart of Senegal’s creative and public spheres. “Becoming an architect allowed me to discover who I was” – Mamy Tall Born in Dakar in 1992 and raised in Lomé, Togo, Mamy discovered architecture not just as a career path, but as a language. Her parents encouraged her early interest in sketching and structure, and a fateful meeting at age 12 with renowned architect Pierre Atepa Goudiaby sealed the deal. After studying in Montréal, she returned to Senegal and quickly became known for work that was as thoughtful as it was forward-thinking. She contributed to the design of major public buildings including those in Diamniadio, Senegal’s new administrative city, but her focus was on purpose and not only on prestige. She advocated for the use of local materials because they were honest. Earth, stone, clay: these weren’t relics of the past. In Mamy’s hands, they became the future. She spoke often about the responsibility architects carry in shaping not just cities, but the societies that live within them. You couldn’t talk about Mamy Tall without talking about her style. She wasn’t just well-dressed, she was intentional with it. Her look was part of her language. Effortless but sharp. Minimal but full of story. The kind of style that stayed with you. In Wallpaper’s profile of her architectural studio, Mamy herself spoke of fashion as a natural extension of her architecture. Mamy Tall also designed and offered a new way of seeing buildings, one where African cities are worthy of care, where local materials are symbols of pride, where women lead without apology. In 2014, she co-founded Dakar Lives, a digital platform that began as an Instagram page and grew into one of the most recognized creative projects on the continent. CNN, OkayAfrica, Konbini, and Hypebeast all took notice. But for Mamy, the heart of the project was simple: giving people a new lens through which to see their own city. This ethos ran through everything she touched. In her photography, fashion collaborations, installations. It could be through her art directing a fashion campaign or curating a public space, her work invited us to slow down and look again. Mamy Tall showed us how to imagine with purpose. And indeed she was more than an architect, she was cultural catalyst and a beacon of sustainable design. Now it’s our turn to carry that vision forward.

Before European empires divided Africa with pencils and treaties, the continent was a constellation of kingdoms. Some born in the shadows of volcanoes, others carved into the savannahs by sword and spirit. One of the fiercest was Dahomey, a kingdom that stood where present-day Benin now lies. Its walls were high, its rituals sacred, its women warriors feared. And at the center of its final roar stood a king, Béhanzin, who would go down in history not just as Dahomey’s last ruler, but as its last independent one. Before the Kingdom: A Land of Lineage and Fire Long before Dahomey rose, southern Benin was home to the ancient Yoruba-speaking kingdoms of Allada, Porto-Novo, and Whydah, states that traded, worshipped, and warred along the West African coast. These weren’t kingdoms in name only. They had structured governance, complex belief systems rooted in Vodun, and thriving commerce with Europeans as early as the 15th century. When the royal prince Do-Aklin fled Allada in the early 1600s, he sought sanctuary in the inland plateau. What began as refuge became revolution. His descendants founded the royal city of Abomey, and with time, a kingdom unlike any other began to emerge. Its name? Dahomey. Born, as legend has it, after the king built his palace atop the grave of a rival chief and named the land “Danxomé” or “in the belly of Dan.” The Making of an Empire Founded in the early 1600s by displaced royalty from Allada, the Kingdom of Dahomey was born of exile and ambition. Its capital, Abomey, soon became the spiritual and political heart of the kingdom, fortified by red clay walls and lined with palaces carved with royal symbols: sharks, lions, swords, drums. By the 18th century, Dahomey had risen to regional dominance, capturing coastal kingdoms like Whydah and inserting itself into the transatlantic slave trade. Its leaders were feared for their military innovation, their calculated diplomacy with European traders, and their commitment to tradition. At the height of its power, Dahomey had one of the most unique features in world history- an all-female military regiment, known in Fon as the Agojie, or as the West came to call them, the Dahomey Amazons. The Amazons of Dahomey: A Nation’s Blade The Agojie, often called the Dahomey Amazons, were an elite corps of female warriors. Disciplined, brutal, and unwaveringly loyal to the throne. They fought with rifles, machetes, and courage that rivalled any man. Recruited in childhood, forbidden from marriage, these women lived only for the kingdom. Foreigners could hardly believe what they saw. To the