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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.

Every day, we wake up and choose what to wear. Some people stand in front of a closet full of options and still feel like they have nothing to wear. Others grab a basic tee, jeans, a scarf, and suddenly magic has been made. Why does that happen? Because there’s a difference between fashion and style and while we use those words interchangeably, they are not the same. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First, let’s unpack what each really means. The Fast Fashion Trap Before we define anything, we need to start with where most of us live; in the thick of fast fashion. One day your social feed is pushing clean girl minimalism: slicked-back buns, beige tones, delicate gold jewelry. Next week is the Mob wife energy: big fur, big sunglasses, big attitude. Micro-trends rise and collapse at such a speed that fashion feels less like a creative force and more like a treadmill — always running, rarely arriving. The thrill of the new wears thin when you’re constantly shedding pieces that felt essential just two months ago. It’s no wonder so many of us feel overwhelmed. Fashion, in this context, becomes noise. But it didn’t start that way. Fashion as an Industry and Invitation Fashion is the system. It’s commerce and culture. It’s the creative eye of runway designers and the commercial machine that translates their visions into affordable looks in record time. It’s the reason Lagos Fashion Week draws global eyes, and why Dior stages collections in Marrakech or Dakar to borrow relevance, rhythm, and beauty. Fashion is the world’s wardrobe, but it’s also a mirror. It reflects the moment, the economy, the mood and the power dynamics. It says: This is what’s in. Are you in? It’s why your social feed last year was filled with moto and knee-high boots, cargo pants, sweater over shoulders, and now everyone’s wearing bandana silk scarves. It’s the newness that fuels our curiosity and creativity, but also our constant need to keep up. But in its chase for novelty, fashion can forget people. Especially those who don’t or refuse to fit the mold. This is where style begins to push back. Style as the Voice that Pushes Through Style isn’t seasonal, it’s personal. It’s not just what you wear, it’s why and how you wear it. It’s when African women tye their headwraps in a way their mothers taught them.   It’s the African creative who pairs second hand blazers with printed trousers, breaking every rule and starting their own. It’s the auntie who’s had the same pair of leather mules since 1996 and still wears them better than anyone else. Two people can wear the same white shirt. One tucks it into cigarette pants with loafers and a leather sling bag. The other leaves it open over a kitenge-print slip dress and stacks beaded necklaces. Same outfit, entirely different identities. Style doesn’t need a trend cycle. Style lives in those subtle choices: the roll of a cuff, the clash of patterns, the reworking of something old. It comes from knowing who you are or at least being curious enough to find out. Fashion vs Style: Can You Have One Without the Other? Absolutely. You can be fashionable without having style, we see it all the time. You can also have incredible style without ever chasing fashion. Think of people who wear thrifted gems, rework hand-me-downs, or repeat outfits and still turn heads because their clothes speak for them, not over them. When young people in Accra remix agbadas with sneakers, or drape kente with denim jackets, they’re not just being creative, they’re styling memory into modernity. Fashion is the canvas. Style is the brush. Finding Your Style in the Scroll Era So how do you develop style in a world that sells fashion by the minute? Start small. Don’t shop only, but study along and that means paying attention – What colors bring you joy? What fabrics make you feel grounded? What silhouettes make you stand taller? Explore, make mistakes, repeat outfits, and break your own rules. You don’t need a full wardrobe refresh. You need a relationship with your wardrobe. Try this: style a single dress five ways. With sneakers and a straw tote for errands. With block heels and brass earrings for dinner. With a headwrap and bangles for Sunday service. Suddenly, you’re not wearing an outfit — you’re telling a story. Style isn’t about having more. It’s about seeing more and more possibilities in less. So, What Are We Really Wearing? The debate between fashion and style will always exist. Some say fashion inspires style. Others believe style renders fashion irrelevant. But the real question is what matters more to you? Is it staying on trend, or staying true to yourself? Is it about wearing what’s new, or wearing what’s you?We’ll leave you with this: If you couldn’t buy a single new item this year, how would you style what you already have? Written by Kemi Adedoyin 

