With My Ego Told Me To, Leigh-Anne invites listeners into an exhilarating era of self-discovery and artistic reinvention. Emerging from her celebrated journey with Little Mix, she steps boldly into the spotlight—fearless, authentic, and ready to share her unfiltered story. This album is more than a debut; it is a declaration of independence, a celebration of heritage, and a testament to the power of trusting your own voice. As Leigh-Anne uncovers new layers of herself, she promises not just to introduce us to who she is, but to inspire us to embrace our own evolution.

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Could you describe when and how your inspiration for this new chapter as a solo artist first began?

It's been a journey. I went solo three years ago, always knowing I wanted to make music inspired by the genres I love—R&B, Reggae, Danchell, and Afrobeats. I thought about how to incorporate those influences and add my pop stamp to create something that's truly mine—who is Leigh-Anne. When I launched my label, there was so much expectation. Given our group's success, people expected me to achieve the same numbers on my own. It's so unrealistic, and that pressure was overwhelming.

I needed time to figure out who I was and what I wanted, and taking time for myself was necessary. Going independent felt right—I needed to do things my way and make music true to my soul, not to what others wanted —and I’m not compromising my sound anymore. Everything that happened brought me to this album, and I feel so proud to have found my sound, my thing, and my lane—I love it. I'm so happy and excited for people to hear it. Now, I'm no longer thinking about what others say I need to sound like or who I should be. I'm going to be me, and this album represents that—this is who Leigh-Anne is.

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How did your approach to creativity change when you began making independent artistic decisions?

At the time, it was scary. I started my solo journey, released two singles and a strong EP, then leaped to go independent. I was scared and uncertain, but the moment I committed, telling myself and my manager, 'That's it, we're going independent,' my inner confidence returned—my younger self telling me to stand up for myself. I didn’t hesitate. I embraced the decision and felt a wave of confidence. Eliminating doubts has been necessary on this journey.

You created parts of the album in Jamaica, so how did being there influence the creative process you had for the album?

The first writing camp  I did was in Jamaica; it was unbelievable, it was such a special experience. Being home, writing music that resonates with me and is honest, was an amazing experience. There was something about being in that environment, which is my second home, that allowed me to write from the heart. I got some great songs from that trip, some of which are already on my EP and others on the album. Being out there and writing was truly special.

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The album is very much rooted in multiple genres, from R&B, pop,  reggae, and dancehall, all of which you bring together in your own way. How did you bring all of these sounds together in a way that felt really spoke to what you wanted this sound to be?

I’m proud of the way in which I was able to blend these genres into a cohesive album. For me, it is the perfect blend of these genres with my pop style, and I’ve carved my own lane. This is my representation of pop—I don’t want to be boxed in or labelled. I wanted to show my Jamaican and Bajan heritage and my many layers. There is real versatility, and I’m excited for people to hear it and understand who I am. Even things like having my grandparents on the album, I hope people understand why the album is rooted in Reggae and how that is really a part of who I am as a person and see who Leigh-Anne is.

Opening up the way you have, I know there's a difference between being in a group and speaking your own truth. How did you find that process when sharing your personal experiences and vulnerability in your solo work?

Being in a group, you write music together, and it isn't always personal to you, per se. So, having this independence, I can write whatever I want, pouring my heart out honestly. I’ve always wanted to do that with my songwriting, and for me, it feels like therapy, and also, I want my fans to know me and relate if they’ve had similar experiences. Being open felt natural since I wear my heart on my sleeve. Still, I sometimes wonder if I’m being too honest. I trust my fans; they support me, and I want to support them in return. I’ve enjoyed having creative control, doing what I want, and going independent. Every creative decision—the visuals, track list, writing—comes from me. I feel proud to have finished this album on my own terms and in my own way.

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Can you walk us through your process for choosing the album title and creating its overall theme?

I wanted a strong, creative concept for this next era. I kind of thought about an ego some years ago, or maybe like a year ago or something, but I think she really came to life in my sessions. When I did “Dead and Gone”, “Revival”, and “Look Into My Eyes”. I was working with Coffee and Owen Cutts right after I was going through all that label drama, and I felt so frustrated. It felt like I was running into a wall and not getting anywhere with them, and I just wanted to go into the studio and do what I wanted, with no brief, no opinions, nothing. Those sessions produced my best music and felt true to me. “Dead and Gone” is about letting go of the part of me that wouldn’t stand up for herself. You need thick skin in this industry, and I feel like I did have this version of myself, which was my younger self, who was this bold, fearless and determined girl. I kept thinking about her and asking myself, 'Where did she go?' Why have I hidden the bold side of myself? That people don't know.

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With all of the struggles from last year, I wanted to revive her. I wanted to bring her back, and almost add to my protection, and take over. With the title "My Ego Told Me To," I guess she is a bit of an ego, because she feels like a force. She told me to make an album that I'm 100% proud of. She told me to get the hell out of that old label, go independent, and do her thing. I think it's just such a relatable concept as well. You could be in any situation where you wish you'd said something to someone or stood up for yourself. Everyone's got that side to them, the fire that they can bring out when they need to, and sometimes, like, we're made to feel like we can't be loud or take up space. And I feel like no, that's not the case at all. Let us be confident. Let us express ourselves and be who we want to be. So I think that it's just such a relatable thing.

How do you feel now, compared to when you first started creating the album?

I'm in the best place I could imagine, happy and relieved from pressure. I’ve loved all my music, but this feels like a body of work without compromise, which is amazing. I feel much more fearless. I can feel my ego filling me with confidence, assurance, and stability. That comes from being proud of my work. This is so freeing—even if it’s been scary, it’s the best thing that could have happened.

What has been the most fulfilling moment so far in making this album?

Just finishing the album. I think that was the most satisfying part. But I know the most satisfying part will be when it's out.  I already know, in my heart, that my fans are going to love it. I know they will, because I love it. And they're with me. My fans are with me. I hope this album opens more doors for me, grows my fan base, and achieves big things.

As somebody who has been in this industry for a long time, with all that you have been through and experienced. How have you been able to maintain your excitement and joy whilst also protecting your boundaries as an artist?

I'm someone who throws myself into everything, so I'm probably not actually that good at protecting my boundaries sometimes. Like, if I'm feeling like exhausted, or if I'm not feeling great, or whatever it is, I'll probably still push myself to do something, but I think that's like the grafter in me, like I'm just, I've just, all I've ever known is to work hard.

I think having really good people around you is really important, just in general, not having yes people, because yes people like, I think that's when it just all goes downhill. being just humble and normal, and I think just having people around you to bring you back to Earth sometimes, or to keep your feet on the floor, and that's so important.

I am very much a family person, so like, in terms of protecting my boundaries, if I feel like I've been online too much, because social media can be so intense. I think protecting myself is often as simple as putting my phone down, and then I'm with my family. I'm, like, in the living, in the present, like, some people love me and know me.

We've spoken about your heritage and how it's shown in this album. In terms of how that has formed you as a person and just formed you as a creative, talk to me a bit about that. How has that impacted you and your life's journey, even in becoming a singer and getting to this point?

Being able to go to Jamaica every year and see my granddad, knowing my heritage, was always something. Both my parents are mixed race; my mom's dad is of Middle Eastern descent, and my dad's dad is Jamaican. So being in a household, rich in culture and knowing what my heritage is, and knowing who I am, in that sense, I think, has really shaped me for sure, and I feel very grateful that, like, I have such a strong sense of identity in that sense. Being Able to go to Jamaica, be with all my cousins, and, like, be in my culture was just amazing and important in terms of shaping me as a person.
Even in terms of bringing it into my music, that is why it's so important to me. My heritage means everything to me, and even when people like me might not understand, because they just know me as Leigh-Anne from Little Mix and think I should just do pop, it's like, but why? I've poured so many more layers and so much of myself into this album. It's me. And that is where it comes from: actually going, spending time with my grandparents, my Bajan granddad, all our Sundays, and always going up to London, having proper Bajan food as well. And just being in my culture, yeah. And like, like, down to music, just everything. I feel so proud of the strong connection I have to my heritage, and how could I not want to incorporate that into my career and what I'm doing?

If you told me, like, I could only listen to one song, what would that song be?

Regarding the message, I really hope people resonate with Best Version of Me. I think it's, yes, it's such a relatable concept. It's not running from yourself anymore, facing up to who you are, stepping into who you are, and not being afraid to be who you are. And blocking out opinions and just again expectations and whatever else people throw at you, it's like just, do you be you, and the best version of yourself is the most authentic version of yourself.​

Finally, ​what do you think this album says about Chapter right now?