French, they were “terrifying.” To the kingdom, they were protectors, priestesses, and legends. When battle drums beat through Abomey, the Agojie were the first to march. And when the enemy approached, they didn’t blink. In 2022, the story of the Agojie burst into global consciousness with the release of The Woman King, a historical drama directed by Gina Prince-Bythewood and starring Viola Davis as General Nanisca. While fictionalized in parts, the film draws directly from the traditions and legends of the Agojie and the real-life reign of King Ghezo, Béhanzin’s father. How Kings Were Crowned in Dahomey Royal succession in Dahomey wasn’t simple. Blood alone wasn’t enough. When a king died, candidates, often sons or brothers, were vetted by royal ministers and spiritual leaders. The Migan (head minister) and the Queen Mother played crucial roles, balancing political strategy with ancestral will. The new king would undergo sacred rituals and receive a royal emblem, often an animal, that symbolized his essence. This was not just politics. It was prophecy. King Béhanzin: The Last Flame of Sovereignty Béhanzin was born in 1844, the eleventh son of King Ghezo, a ruler remembered for expanding Dahomey’s power and modernizing its army. Groomed from an early age for leadership, Béhanzin was said to be fiercely intelligent, strategic, and unwavering in his convictions. His royal symbol was the shark, a creature that never stops moving forward-an omen, perhaps, for a king who would never yield. When he ascended to the throne in 1889, colonial pressures were tightening like a noose. The French, under the guise of treaties and trade deals, were already staking claims to West African territories. Béhanzin saw clearly what others tried to ignore: the Europeans didn’t want partnership, they wanted possession. Béhanzin’s reign would last only five years, but every moment of it was on fire. He immediately rejected France’s claims over Cotonou, an important port they said he had ceded under his father. Béhanzin saw it as theft, and he prepared for war. Thus began the Second Franco-Dahomean War (1892–1894), one of the most fiercely fought anti-colonial wars of the 19th century. Unlike many African leaders who tried to compromise or delay confrontation, Béhanzin met France head-on. His army, though less technologically advanced, fought ferociously. The Agojie, still the kingdom’s frontline soldiers, attacked French columns in coordinated raids, shocking European commanders with their discipline and valor. But the French had one thing Dahomey didn’t: machine guns. Béhanzin’s warriors, brave as they were, faced repeating rifles and Maxim guns that tore through regiments. Even so, Béhanzin refused to surrender. And even as Abomey was eventually captured, Béhanzin refused to sign any treaty that legitimized French authority. Instead, he set fire to his royal palaces, retreating with his remaining soldiers to the north, keeping resistance alive. After the Kingdom Following Béhanzin’s exile, the French installed a puppet ruler, Agoli-Agbo, Béhanzin’s relative. But he was king in name only. Dahomey was formally annexed into French West Africa in 1904, becoming just another colony on a European map. When independence finally came in 1960, the new republic called itself Dahomey, in honor of the fallen kingdom. But in 1975, the name was changed to Benin, a nod to the broader cultural groups in the region and a desire for national unity. Still, Dahomey is not forgotten. The royal palaces of Abomey remain sacred ground. The memory of the Agojie lives on. And Béhanzin? His name is whispered with reverence. Béhanzin’s

What You Didn’t Know About Her Somewhere on Hollywood Boulevard, a golden star now bears the name: Angelique Kidjo. For us, it’s confirmation of something we’ve always known that she isn’t just famous, she’s foundational. From Ouidah to the World Ouidah, Benin. The kind of place that breathes history. That’s where she was born in 1960, in a home full of sound. Her mother ran a theatre troupe, and her father was a music lover. The family was Catholic, but the culture was deeply Yoruba and Fon, the kind of upbringing where your morning begins with a drumbeat and ends with dance. She was performing traditional songs on stage by age six. By the time she fled political unrest and moved to Paris in the 1980s, she was already an artist, but Paris turned her into a revolutionary one. There, in the City of Light, she sharpened her message and deepened her mission: to carry African music boldly into the global stage. The Sound of Freedom If you’ve ever heard her sing Agolo, you know exactly what I mean. That opening beat? That heartbeat rhythm? It’s elemental. It’s ancestral.  