There was a time, not so long ago, when if you saw an African in a photo, you could bet someone foreign was behind the camera. A missionary, a journalist, or a tourist with a zoom lens and a list of “authentic” moments to collect—famine in focus, dust in the light, smiling school children, every face perfectly grateful. But rewind further to the present African corner studios, where people posed like royalty against painted backdrops, dressed in their Sunday best, beaming with a pride that needed no translation. Those images weren’t for outsiders. They were for us. This is how the camera changed hands and what happened when we started telling our own African stories through the lens. Photography in Africa was never just a matter of pointing and shooting. It was a question of who held the frame and why. Studios, in the early days, were temples of becoming. They were sites of deliberate self-invention. A young man in a double-breasted coat. A woman with kohl-lined eyes and a radio on her lap. Backdrops of palm trees, cars, waterfalls. All imagined futures. These portraits weren’t vanity; they were evidence. We were there and we mattered. We existed outside the colonial gaze. Over time, the studio became a casualty of speed. Instant culture—disposable photos, selfies, reels—changed the ritual. And now, we can see the change. Young photographers are restoring the studio’s magic, this time with LED lights, projection mapping, and fabric sourced from grandmothers’ trunks.  The Fight for Self-Representation Photography has long been used to define us. The colonial photo was surveillance disguised as curiosity. The aid agency photo, a form of propaganda. And even now, photo contests and international exhibitions often reward one aesthetic: struggle with a hint of hope. But African photographers today are fighting to turn the lens inward, reclaiming the right to complexity. Self-representation demands that we look beyond what’s expected. That we linger in boredom. That we dignify mess. That we challenge the algorithm’s thirst for suffering. From the Margins to the Center Twenty years ago, there were fewer names, fewer platforms, and far less interest. Many of our greats were dismissed as hobbyists or artisans. Yet they built archives. They captured ceremonies, conflicts, and quiet moments with a consistency that whispered: one day, someone will need to remember. We remember, but we also reinvent. The evolution of African photography is not a straight line. It’s a conversation between generations. J.D. ‘Okhai Ojeikere’s sculptural documentation of Nigerian hairstyles now speaks to Laetitia Ky’s self-portraits made with hair.  Seydou Keïta’s Malian elegance walks beside the surreal experiments of Prince Gyasi, who paints his images in saturated candy tones. The tools have changed. Digital cameras replaced film. iPhones replaced digital. But what hasn’t changed is intent to witness, to question and to protect. The Personal as Political What’s the role of cultural identity in all this? It’s everything. A photograph isn’t neutral. Every choice—lens, subject, background, even what’s cropped out—says something. And when that photographer is African, the stakes are higher. Our identities are layered: linguistic, tribal, urban, diasporic. Our cultures are fluid, but they carry memory like a spine. Photography allows that memory to breathe and to find new form. Whether it’s documenting Maasai rituals, queer fashion in Kampala, or the fading blues of indigo dye pits in Kano, African photographers are mapping a continent. Against the Global Glare But with recognition comes friction. African photographers still face challenges in the global art and media ecosystem. We’re often included as tokens, the African perspective, in panels curated by outsiders. Grants come with invisible strings. Publications want our work but not our critique. Our images are licensed, exhibited, and praised but are we heard enough? There is also the burden of representation. If one Ghanaian photographer makes it, the world thinks they understand West Africa. If a Nigerian wins a prize, others must wait their turn. This can seem quite unfair. And yet, despite this, the work persists. Photographers build their own festivals like LagosPhoto. They teach workshops in townships. They print zines. They shoot weddings, then shoot editorials. They keep going. Because they have to. Not because it’s lucrative. Not always because it’s seen. But because the image is a form of survival. Seven African Photographers You Should Know In this renaissance of African photography, several voices have risen with singular vision of shaping not just how Africa is seen, but how Africa sees itself: Zanele Muholi (South Africa): Visual activist documenting Black queer identity with fierce intimacy and elegance. Malick Sidibéi (Mali): The “Eye of Bamako,” celebrated for capturing Malian youth culture in the 1960s and ’70s. Yagazie Emezi(Nigeria): Known for striking photo essays on identity, trauma, and womanhood across African landscapes. Mous Lamrabat (Morocco): A master of contradiction, blending Western symbols with Moroccan tradition in dreamlike fashion. Sarah Waiswa (Uganda): Explores displacement, beauty, and belonging through soft, thoughtful portraiture.. Prince Gyasi (Ghana): Redefines visual storytelling with hyper-saturated images that blend surrealism and social commentary. Aïda Muluneh (Ethiopia): Fuses traditional aesthetics with futuristic vision, using bold colors to discuss African dignity and self-determination. These artists are not just photographers—they’re translators of experience. Each frame is a dialect of memory, protest, play, and possibility. We Are the Frame Now In the end, photography in Africa has become something no one anticipated. it has become a conversation we are having with ourselves. We are no longer image subjects. We are image makers. We are the glitch in the narrative. The color correction. The uncaptioned moment. The memory that doesn’t fade. We photograph not just to be seen but to see ourselves. To archive the truth, to question beauty, to hold space for everything that came before and everything still unfolding. Before the shutter clicks, there is that sacred second where everything aligns. The African story, the light, the intent.   Written by Kemi Adedoyin 

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

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