This album is all about following my gut, trusting my instincts, and reclaiming the power I might have lost a little along the way. Stepping into myself, unapologetically, taking up space, being me. It is all about being me, going back to the ego and my younger self, and just bringing back that fearlessness, like not being afraid to be bold. And I think there's just such an amazing message in that. It's an album where you can listen to it and really understand who the artist is and their point of view, like where I'm coming from. There are different things that I would like people to take away from this album. I really want people to feel inspired. Like, things aren't always plain sailing, like journeys that can be rocky up and down, but ultimately, you're always going to find yourself where you need to be. Never give up on anything. Never give up on your dream. Just keep going, literally keep going.

Credits
Photographer: Maya Wanelik
Creative Direction: Kwamena
Producer: Seneo Mwamba
Creative Producer: Whitney Sanni
Styling: Kwamena
Assistant Stylist: Khalifa Antwi
Hair Stylist: Gaia_maua
Makeup Artist: Taisha Sherwood
Nail Tech: Sasha Walters
BTS videographer: Shirin
BTS: Michael Sonaike
Design: @margokatesmith & @shalemalone
Studio: @stu22.io
PR: @satellite414

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At the Victoria and Albert Museum in London, Schiaparelli: Fashion Becomes Art stages a confrontation between fashion as adornment and fashion as disturbance, assembling over 400 objects into a retrospective that feels, at first glance, almost too coherent. The exhibition proposes Elsa Schiaparelli as the definitive bridge between couture and avant-garde practice. Moving through it, a more complicated question emerges: what does it mean to canonize a designer whose work was built on resisting coherence altogether?

The galleries open with familiar anchors — the 1938 Skeleton Dress, its raised ribs pressing outward through black crepe with a grotesqueness; the Tears Dress, printed and slashed into illusionistic wounds; the Lobster Dress, developed with Salvador Dalí, placed in dialogue with his Lobster Telephone. These works are framed as surrealist artefacts, evidence of Schiaparelli’s proximity to the avant-garde. But reading them only through surrealism softens their impact. The skeleton dress does much more than reveal. It imposes, reorganizing the body into surface, flattening interiority into something visible, stylized and strangely controlled.

That tension between exposure and construction threads through the exhibition. Trompe l’oeil knitwear mimics bows and tailored details that don’t exist, embedding illusion into the everyday. The Shoe Hat collapses function into absurdity with unsettling precision. Even the smallest details, buttons shaped like insects, peanuts, and miniature objects, interrupt the visual continuity of garments, forcing attention onto elements typically designed to disappear.

As the exhibition expands, so does Schiaparelli’s world. Evening jackets sprout gilded sculptural forms; jewellery mimics body parts and symbolic relics; archival letters and sketches trace her exchanges with collaborators like Jean Cocteau. Artworks by Man Ray and the portrait of Nusch Éluard by Pablo Picasso position her firmly within a surrealist network, while also risking a certain stabilization.

There is a subtle, more revealing narrative embedded in the exhibition’s margins. Garments produced for her London salon in the 1930s speak to a transnational practice spanning Paris, London, and New York. Photographs of her in the Place Vendôme studio construct a persona as deliberate as her designs. Costume work for performers like Marlene Dietrich and Mae West extends her reach into cinema, where clothing serves as a narrative device filled with character. Across these contexts, Schiaparelli emerges not just as a designer, but as a strategist of image and someone deeply attuned to visibility and circulation.

The exhibition occasionally leans toward coherence, smoothing over the contradictions that make her work most vital. The messiness of collaboration, the asymmetry of influence, the calculated construction of her own myth — these are present, but not interrogated as much. What gets lost is the sense of Schiaparelli as fundamentally unstable. 

This instability feels especially charged in the final section, where the house’s present-day evolution under Daniel Roseberry is framed as a continuation. His couture, worn by figures like Dua Lipa and Ariana Grande, translates Schiaparelli’s surrealist vocabulary into sculptural, highly controlled forms. With gold lungs, anatomical corsetry, and face-shaped jewellery, each piece is engineered with precision, designed to register instantly and to circulate seamlessly within a contemporary image economy.

When placed in proximity to Schiaparelli’s original work, the differences are sharpened. Where her garments feel unruly and almost accidental in their strangeness, Roseberry’s appear exacting, almost fully aware of their reception.

This is the exhibition’s most compelling tension, and also where it pulls back. It gestures toward the question without fully inhabiting it: when surrealism becomes a house code, what happens to its capacity to unsettle? And when disruption is institutionalized, can it still function as critique?

Schiaparelli: Fashion Becomes Art ultimately positions the house as an ongoing project, a lineage that stretches cleanly from past to present. But the more interesting reading resists that smooth continuity. It lingers instead in the fractures, between object and body, art and fashion, disruption and spectacle.

Schiaparelli’s legacy was never just about merging fashion and art solely. It was about making that boundary unstable, difficult to locate and impossible to fix. Her garments don’t resolve into meaning. Instead they hover, unsettled and unresolved. That is precisely where the exhibition is most successful, in the moments where it falters and where coherence slips.

Picture the scene. A filmmaker stands in a festival lobby, still electric from watching their work projected on a screen to an audience for the first time. The film and all seven minutes of it have just received a standing ovation. Within the audience are echoes of discussions of a certain shot, the film’s score, and its theme’s refusal to collapse in on itself.  Suddenly, an industry expert approaches, shakes their hand warmly, and asks the familiar question: “So, what are you working on next?” in a way that indicates that the thing they’d just seen didn’t count.

This is the quiet indignity at the heart of short film culture.

It’s not hostility or even irrelevance, but something more insidious than that. It’s a kind of institutional impatience that is rooted in the general historical appreciation of the short film.  Due to how they are created, short films are typically funded by film grants or NGOs, and are now increasingly funded by filmmakers. As a result, short films are seen, appreciated, and applauded, only to be immediately treated as evidence of potential rather than proof of achievement. A demo reel dressed in festival laurels. 

What the short film demands is no less than a feature film. In many ways, it demands even more. For a form characterized by its brevity, there is nowhere to hide.  There is no second act to develop character, and no third to resolve the first. Every frame is a heavily weighted decision with consequences. The opening shot cannot afford to be throat-clearing, and neither can the ending afford to be explanatory. Every element visualized is there because it has to be, and nothing is there because the filmmaker ran out of discipline to cut it, nor because it simply could be. 

‍Matthew A. Cherry understood this when he made “Hair Love” in 2019. The animated short — seven minutes, Kickstarter-funded, built on a creative vision that studios hadn’t asked for — told the story of a Black father learning to style his daughter’s natural hair. In seven minutes, it told a precise, warm, and structurally immaculate story. It said everything it needed to say and stopped. The film went on to win the Academy Award for Best Animated Short Film in 2020. More importantly, it sparked a mainstream conversation about representation in animation that longer, more expensive films had spent years failing to ignite. The brevity was not a limitation. That was the point. Matthew Cherry didn’t need ninety minutes to make you feel something permanent. He needed only seven. 

Natalie Musteata and Alexandre Singh’s Academy Award-winning 2024 short, Two People Exchanging Saliva, also consolidates on this essence of the economy of intention. Not in seven minutes, but in thirty-six, constructing an entire dystopian world from the ground up. The film presented a meticulously woven story and a layered world rooted in reality, drawing inspiration from the real-life occurrence of an Iranian couple jailed for dancing in public in 2023. Beyond its acclaim, it proved, rather decisively, that the short film can carry complexity as well as it can carry economy. That the field is a container capacious enough for any kind of expression, and not just a platform for more reach. 

Still, the economic argument against short films is real and shouldn’t be romanticized away. The truth is, the infrastructure for making a living from short films alone remains thin. Festival prizes rarely pay rent. Streaming platforms that commission short content are still the exception. Fortunately and unfortunately, for many filmmakers, the short form is genuinely a financial stepping stone, whether they want it to be or not. The reason being that the industry worldwide has not yet built the mechanisms to reward the form on its own terms adequately, and that is a structural failure worth naming.

However,  the solution to that failure is not for independent/amateur filmmakers to lower their ambition. It is for the culture around film, that is, critics, programmers, audiences, and publications, to begin insisting on a different standard. To review short films with the same seriousness and dedication as features. To platform them with the same editorial commitment. To ask, after watching something extraordinary in seven minutes, not “what are you working on next” but “ what brought about that decision, right there, in that shot?” The sort of conversation that the question starts is the one that actually builds a short-film culture worth having.

Back in that festival lobby, the filmmaker smiles at the industry expert’s question. They mention something about a feature they’re developing. The conversation moves on, and the crowd disperses. Later, alone, they think about the film they just showed. The specific problem it solved, the specific thing it proved they could do. They know what it is. They made something complete, and whether the room recognizes that yet is a separate question, and finally, a less important one.

To put a pin in it, the short film doesn’t need permission to matter. It simply needs more people willing to pay attention on its own terms. Because, as it turns out, seven minutes is more than enough time to change the way you see.