Her music has never been just about entertainment. It’s about embodiment. About taking Black womanhood, African pride, spiritual depth, and wrapping them in rhythm. From Batonga (her defiant anthem for girls’ education) to We We (a delicate, haunting tribute to women’s strength), Angelique has always used her music as a tool of memory and movement. And she’s not afraid to experiment: she reimagined Talking Heads’ Remain in Light with Yoruba drums and Afrobeat basslines. She sang Celia Cruz’s classics in tribute to Afro-Cuban roots. She once stood on stage with a 70-piece symphony and made it sound like an open-air ceremony in Cotonou. Her Kinship What makes Angelique so powerful isn’t just her sound, it’s her ability to connect worlds. She’s worked with everyone: Yemi Alade, Burna Boy, Manu Dibango, Ibrahim Maalouf, Alicia Keys, Aṣa, Yo-Yo Ma, and even the Luxembourg Philharmonic Orchestra. Her 2021 album, Mother Nature, was a brilliant testament to her cultural fluidity, featuring Nigerian alt-star Mr Eazi, Beninese talent Zeynab, and Nigerian Afro-house queen Niniola, all while addressing issues like climate change and pan-African unity. She tours like a storm, moving from Bamako to Birmingham, Lagos to Los Angeles, and Kyoto. On stage, she’s barefoot, electric, unstoppable. She whips her body like it’s part drum, part prayer. She dances in African attire, in sequined suits, in nothing but her skin and truth. No wonder she is called “Africa’s premier diva.” But diva feels too small. Angelique is a cultural vessel. Let’s be clear, Angelique Kidjo’s legacy was already written in drumbeats, in village squares, in the proud walk of African women who heard her and felt seen. For decades, global music spaces have profited from our sounds, including Afrobeats, Afro-jazz, Highlife, and Amapiano.  And because, in a space where thousands have been honoured, not one single Black African has been recognized until now. The Legacy She CarriesShe’s won five Grammys. Been named a UNICEF Goodwill Ambassador. Taught at NYU. Launched the Batonga Foundation to support girls’ education in West Africa. She speaks four languages. She sings in six. She refuses to age out of relevance. She mentors. She advocates. She shows up. And now, her name is etched into the sidewalk of one of the world’s most famous streets as a testament to an African life fully lived, fully owned, and fully expressed. Written by Kemi Adedoyin

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. 

Welcome to another episode of the African Creative Series, where we invite creatives to answer important questions about their art and share their advice with others. In today’s episode, we’re featuring Elisabeth. Enjoy the read! What’s your name, and which country do you live in? My is Elisabeth Anayes NIOUKY. I live in Senegal. How did you get into hairstyling, and how long have you been doing it? My passion for hairstyling started when I was a little girl. I used to spend hours doing my dolls’ hair. At 10 I started experimenting on real hair and everything I know, I taught myself.  I stopped for a while due to school but I returned to hairstyling last year, more passionate than ever. You’re a self-taught hairstylist — how did that come about? Honestly I’m doing it because of God. He gave me this talent and He placed it in my heart. I just know it’s something I’m meant to do. What’s the most challenging part of being self-taught? I think the most challenging part of being self taught is that sometimes, when you want to create or recreate something you don’t know where to start. It takes time and by the grace of God your imagination eventually shows you the way. Do you think being self-taught has held you back in any way, or do you believe your skills would be different if you had learned from someone else? Being self taught has never held me back. Personally, I see it as a blessing. It gives me the freedom to create without limits. There are no strict rules or techniques I have to follow I just let God inspire me and guide my hands. What inspired you to focus on Afro-hair specifically? It is deeply connected to heritage and identity. Afro hair is magical it carries history, beauty and strength. What’s your favorite hairstyle you’ve created so far, and why do you love it? My favorite hairstyle that I created is the one I did for the 8th of March International Women’s Day. It was a hairstyle made to honor women to celebrate their greatness, bravery, and strength. To show that every woman is a queen.   What’s the most remarkable memory you’ve had on this creative journey? One of the most remarkable memories on my creative journey was the day I was challenged by our Miss, the one who was supposed to represent our country at Miss Planet. She asked me to create the Karaba the Sorceress hairstyle for her national costume. I didn’t know how I was going to make it happen, but I accepted the challenge. It took me four days to complete and by the grace of God it came out beautifully. That moment showed me what I was truly capable. What advice would you give to someone who wants to enter this industry and start creating artistic hairstyles? Follow your inspiration and ask God to guide you. Ask Him to teach you,to inspire you. In this world of hair artistry, you have to create your own path write your own story. Do what you feel in your heart,follow your vision and most of all be unique. We hope you enjoyed this conversation. To learn more about Elisabeth Anayes NIOUKY and the work she’s doing with Afrobabiesn, follow her on Instagram here  

