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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.

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