African fashion is taking up more global space than ever before. From Lagos to South Africa, Rwanda to Kenya, designers such as Thebe Magugu, Lisa Folawiyo, Kenneth Ize and Christie Brown are being spotlighted on global runways, stocked in international concept stores and featured in Western fashion publications that only recently discovered what has always existed. But the more space it occupies, the more complicated it becomes to understand who it's actually for; the local consumer, the global luxury buyer?

In many ways, African fashion exists in a kind of duality. Before its current global attention, it primarily functioned within local contexts–ceremonial wear, everyday clothing and community-based production shaped by culture rather than export. Over the last decade, however, increased digital visibility, social media and global fashion interest have expanded its reach. What was once locally grounded is now increasingly globalized, curated and stylized for consumption through diaspora audiences, international buyers, and luxury fashion systems that determine what is considered valuable from afar.

African fashion often carries a sense of luxury not only in design but in pricing. For many brands, the cost of a single piece can sit far beyond the reach of local consumers, even when production and materials are sourced within the continent. Designers have often pointed to small-scale production, high-quality craftsmanship, import costs for certain materials, and limited manufacturing infrastructure as key reasons behind these price points. While they position the brands for international recognition and upscale markets, they also create a quiet disconnect at home. Local audiences are often excluded from the very cultural expression the clothing draws from, limiting growth within domestic markets and pushing designers to rely heavily on diaspora clients and Western buyers for sustainability.

Across the continent, however, African fashion is also building its own internal languages of prestige. Designers such as Lisa Folawiyo in Nigeria exemplify this layered reality, transforming Ankara into intricately embellished contemporary silhouettes that sit firmly within luxury fashion systems. Likewise, Christie Brown in Ghana operates within a similar tension, producing structured, feminine silhouettes, while in Rwanda, Moshions continues this trajectory with tailored menswear rooted in heritage storytelling. Across these labels, pricing generally falls within a shared luxury bracket of approximately $200 to over $2,000, depending on design complexity and fabrication. And as you'll notice there's a consistent pattern emerging: African fashion is increasingly positioned as luxury, but that luxury is often economically distant from the communities that inspire it.

This tension is even sharper in how success itself is defined. Designers such as Thebe Magugu from South Africa represent a generation of African creatives who have achieved global acclaim–most notably winning the 2019 LVMH Prize, one of the fashion industry’s most prestigious awards. His collections, such as ‘African Studies’ and ‘Counter Intelligence,’ explore themes of identity, history, and post-apartheid narratives through sharp tailoring and research-driven storytelling.  While his success is undeniable success, it also highlights how validation often depends on how well African creativity fits into external systems of taste, value, and prestige, whatever that means.

This is where Western attention continues to shape the trajectory of African fashion. Runways in Paris, Milan, and New York still function as unofficial gatekeepers of legitimacy. Editorial coverage, celebrity endorsements, and luxury collaborations often act as the final stamp of approval. As a result, African designers frequently find themselves navigating a system where success is measured externally, encouraging subtle aesthetic translation; where design decisions are influenced not only by local context, but also by global market expectations.

This dynamic becomes even more visible when looking at the infrastructure surrounding African fashion’s rise. Events such as Lagos Fashion Week, Dakar Fashion Week, Nairobi Fashion Week, and others across the continent have become essential platforms for visibility, offering designers entry into both regional recognition and global industry networks. Yet even within these celebrated spaces, deeper questions remain. Who is actually in the room?

Behind the runways sits a layered ecosystem of corporate sponsors, international fashion partners, luxury brands, media houses, and cultural institutions. Their presence is not incidental. It actively shapes what is shown, what is funded, and what is amplified. Even spaces built to celebrate African creativity are structured through external capital and global partnerships, subtly influencing which designers are prioritized and which narratives are framed as commercially viable or export-ready. In this sense, these fashion weeks are not just cultural showcases–they are curated systems where visibility is negotiated through funding, access, and global approval.

Alongside institutional influence, diaspora audiences have become a major force shaping African fashion’s direction. For many designers, the diaspora represents both emotional connection and economic survival; a market driven by memory, identity, and cultural reconnection. Clothing becomes more than design; it becomes a medium of return. But this also reshapes production itself. Collections are increasingly designed for mobility, global shipping, and cross-cultural readability, meaning African fashion is often imagined for circulation rather than rooted, everyday local use.

This raises a more fundamental question of what actually makes a brand “African?” Is it simply the nationality of its founder, or does it require active engagement with African materials, aesthetics, and cultural storytelling? A minimalist global-facing brand owned by an African designer is often accepted as African fashion within international circuits, while a brand deeply rooted in African textiles may be framed as niche or overly ethnic depending on the audience. Yet in this contradiction is a deeper truth. The continent’s fashion is not defined by a single design element but by the perception of who's looking and from where.

At the same time, diaspora influence continues to blur the category further. It expands demand and creates vital economic pathways, but it also shifts design intention outward. Fashion becomes something that travels before it belongs. Something shaped as much by global legibility as by local meaning. In this sense, African fashion exists in constant translation: between continents, audiences, and expectations.

Ultimately, African fashion exists in a constant state of negotiation–between price and access, heritage and translation, local belonging and global approval. Its expansion is undeniable, but so are its contradictions. The question is no longer whether African fashion belongs on the global stage, but what is reshaped, excluded, or redefined in the process of getting there. Because in the end, African fashion is not just about who owns it; it’s about whose stories, materials, and aesthetics are amplified, and whether the continent itself is at the center or the periphery of that conversation.

In a world where consumerism feels increasingly impersonal, markets remain among the last places where exchange is human. In the United States, retail spaces are often streamlined and saturated with advertising, selling an idea as much as a product. The goal is mass satisfaction rather than breathtaking creation. African markets operate differently. They are not just sites of transaction; they are sites of memory, craft, and cultural continuity. Each item carries the imprint of hands that made it, histories that shaped it, and communities that sustain it. 

The Malcolm Shabazz Harlem Market is one of those rare spaces. It has long served as a cultural artery connecting Africa to the African diaspora in New York. Opened in the 1990s, the market was founded by Masjid Malcolm Shabazz in response to former Mayor Rudy Giuliani’s campaign to remove sidewalk vendors from 125th Street, the majority of whom were new immigrants. Since then, it has served as more than a shopping destination—a meeting ground, a living archive, a celebration of African presence in a neighborhood globally recognized as a Black cultural capital. As the market prepares to shut its doors, its absence threatens to leave behind more than empty stalls; it risks erasing a tactile connection to African heritage in Harlem’s daily life. 

Walking through the market, color announces itself first. Rich indigos, sun-warmed oranges, deep crimsons, electric yellows. These hues were not chosen for mass appeal. They are unapologetic, intentional, and alive. In contrast to a world that often feels gray and digitally saturated, these fabrics offer brightness as resistance, as adornment, as declaration. 

African textiles are never just decorative. From Kente to Ankara, from mud cloth to Adire; each fabric holds symbolism, regional specificity, and meaning. Patterns speak to lineage, spirituality, celebration, and survival. When worn, they communicate identity. In a high fashion context, these textiles do not lose power. Instead, they expand it, occupying spaces that have historically excluded them, asserting that African design is not a trend but a foundation. 

The proximity between maker and wearer is deeply personal. There is no separation from the origin by layers of branding or corporate distance. You can speak to the vendor, learn where the fabric comes from, how it is worn and why it matters. You can find a garment made with passion rather than a calculated trend cycle. This intimacy reshapes consumerism into cultural exchange. In contrast, many US retail spaces function as visual noise, billboards disguised as storefronts selling desire without depth. Here, you are invited to slow down, to touch, to feel. 

Harlem has long been a sanctuary for Black expression, creativity, and political thought. The Malcolm Shabazz Market fits seamlessly into that legacy. It reflects Harlem’s diasporic identity, where Africa is not a distant concept but a living influence. For many, it is a first encounter with the textures, colors, and craftsmanship of the continent right in the heart of New York City. 

Fashion in this space becomes storytelling. The garments move differently because they carry weight in their history, pride, and intention. Styled against an urban backdrop, the contrast is striking. Ancestral fabrics are set against concrete, and tradition is illuminated under city light. The message is clear: African culture does not exist in the past. It adapts, travels, and thrives.

Markets like the Malcolm Shabazz market matter because they allow for culture to be experienced, not archived. They offer an alternative to hollow consumption and remind us of all the things that can still feel sacred, communal, and alive. In the brightness of these fabrics, there is warmth. In their patterns, there is memory. In their presence here in Harlem, there is proof that even in a dark world, color endures.

On Lagos, Longevity, and a Voice Meeting the Music Halfway

Have you ever asked a friend to recommend  to you an artist with a velvety, feathery, silvery voice?  These were my exact feelings when  listening to Nora for the first time. July being the first song listened to;  started with an euphoric, crescendoing beat , then followed Nora's velvety voice which fits the song title perfectly.