Before social media made influence a profession, African aunties already had it down to an art. If you think content creation is a flex, try surviving a family function under an auntie’s gaze. With no camera crew, brand deals, or curated feeds, these women have been shaping trends, narratives, and entire family dynamics without even trying. The Look that Launches a Thousand Judgements It starts with the stare. That slow, calculated glance African aunties give when you walk into a room, half inspection, half silent judgment. Congratulations, you’ve been officially noticed if you’ve ever been on the receiving end of that gaze. And if an auntie notices you, it means you exist. Their influence begins with presence. Not the kind measured in likes or views, but the kind that stops conversations mid-sentence. The kind that walks into a party dressed in a flamboyant Bubu gown, gele perched high like a crown, heels clicking with authority. They don’t announce their arrival as they are the announcement. The Original Curators of Style While influencers rely on filters and flash sales, aunties move culture with a few well-placed accessories. Before oversized sunglasses became a fashion statement, they were already a staple at church services and weekend owambes. Aunties have been swinging those structured handbags fashionistas now flaunt with flair since before it was cool. From their nails to their perfumes, everything is intentional. A full face beat, jewelry that jingles with confidence, and a walk that says, “I’ve seen things you can’t even imagine.” They were soft-launching influencer aesthetics before Instagram even existed. Owambe Icons Nowhere is their star power more obvious than at Nigerian parties. Aunties’ headline owambes. Draped in coordinated aso-ebi, every outfit a designer’s dream, they command the dance floor like royalty. Hands in the air, rings glinting under party lights, nails flawless as they signal the DJ to “play that track again!” Their movements are precise. Their expressions are Immaculate. They throw money like confetti, never losing rhythm, never letting their gele slip, not even once. And if you ever catch an auntie dancing in slow motion, eyes closed, in pure bliss, you’re witnessing someone fully in her power. She is the vibe. She is the moment.   Ojude Oba: The Met Gala of the West Every year in Ijebu land, aunties transform into full-blown fashion icons for Ojude Oba, a celebration of Yoruba royalty and heritage. It’s a cultural spectacle. Outfits coordinated down to the last bead. Color themes chosen with the precision of a royal court. Synchronized walking, regal glances, and competition-level posing for photos. This is not just showing up. This is legacy on display. And the peer review always ruthless. One head-to-toe glance from a fellow auntie can determine whether your tailor gets another job or a stern warning. Unsolicited Advice, Certified Impact Their style might make you stare, but their words stay. Aunties don’t need microphones or megaphones. A single “hmm” can quiet a room. A raised eyebrow can trigger an existential crisis. And when they start with “Come, let me talk to you…” you know a life lesson or lecture is loading. Yes, their advice can sting. “See your mate, she’s already married with two kids and a house in Lekki.” But wrapped in sarcasm, wisdom, and just the right amount of roasting, is often some real-world truth. They’ve lived through wars, recessions, heartbreaks, and homecomings. Their influence isn’t always soft, but it’s almost always rooted in care. The Life of Every Gathering Aunties are the heartbeat of African events. Be it weddings, funerals, naming ceremonies, or Sunday lunches, they bring the energy. They’ll laugh, gossip, dance, and subtly plant the seed of matchmaking ideas. Remove them from any event, and you’ll feel the absence in the air, like the music suddenly lost its beat. And yes, they can be a handful, opinionated, dramatic, even overbearing. But that’s part of the charm. They are layered, vibrant, and complex. Equal parts pressure and presence. Love and legend. Legacy Over Likes So while social media influencers chase algorithms and analytics, African aunties continue doing what they’ve always done: showing up, showing out, and shaping culture. No ring lights. No brand deals. Just pure, unfiltered influence. With digital clout in present times, maybe it’s time we logged off a little and learned from the original influencers. Because aunties don’t just set trends; they leave legacies.