Chidiebere Felicia Anyiam-Osigwe (also known as Nora)  was born on April 26, 2002, in Lagos. Her love for music started forming early, influenced by her parents, even if it didn’t look like something serious yet.

She started singing at the age of 7, and her parents were encouraged in church to support her if this was something she wanted to pursue .

‍"I started singing in church and it blossomed. Our pastor told my parents: 'If this is the career she wants to take, encourage her. Don't try to make her a lawyer or doctor. Let her do it.' So I was really encouraged. I attended Ayo Bankole College of Music and MUSON."

At 13, her devotion to music became so strong that she was getting bullied for singing too much, “I kind of, uh, but it never really stopped me, you know, I just kind of knew that I was talented to do. Entered  a competition, I got to meet ICE , Shout out to ice.” 

Her career really started at 17 after she joined the Eko Hotel Tropical Christmas  in 2019 .
One of the judges said something very simple “get her into the studio” and that was the starting point for her. 

She has collaborated with artists like  Tim Lyre for OMD,

Ronehi and Aylø for July ,

and now her single Chidi’s Heartbreak sits as part of where she currently is, still building, still figuring things out in real time.

She’s also learning how to produce, which she actually enjoys, because it lets her connect to her sound in a more personal way, and the interesting thing is her process always starts the same way, with a beat, not pressure, not trying to make something perfect, just a beat, and then she lets it grow from there, almost like she meets the music halfway instead of forcing it.

She talks about her support system in a way that feels very grounded, especially her mum, who is her best friend, her manager, her confidant, and then her siblings, her friends, and her mentor ICE NWEKE, people who are around her not just for the music but for her as a person, which is something she clearly holds onto.  

“ First of all, I consider myself extremely lucky with the type of family and friends I have .They see me for who I am and just want the best for me. They were there you know in every performance, every show, especially my mom who is my manager and quite thankfully my best friend. 
She is my rock.
She has been not just there for me emotionally, but also physically. 
She would cancel things on my behalf just so we could go for a meeting, just so that I could pursue my dreams. 
You know what I mean? And I’m very  grateful for that. And my sister, my brothers, I feel like me saying my family are my biggest fans. 
The rest of everybody else is just gonna be like, well, I'm here  because that's how much love I have.”.

Her inspirations stretch across different sounds and eras, Tems, Sade, Michael Jackson, and ABBA, and when you think about it, that mix makes sense with the kind of softness and control her voice carries.

She also spoke about being nominated for Leading Vibe Initiative  founded by Tems, and the way she described it didn’t feel rehearsed, it felt very in the moment,

“Honestly, I sent my application on the day of the deadline, I was at my best friend’s house, I used my phone to record, I wasn’t even thinking too much, I just said let me do it and see what happens, boom I got an email saying I got selected”

and then having Tems acknowledge her voice, that part sits quietly but it means a lot, the kind of validation that doesn’t need too much noise around it.

And through all of this, one thing she keeps coming back to is learning to love herself and accept who she is, which sounds simple but clearly isn’t, especially when you think about the different phases she has moved through in the last six years, growing, adjusting, staying with it.

She also mentioned, almost casually, that she does soprano, and it feels like one of those details you don’t fully sit with until later, because when you think about her tone, her range, the way everything is still forming, it starts to feel like you’re watching something take shape in real time, not rushed, not forced, just becoming what it’s meant to be.

Open any book-focused corner of social media, there you'd find BookTok netizens crying over romantasy author Sarah J. Maas and contemporary romance writer Colleen Hoover, hauls and fantasy series ranked in elaborate tier lists. While Bookstagram is built around the visual aesthetics of physical books, Goodreads turns reading into a numbers game — novels logged, challenges completed, shelves filled. #BookTok, #Bookstagram and #BookTube have collectively gained over 170 million users, representing one of the most sustained and passionate reading communities the internet has ever produced. Though the platforms differ in format, the subject is almost always the same: prose fiction is celebrated loudly and publicly. 

Scroll through all of it and you will find one conspicuous absence: comic books. Manga gets a seat at the table, but Western comics, graphic novels and everything in between are largely invisible in that conversation. The readers are quiet. The communities are smaller. The cultural validation and sense that what is being read counts as serious reading, something that is largely withheld. Yet, the numbers tell a story that the social media feed does not.

The global Comic book industry reached a valuation of nearly $17 billion in 2024 which is forecasted to nearly double by 2033 to reach between $31 and $37 billion according to Grand View Research.. Right now, ifty million people worldwide read Comics every month according to Electroiq. The average Comic reader reads four Comics a week–sixteen a month,  which at the average price of four dollars per issue amounts to roughly the same monthly spend as buying three hardcover novels. These are not the numbers of a niche. They are the numbers of a mainstream reading culture that gets excluded from necessary conversations These prejudice has a history. 

Comics arrived in popular culture as children’s entertainment  as colourful, disposable, morally suspect. In the 1950s, American psychologist Fredric Wertham published Seduction of the Innocent, arguing that Comic books were corrupting the youth. The US Senate held hearings which led to the establishment of the The Comics Code Authority in 1954, self-censoring the industry into timidity for decades.

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The fight for legitimacy has been slow and hard-won. In 1978, Will Eisner published A Contract with God and deliberately called it a “graphic novel.” In 1992, Art Spiegelman’s Maus - a Holocaust memoir told through anthropomorphic animals won the Pulitzer Prize. Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis brought the Iranian Revolution to global readers through hand-drawn panels. Alan Moore’s Watchmen deconstructed the superhero genre with the philosophical rigour of a literary novel. Every one of these works proved what the form was capable of. And yet the prejudice persisted - not in outright dismissal, but in something quieter and harder to argue with. Comic books are still absent from most school curricula. They are shelved separately in bookstores, physically distanced from "real" literature. Literary prizes rarely consider them.

Book clubs do not typically select them. The cultural infrastructure that validates reading - the awards, the syllabi, the recommendations, the conversations - was not built with comic readers in mind, and has not been rebuilt to include them.

Consider The Adventures of Tintin - 24 Comic albums created by Belgian cartoonist Hergé, first published in 1929 and translated into more than 70 languages, with sales exceeding 200 million copies. Tintin has been adapted for radio, television, theatre and film. He has his own museum in Belgium. Scholars have written academic studies comparing Hergé’s panel work to that of Renaissance painters. This is not a children’s book that got lucky. This is one of the most widely distributed narrative works in human history. And yet in the current online reading conversation, it barely registers.

The one place where Comic culture has broken through the social media wall is Manga, and the numbers there are extraordinary. As of 2023, Manga accounts for 53% of the entire Comic book market share. East Asia holds 41.2% of global Comic book sales, with digital manga already accounting for nearly 80% of revenues in that segment. Among Webtoon readers, 40% are aged 18 to 24 and over 90% access via mobile. Manga has a visible, vocal, passionate online community that does not apologise for its enthusiasm. The question worth asking is what Manga did differently.

Part of the answer is serialisation - the weekly or monthly chapter release that creates ongoing investment and community discussion in real time. Part of it is genre diversity so broad that there is a Manga for every conceivable reader -  horror, romance, sports, cooking, philosophy, historical drama. And part of it is the absence of literary gatekeeping. Manga was never told it needed to justify its existence as a serious art form. It simply built an audience and let the audience speak.

Western Comics and graphic novels have largely not had that freedom. In 2024, 40.7% of children aged 8 to 18 reported reading Comics or graphic novels at least once a month - making sequential art one of the most significant gateways into reading broadly. The form is not a stepping stone to real reading. It is a reading of a different and equally valid kind.

The numbers say comic books have a massive, committed, global readership. Social media says prose readers are the only readers worth celebrating publicly. That gap is not about quality or seriousness. It is about whose reading culture gets treated as culture and whose reading culture gets treated as something you did before you graduated to real books.

But the community exists, and it is building its own infrastructure quietly and without apology. CBR - Comic Book Resources is one of the largest comics-focused communities on the internet, with over 27,000 members, 141,000 threads and 7 million messages exchanged, numbers that dwarf most BookTok accounts. League of Comic Geeks offers a community-driven database of over 500,000 comic books where readers catalogue what they own, what they have read and what they want next - a Goodreads for comic readers, built by comic readers. Comic Book Club - a live weekly talk show and podcast has been bringing together comedians and comic book creators every week to do exactly what BookTok does for prose: talk about stories with genuine passion in public. And for readers who want something more intimate, Webtoon's vertical-scrolling format has taken over mobile reading globally, with even DC Comics partnering with GlobalComix to distribute 400 titles optimised for smartphone reading - meeting comic readers exactly where they already are.

The panels are waiting. The readers are already there. The communities have been built. The only thing missing is the noise, and that, unlike a $17 billion industry, is something that can change.

IG: @ffeistyhuman
Cover Credit: Chinaprinting4u

Nomenclature 

To name a thing is to offer it up for a specific kind of public dissection. There is a particular, heavy pressure that comes with christening a sound, because once a label is applied, the sound no longer belongs exclusively to the hands that sculpted it. It becomes public infrastructure, subject to the arguments of archives and the rigid categorizations of digital town squares. 

Thabang Mathebula, known to the world as Thakzin, understands this weight with a weary intimacy. He removed a single kick drum from a four-four house bar, and named the resulting form "3-Step". The space left behind became the most contested piece of real estate in African electronic music immediately the genre exploded. The debates began immediately – about who invented it, who perfected it, who it truly belongs to. Thakzin, meanwhile, mostly watches from a careful distance.

He is a product of Ivory Park, a township on the north-east edge of Gauteng, shaped by a household that treated music as a primary necessity, by sangoma rhythms absorbed as ambient noise before he understood their weight, and by a formative production constraint that taught him to think in whole stories rather than loops. All of that predates 3-Step. 

"I remember when people started catching onto 3-Step. I was stressed, for real." 

He recalls approaching his management during that time, not with the typical swagger of a pioneer, but with a deep-seated anxiety about the future of his craft. The worry was the one every high-level creative dreads: sounding monotonous. For an artist whose practice is fundamentally rooted in the act of exploration, becoming synonymous with a single, repeatable sound felt like a trap rather than a triumph. He has spent the years since then clarifying that his artistic identity predates this specific rhythm. He insists that his ability to survive in sonic spaces unrelated to 3-Step is the real story, suggesting that the genre itself is merely a chapter in a much larger, ongoing volume.

Imprinting 

The Thakzin origin story is sometimes reduced to the standard narrative of a young DJ discovering a DAW, but the roots are far more archival. He was born in Ivory Park, a township situated on the north-east edge of Gauteng, in a household where music was treated as a primary necessity for survival. His father was a musician and a dedicated collector of sound, a man who possessed a hoard of CDs and instruments and an inability to throw anything away. In this environment, the household ran on a steady diet of music ranging from Stevie Wonder to Fela Kuti. Thakzin describes this as a "bug" that caught him early in life. Even when he was focused on soccer, he suggests there was a persistent internal pull toward music that felt innate, a biological imperative that he recognized from a very young age.

However, the sonic imprinting went deeper than the records playing on the stereo. Growing up in proximity to sangoma rhythms, the drumming and trance traditions of Southern African spiritual healers, Thabang Mathebula absorbed these patterns as ambient noise long before he understood their cultural or technical weight. When he first began recording music at home, the percussive elements of the sangoma tradition often felt like a disruption or an intrusion into whatever he was attempting to build. It was only after he moved out of his childhood home that distance produced a necessary clarity. He suggests that he eventually began to consciously incorporate those rhythms into his drum patterns, viewing it as a vital connection to home and a spiritual exploration of the meaning behind those specific frequencies

This is where the Thakzin narrative departs from the purely technical. For him, spirituality is not an aesthetic choice; it is structural. When he discusses production, his language is consistently centered on the idea of channeling rather than constructing. He argues that modern software is effectively a vessel for ancient rhythmic energies and that these energies are intrinsically connected to the nuances of human behaviour. In this framework, the notion of imperfection is actually the highest form of perfection. He actively resists the "quantize" button, viewing it not just as a tool but as a philosophical position he finds increasingly sterile. He reasons that because human beings are inherently imperfect, the most effective way to connect with them is through music that retains those same human flaws. Music that is too tightly locked to a digital grid loses the connective tissue that makes it feel alive.
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"My hurdle of not being able to save made me learn how to tell a story from start to finish – you need to take people on a journey. We need to start from somewhere and end up somewhere."
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Thakzin’s technical proficiency was forged in a period of significant production limitations. During his early years, he worked with software that could not save his sessions, a handicap that would have deterred a less disciplined artist. This meant that every track he worked on had to be built in real time, from start to finish, requiring him to hold the entire song's architecture in his head simultaneously. What should have been a crippling hurdle became a masterclass in narrative structure. He suggests that this forced him to learn how to tell a complete story from start to finish without the safety net of revisiting a project. It instilled in him a sense of narrative urgency, ensuring his music always feels like a journey that begins in one specific emotional place and ends in another.

This version of Thakzin is far more interesting than the simplified 3-Step pioneer narrative. The spirituality he describes is deeply rooted in the sangoma tradition of South Africa, where the practitioner acts not as the generator of healing energy, but as a conduit for it. When he claims that the music speaks to him, dictating the direction of an arrangement or revealing its own emotional needs, he is operating from that same ancestral ontology. He is effectively bridging the gap between the ancient and the modern within DAW interfaces.

The Manifesto And The Ensuing Debate.‍

His debut album, God's Window Pt. 1, serves as the most complete expression of this philosophy. Developed over an intense three-year period, the 18-track project is an exhaustive mapping of his influences. It draws on ancestral drum patterns, the string traditions of the uhadi and the house style of collaborators like Sun-El Musician and regular suspect Morda. During its listening session at Johannesburg's Kwa Mai Mai, a space thick with inner-city heritage and traditional medicine, Thakzin knelt before a bowl of burning impepho (ancestral incense) before a single note was played. The spiritual facet of this project was neither subtle nor meant to be.
As the music traveled, it inevitably sparked a conversation regarding the origins of 3-Step that took on a life of its own. High-profile artists like Heavy K and Prince Kaybee have publicly debated the sound's invention, while scene veterans and fans have spent years picking sides and contesting the timeline. Thakzin, however, has maintained a studied, almost monastic indifference to the entire conflict. 
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"The focus on origin can sometimes turn into a distraction…for me, it's more important to stay grounded in the feeling, the innovation, and the cultural exchange, rather than just the title. I want the music to lead."

This indifference is not a form of false modesty; it tracks with how he describes 3-Step as a "disposition" rather than a rigid genre. He views it as a space of fusion, a way to survive amid the noise while remaining true to one's own cultural identity. He argues that the sound didn't just appear out of nowhere, but was adapted from the genesis of other sounds, bringing different worlds together through a focus on rhythm. He admits that there is no single, fixed description of 3-Step because the sound is still evolving and practitioners are still defining it.

Lagos

Thakzin headlined the February 2025 Monochroma edition at Shiro. His set coincided with a heavy downpour. In a city where the weather often dictates the end of an outdoor party, the crowd’s refusal to leave was a significant moment of connection. They stayed in the rain, dancing to unreleased material, and Thabang Mathebula responded by playing for hours. 

‍“...at first, when the rain started falling at Shiro, I wasn't thrilled when the rain started, but once I took a step back, I realized rain is often seen as a blessing. If ever there was a sign of spiritual presence, that was it.”
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Courtesy of Group Therapy, Thakzin returned in October of the same year to headline the Spotify Greasy Tunes opening night at Fired & Iced, where dining culture and electronic music attempted a merger and succeeded. By his second visit, the Lagos scene had already built an entire vocabulary around his sound — 3-Step remixes of Afropop tracks, DJs like Blak Dave, Proton, and Naija House Mafia who had studied and extended the form, and a crowd that knew the unreleased IDs from the February rain set. Thakzin shared the Greasy Tunes stage with Aniko, WeAreAllChemicals, FaeM, and RVTDJ, and he recalls that set being another eureka moment for him. 

“...being in Nigerian life brought out three things for me: colors, pace, and rhythm – it took me back to something real, something from my childhood with my father and Fela Kuti."
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Thakzin speaks about the potential this reconnection holds, these elements waiting for the right moment to crystallise into music. He also views the Nigerian embrace of 3-Step not as a market to be exploited but as a conversation between two cultures reimagining the sound in real time. Ultimately, he looks forward to this evolution spreading to other regions, where each place honours the sound's roots while redefining the genre in ways that remain alive and ever-evolving.

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Initial Weight, Going Concern.

From an A&R and management perspective, Thakzin is a unique case study in how to scale a subgenre without diluting its spiritual core. Most pioneers of a sound spend their careers guarding the borders of that sound, ensuring that they remain the primary authority on its definition. Thakzin does the opposite – he opens space, just as he removes a kick drum and waits to see what grows in the silence. He blends a sangoma pattern with a log drum and listens to the dialogue between them, and will gladly slide in a cheeky interpolation if it feels right. 

The industry will likely continue to argue over who invented the "missing kick." They will debate the lockdown timeline and the influence of early house veterans on the 3-Step structure. But while those debates rage in the comment sections and trade magazines, Thakzin will probably be in his studio, perhaps working on a system that now allows him to save his work, but still operating with the same narrative discipline he learned when he had no other choice. He will be looking for the next rhythmic energy to channel, the next cultural state to express, and the next silence to fill.

He has successfully turned a technical subversion into a global movement, but his sights are set on the broader cosmos. He reminds us that he has the whole universe to explore, and 3-Step was just the beginning of the journey. In his world, the music must always lead, and the vessel must always remain open to whatever frequency comes next. The weight of being first is a burden he carries lightly, because he knows that being first is irrelevant if you aren't also moving forward.

Looking ahead, the evolution of 3-Step seems inevitable, especially as it continues to engage with high-energy scenes in Lagos and London. But for Thakzin, the technical evolution remains secondary to the emotional resonance. He is an artist who understands that genres are ephemeral, but the feeling that music provides is permanent. This is why he is comfortable leaving the 3-Step label behind if it ever starts to feel limiting. He is not interested in building a monument to a single sound; he is interested in the continuous act of creation.

Thakzin is now widely supported by the titans of the industry, with figures like Black Coffee, Louie Vega, Keinemusik, and Laurent Garnier all offering their co-signs. His inclusion in the Beatport Next Class of 2025 and his appearances at festivals such as Montreux and Ultra South Africa have put his music on stages across four continents. In addition, he is already set to have a wonderful 2026, as he’s billed to play at Tomorrowland and Burgess Park — both in July!

His story serves as a reminder that the best music often comes from a place of limitation and necessity. The "no-save" era taught him how to think in terms of entire compositions rather than just loops. The Ivory Park township taught him how to find beauty in the noise. And the sangoma tradition taught him that music is a form of healing that requires the artist to be a conduit for something larger than themselves.

"3-Step is just a chapter, not the whole story, and my journey is vast; it's like a whole universe. 3-Step is just one planet in that cosmos, and I'm here to keep exploring and innovating far beyond it."

He remains a figure who is fundamentally bigger than the sound he made. 3-Step gave him the platform, but his vision is what will sustain him. As he navigates the complexities of global fame and the pressures of being a genre pioneer, he stays grounded in the simple truth that music is about connection. It is about the space between the notes, the rhythm of the rain, and the ancient energies that still speak to us through modern software. He has started a journey with no clear endpoint, and for an artist who survives amid the noise, that is exactly how it should be.

By Temple Egemasi
Photography: Arthur Dlamini

What feels like a worldwide obsession with animal print came up as quickly as all trends seem to nowadays. With a swipe of a feed or the use of a nostalgic sound, ‘the next big thing’ rears its head almost every week. Yet, despite the constant change, what remains the same is the cyclical supply and demand of brands and designers jumping on the trends with sudden enthusiasm. 

Louder than brand’s interest, though, is the sharp cha-ching that rings in ears and wallets as people “invest” in these trends yet again. The erasure of seasonal fashion cycles, the quicker exchange of information, and an increased global consciousness has changed the consumer cycle, prioritising consumption over quality and longevity. 

Not all trends are made the same, though. While the term ‘trend’ has lent itself to today’s expedited society, its previous alias of consistent patterns of popularity or demand over time is still very much alive. Much longer than the weeklong lifespan of microtrends and much more inclusive of society. 

Arguably the best of these is the rise, or perhaps return, of animal print and animal hide garments. Having not only proven their worth, but shone new light on the cultural zeitgeist. 

The origin of animal print and hide fashion can be traced back to Africa’s ancient civilisations, and for the simplest of reasons: necessity. At a time when options were as slim, humans did what humans do best. They survived. Albeit Flintstone style. 

Naturally, as humans evolved, so did the fabrics, the desires, and the sociopolitical climate. The demands of time, colonialism, and the expansion of global trade turned what was once the only option into a symbol of wealth, divinity, and status. And from there, the trend started. 

Like most things that originated from the communities of colour, the Western world didn’t regard the use of animal prints or hide as anything special until their own interest was piqued. The exclusivity, regality, and couture nature of the prints and their hides brought the earliest appeal as floor rugs and entertainment in the West. Throughout the Southern Hemisphere and Eastern countries, fur maintained its power and influence, regardless of cultural influence. 

From the flashy flappers and surrealist art in 1920s America, their rise to fame after Tarzan the Apeman in 1932,  to Christian Dior’s reintroduction of leopard print into high fashion in 1947, what looked like a trend from the top of society down became common. Industrialisation led to the ease of textile printing, which led to new audiences, like punk rockers and indie artists, redefining the look and feel of the prints, as well as the conversation around them.

As the saying goes, no press is bad press and, regardless of public opinion, the value of hide and print has consistently been in its malleability and accessibility. Its cross cultural resonance has allowed it to stand the test of time, ethics, and social pressures, like any true trend. From regal to tacky to sexual to chic, today’s trending patterns capture prints and hide at their very best. 

The subtle rise of Bambi prints incorporates the chic return of polka dots with the textural appeal and exclusivity of hide. Meanwhile, zebra and tiger prints’ luxe association are slowly turning the two into staples. Never mind 2025’s stars: cowhide, tortoise shell, and leopard print, all propelled by pop culture phenomena like Cowboy Carter, retro luxury, and “mob wife” aesthetics. 

Regardless of micro or mainstream trends, prints and hides sell no matter the connotation. Considering previous changes in market value and continued ethical debates, the use of hides, furs, and prints is as versatile as the society in which it exists. The modern-day return to authentic, unfiltered living, particularly in response to global right-wing ideology, climate and economic crises, has platformed prints and hides uniquely. 

Where conservatism constricts, prints play. Where sustainability champions care, and intention, hide and print are a return to the simplest being and the roots of clothing in human civilisation. Where care is desired, and intention is required. Even its flair for controversy and public interest adds to the beauty of it - prints and hides survive.

Public desire for experiences today has driven not only consumerism but also human interest. Social media, marketing campaigns, influencers, and brands not only enthral their audiences, but they also invite them in, involve their senses, and appeal to their emotions. 

Hide tells a story. The journey to get it. The craftsmanship behind it. The very relationship between human and animal. It brings in texture, nuance, culture, and background. It asks questions and answers them. Art forecasting in 2026 indicates the same desire, with the progression of tactile art and design and the revaluation of artisan craft increased by 30 per cent year-by-year. A prediction of the kind of world that champions humanity, in all its complexity. 

From ethical bans, high fashion runways, and trending aesthetics, the impact is incomparable. Last year’s cow print may have evolved into zebra and tiger, but the influence remains the same. To put it simply, there’s nowhere in the world where humans cannot use animals for clothing. What could be more honest and authentic than that? 

 Instagram

Last year, in an interview with Justin Laboy, Ye (the artist formerly known as Kanye West) revealed that the title of his next album, ‘Bully,’ is inspired by his son, Saint West. Dressed in an all-white ensemble, and framed against the backdrop of an austere white screen projecting various merch, the 48-year-old artist shared an anecdote of his son kicking one of his peers. “This man is really a bully,” he said with a slight chuckle. On the 28th of March, one day behind its scheduled release date, Ye finally released the album to the public. 
Expectedly, ‘Bully’ arrives tainted by the shadow of Ye’s erratic past few years, which found him drifting into the furthest reaches of the far right movement, culminating in a salvo of anti-semitic statements and an ugly track entitled ‘Heil Hitler.’

In the months leading up to the album’s release, Ye began something of a slow walk towards redemption. He renounced his antisemitic statements, drove a wedge between himself and his former Hitler-sympathizing Ilk—a group including Nick Fuentes—and took out a page on the WSJ, apologizing for his unseemly conduct and expressing a desire to do better moving forward. The apology has no doubt sanded down much of the public indignation Ye has faced in recent years. Nonetheless, his latest album has split public opinion and sparked a litany of questions and conversations. In this installment of PopTakes, I share my candid thoughts on the flurry of dissonant opinions attending ‘Bully’s’ release. I also pull apart J Cole’s recent head-turning remarks and Druski’s “deeply hilarious but no less politically charged” latest skit. 

Ye’s New Album ‘Bully’ Raises New Questions About Cancel Culture

Of course, many of Ye’s critics remain steadfast and others remain skeptical of his putative transformation from the volatile and often distasteful persona he has espoused in the past few years. But it's almost surreal witnessing the outpouring of love and support Ye’s ‘Bully’ is receiving. While Pitchfork, which is increasingly being viewed as a holdout of liberal idealism, awarded the project a scathing 3.4/10—a lower score than Ye’s less coherent projects ‘Vultures II’ and ‘Donda II’—the project has found immense commercial success. It currently sits atop the US Apple Music Top Albums Chart, and is expected to make a strong overture on the Billboard Albums Charts next week. Meanwhile, ‘Father,’ a standout from the album featuring Travis Scott, has peaked atop the Global Apple Music Singles Charts. In a recent vox pop by Complex, many listeners rave about the quality of the project and award the project ratings in the neighborhood 8/10. Ye is also billed to headline the Wireless Festival for three days in July. If you told any pop culture enthusiasts a few months ago that the pendulum of the public’s opinion on Ye would swing in reverse, in such a short span, they probably would have dismissed the prediction as hallucinatory or naive. And yet, here we are. 

Amid all of these, questions regarding the efficacy and politics of cancel culture, have begun to arise. One tweet reads: “Kendrick was right about cancel culture,” referring to his ‘Mr Morale and The Big Steppers’ album where he variously calls out the hypocrisy of cancel culture: people publicly denouncing cancelled artists like R Kelly while listening to them in private. 

Cancel culture is often framed as a wholly new phenomenon, an expedient of the internet age. In reality, it’s at best a version of an ancient tradition. For millennia, humans have banished, ostracized, or sent seemingly irredeemably transgressive individuals into exile. Cancel culture feeds into this instinct; the goal is to exile certain erring individuals from society. But in place of physical estrangement, cancel culture advocates for digital pariahdom. Cancelled individuals are to be ignored except for the rare occasions when it becomes incumbent on us to denounce their actions. Crucially, in the case where the cancelled person is an artist, we similarly are expected to disengage with their art. 

Here is where the problem lies. It's one thing to publicly distance oneself from a transgressive individual and an entirely different thing to eschew their art, especially for someone like Ye, whose talent and influence on contemporary popular culture is singular. If Ye’s current ascendancy reveals anything, it’s that the latter is an almost herculean task. Despite Ye’s pariahdom on social media in the past few years, his listenership on streaming platforms remained strong, well into the neighborhood of 60 million monthly listeners on Spotify. His public apology and newfound conciliatory disposition have only given people the license to admit that their love for the music is stronger than whatever moral objections they might have. 

Druski Skewers Conservative Women in Latest Skit

In American comedian Druski’s latest skit, he plays the conservative white lady archetype. Wearing a white suit and a blonde wig, his face prosthetically altered to resemble a white lady, he prances around a stage adorned with the blue, white, and red of the American flag. The video, captioned “How Conservative Women in America act,” has now garnered a staggering 183 million views on X alone. As one would expect, it has also sparked a welter of criticism. Some have argued that Druski’s skit gives white people the pass to play white face. This argument however collapses when one considers that white face lacks the historical and political context that makes black face discriminatory. 

More interestingly, while Druski refrains from name-dropping anyone in the video, viewers have drawn comparisons between the character Druski plays in the video and Erica Kirk, the widow of late conservative activist Charlie Kirk. Earlier this week, there were reports that Erica Kirk had issued Druski a cease-and-desist letter. But this turned out to be false, Kirk has neither spoken on the matter nor sent any letter to Druski. What's real is the number of comments from conservative individuals calling for some kind of censorship of the video. It brings to mind the level of backlash Jimmy Kimmel garnered among conservatives after he made a joke about Charlie Kirk, which ultimately led to his suspension by ABC late last year. Conservatives often cast themselves as free speech hawks. This was a major part of Trump’s appeal in the last election cycle, a position that endeared him to other self-acclaimed free speech hawks like Elon Musk. Given their putative commitment to free speech, it strikes me as odd and hypocritical that they seem to have taken a liking for calling for the censorship of whatever strikes them the wrong way. 

J Cole Drops Major Bombshell In New Interview

To promote his latest album ‘The Fall Off,’  J Cole has been on something of an interview tour, sharing details about the album and his personal life. In the past few days, however, this has found him embroiled in a PR nightmare. In one interview, he revealed that he was poised to release a podcast episode about his mythologized brawl with Diddy but decided against it because at the time Diddy had just gotten arrested on multiple counts of sexual misconduct. “It felt like kicking a man when he’s down,” he says. “It would have given the news, and the world, more ammo to destroy this dude.” Hearing these comments from J Cole, who has for a long time advocated for social justice in his music, feels terribly jarring, and calls into question the persona we’ve fashioned for J Cole in our minds. We have all seen the video of Diddy brutally kicking his former partner Cassie Ventura even as she pleads and tries to escape him. So, it's beyond disappointing that  J Cole admitted to protecting a serial abuser. More disconcerting is Cole’s attempt at framing Diddy as a victim. Perhaps this is yet another reminder not to place celebrities on a pedestal, regardless of their manicured public personas of whatever politics they claim to subscribe to. 

Close your eyes and imagine the bass thumping in a Lagos club. The DJ drops a new track. Within 10 seconds before the lyrics even start, the whole room knows exactly who it is. That specific drum pattern, that choral backup, that particular "vibe” in your mind, you know that’s Asake. But before the song even finishes, someone in the corner is already scrolling through Twitter, typing out the same tired complaint: "He sounds the same. When is he going to give us something different?"

At first glance, that might seem like a fair critique. After all, shouldn’t artists evolve? But the reality is more nuanced. So what’s really going on here? The issue lies in how audiences often misunderstand what artistic growth looks like. There’s an expectation, especially in fast-moving digital spaces, that growth must be obvious, dramatic, and constant. Listeners want reinvention: a new sound, a new persona, a clear shift from what came before. But in practice, that’s not how most great artists evolve.

Take Asake. His music blends modern Afrobeats with traditional Fuji influences, rhythmic chants, and street-inspired flows. He dominated the charts for two years straight. But almost immediately, people started complaining that he was sounding the same. What that criticism missed is how evolution was already happening, just not in the loud, obvious way people expected.

Asake didn’t abandon his core sound, and that’s exactly why it worked. Instead, he refined it. His production became more layered, his vocal control improved, and his songwriting grew more intentional. The chants became tighter, the flows more deliberate, and the overall sound more polished. To a casual listener, it might still feel familiar. But to anyone paying attention, there’s a clear progression. And that’s the point: great artists don’t always evolve by changing direction completely. They evolve by going deeper into what makes them unique.

Now, even rising Nigerian artists like Fola are experiencing early criticism for sticking to a sound and theme despite still being in the process of defining their identity. Right now, he has a particular sound and a certain type of message he leans into, and yes, if you listen to a few of his songs, they might feel similar.

But that’s actually normal. When an artist is just starting, repeating a style isn’t a mistake; it's how they build identity. Think of it like this: if every song sounded completely different, you wouldn’t even know what makes him him. The “same sound” people complain about is often the exact thing helping listeners recognize him.

The same goes for his themes. Many artists, especially early in their careers, talk about similar things like love, hustle, lifestyle, and emotions because that’s what they’re currently connected to. Over time, as their lives change, their music naturally expands. The problem is that people are asking for change too early.

Fola is still in the stage of introducing himself. Expecting him to switch sounds or topics immediately is like asking someone to change their personality before you even understand who they are. Growth in music doesn’t happen overnight. First comes repetition, then mastery, then expansion. So instead of seeing it as “he sounds the same,” it’s more accurate to see it as: he’s still building his foundation. 
And it doesn’t stop with emerging artists. Someone like Wizkid, who has spent over a decade shaping the global sound of Afrobeats, still faces similar comments about his newer releases “sounding the same.” From a broader perspective, having a signature sound isn’t a weakness; it’s an advantage. It’s how audiences recognize an artist instantly. It’s what turns a song into a brand. In industries beyond music, consistency is often praised; in music, it’s strangely treated as a flaw.

Even experimentation, when it happens, works best when it’s natural. Rema’s shifts, for example, felt intentional because they stemmed from artistic curiosity rather than external pressure. There’s a difference between evolving and reacting. And for veterans like Wizkid, consistency often reflects mastery. After years of experimenting and influencing the soundscape, what remains is a refined identity, one that doesn’t need to prove itself through drastic change constantly.

The bigger takeaway here goes beyond Nigerian music. Across global music scenes, fans play a powerful role in shaping narratives around artists. But not every familiar sound is a sign of stagnation. Sometimes, it’s a sign that an artist has found their voice and is choosing to develop it rather than abandon it. Because real growth isn’t always loud. It doesn’t always come with a complete rebrand or a sudden shift in direction. Often, it’s quieter, more deliberate, and more sustainable. And sometimes, the best thing you can do for an artist is simple: let what works, breathe.

The truth is simple: if a sound works, it deserves time to breathe. Sometimes, the real artistry lies in going deeper, not wider, which means refining a sound until it becomes timeless. Because in the long run, it’s not constant change that builds careers. It’s clarity, identity, and patience.

Odeal’s sold-out show was another testament to the growth and musicality he has shown as an artist. Whilst most of the music industry was gathered in Manchester for the MOBO Awards, 5,000 people knew the place to be was Brixton’s O2 Academy. There, Odeal brought to life his 2025 EPs The Summer That Saved Me and The Fall That Saved Us.

As expected, the show was nothing short of an exceptional display of who Odeal is and where he is in his career. No doubt, this era will stand out as a strong moment in his career. The show blended his musicianship, as showcased by his band on stage, with his vocals, which came through amongst the Brixton crowd.

Opening the show with Free Me, he took the crowd on a journey through his discography, with fans hanging onto every word and flawlessly performed notes. Standout moments on the setlist included “Blame U,” “In The Chair,” “Soh-Soh,” “London Summers”, “Addicted,” "You're Stuck,” and the show closer, “Miami.” The hour-and-a-half set showcased the versatility he brings to his music, fusing rich R&B melodies with Afrobeats. Odeal appeared as the stylish man he is, rocking an all-black outfit, before changing into another outfit and returning to the stage later in the show.

As hometown shows go, he truly gave homage and thanks to the fans, making it feel like a celebration of one of their own. The crowd's energy was a reminder that there's no place like home and no love like the love from home.

Already cemented as an artist who has miles to go in terms of where his career is going, it's only from here, and in terms of what show he brings to the stage, we are looking forward to seeing him when he next takes the stage.

The UK’s music run is far from over. Video game-themed visuals, Jerk-era fashion, British slang and distorted beat productions are just the tip of a virtual iceberg. Ever since 2023, they have dominated youth conversations online, often the ones setting new trends and dictating the next soundscape. An angle that is currently left out of the equation is rising female artists. And how they contribute just as much to this phenomenon that is influencing youth culture on a global scale.

We have selected three starlets we believe are up next and are destined to cause all sorts of ruckus this year. They are talented, they are fresh, and their sounds represent Black British music at the highest calibre.

Meduuulla

‍Meduuulla is a Zimbabwe-born Manchester rapper with the slickest lyrical plays you may find in the Hip-Hop scene right now. She was first introduced to us in The Rap Game UK in 2021. Following a couple of years of absence, Meduuulla released a well-received 2023 EP titled ‘Oblongata’, comforting our ears with jazzy instrumentals and soothing bars. Recently, she debuted her 2025 album, ‘Tabula Rasa’, in collaboration with producer Ethan Hill, proving this is Meduuulla’s world and we’re just roaming in it.

dexter in the newsagent

‍dexter in the newsagent, or dexter in short, is a South London singer-songwriter who had her big breakthrough in ‘dexters phone call’ by Jim Legxacy for his 2025 album ‘Black British Music’. Shortly after, she’s been catapulting in relevance. Her voice is soft, often accompanied by guitar rhythms. Her lyrics cut through one's heart, commemorating words to her late father, a central subject in her music.
Dexter’s universe feels deeply personal, and we’re lucky enough to be granted a glimpse into it. She wears her stories like armour.
Dexter’s 2025 mixtape ‘Time Flies’ was only a taster, and as her music grows, so will her influence.

Sade Olutola

‍Sade Olutola is a British-Nigerian baby joy that expresses Gen Z emotions in the most fun ways possible through her music. For example, her song ‘2099’ feels apocalyptic with a flair of just straight amusement. Sliding upon electronic productions and a vintage-like sound system, Sade is the perfect teenage heartthrob. Coupled with her Y2K look and ecstatic visuals, she naturally holds all of the elements of a 22-year-old born star in the making. 
Although her recent EP ‘Arrow Heart’, a 5-song selection of her greatest output, sent waves in the music sphere, it is still too early to state how her career may blossom for years to come.

What’s so special about today’s listeners is that they don’t care about sticking to the status quo, and as a result, young artists are now freer than ever. Rather than letting a specific genre define them, they encapsulate their own blend of sonic styles, letting their creativity and freedom of expression reinvent themselves. Whether it is in Hip-Hop, folk, or Pop anthems, the female imprint is boundless and travels across sonic grids. Just like their male counterparts, we can’t wait to see they will take this generation next.

Streetwear’s rise in Africa over the past couple of years has been louder than anyone could have dreamed. The skater-American subculture has filtered into the African fashion ecosystem and found its home in the wardrobes of the misfits and nonconformist youth. Now, every major fashion city on the continent has a streetwear brand leading the underground and sometimes mainstream scene. Streetwear on the continent is more diverse than ever, with designers from each region offering distinct takes on the subculture. 

Jerseys, for example, are a popular trend with streetwear brands since their resurgence in the 2020s. Practically every streetwear brand now produces jerseys, but each one feels uniquely suited to its brand rather than like a copy. Tracksuits that look straight out of the ’80s, prints with large texts, and cyberwave fonts: these elements have almost become

shorthand for what streetwear is supposed to look like. Still, some brands are pushing beyond this visual language and creating fresh designs that set them apart.

The brands mentioned here fall into that category. They have a clear creative direction tied to a distinct identity that has helped them cultivate loyal communities. Here are five streetwear brands in Africa that get it right:

BROKE

Back in 2016, when a group of 6 friends - Mzwandile Sithole aka International Pantsula, Sindiso Tshuma, Hlumelo Gosa aka Rosco Steazy, Akhona Beja aka IamSlolo, Simbongile Bino, and Andile Dlamini - started a project from their township in Cape Town, South Africa, the last thing they expected was to be leading streetwear in South Africa a decade later. 

BROKE began as an oath between six cash-strapped boys to create something that defied norms, regardless of their pockets. From day one, the brand has been built on a strong ethos of creation, one that continues to run through each collection. Even before their official debut as a fashion label, they were already using clothing as a vehicle for messaging: one of their earliest drops in 2018 was a campaign encouraging youth to take a stand against water waste.

Their first official streetwear collection arrived in 2020 with Andile Dlamini as lead creative director, and since then, BROKE has built a vast catalogue including their now-signature baseball cap stamped with a bold "B"
Over time and with success, the name BROKE has taken on new meaning, now standing for Being Rebellious Over Konforming to Expectations. 

Bola PSD

Bola PSD wants to be youth fashion personified. When the now-ubiquitous streetwear brand first launched in Nigeria in 2023, the original vision looked very different. Its founder, Bola Olaniyan, initially aimed for a rockstar image, but after the first drop failed, the brand’s direction pivoted to reference what Bola knew best—his own style. “The brand basically revolves around me as a person, and I wanted people to see and connect with that,” and it worked.

Bola PSD first gained traction in the streetwear commnity for its polos, belts, and beanies, but its breakout moment came when Rema wore one of its polos in the FUN video. Since then, the PSD name has carried a new kind of legitimacy, with more people gravitating toward the brand.

Wear Thirsty

Wear Thirsty is a Lagos streetwear brand that began as Shopstraffitti — a name pulled from the nickname of its founder, Olawale Olukolade, aka Straffitti. The brand has been in motion since 2016, starting in West Virginia before relocating to Nigeria, where the Lekki-based Wear Thirsty store became the anchor that cemented its cult influence within Lagos youth culture.

One cannot speak of Thirsty without mentioning its signature 999 merch, which became so popular that they’ve made it theirs by using it across other designs from caps, hockey jerseys, or graphic tees. Their recent drop - thirsty merch vest: a netted vest finished with a studded “T” - presents wearthirsty in a darker, more minimalist punk look, showing a brand that isn’t afraid to evolve while holding onto its core identity.

Mashaka (MSK)

Mashaka is a streetwear brand deeply rooted in Alexandra township, South Africa, the hometown of its founder, Percy Mufamadi. Its earliest collection in 2022 featured a nylon puffer jacket that has since become a signature, with the brand building its identity around it.

Through each release, the puffer is reworked, cropped, expanded, and reshaped into bags and vests. Different iterations of the nylon puffer have been seen on many South African celebrities, including Nasty C, K.O, and Muziqal, just to mention a few. Some of their other designs feature items like distressed denim, camo jackets and shorts, and cargo pants.

Nairobi Apparel District

“The heart of art and upcycling”: this is the mantra Nairobi Apparel District lives by. Founded in 2017 by Kenyan artist, designer, and creative director Junior Orina, NAD has carved out a unique space in Kenyan streetwear.

At its core, NAD is a sustainable, or “art-cycled,” brand focused on using recycled and eco-friendly fabrics to make timeless pieces that feel uniquely theirs. Each one of NAD’s catalogues is custom-tailored to avoid waste and overproduction while still speaking boldly to the streetwear market’s taste for flair and identity.
Some of NAD’s standout pieces feature political imagery, with figures like Nelson Mandela appearing alongside other political icons on tote bags, shirts, and hoodies.

As young people continue to embrace non-conformist culture, it’s almost certain that more streetwear brands will emerge onto the scene. But growth alone isn’t what the culture needs. If anything, this moment calls for more intention from brands to move beyond simply reproducing what streetwear is supposed to look like, and instead push toward what it can mean. The future of African streetwear can be anchored to unique ideas that reflect the lived experiences and fully realised creative worlds of African misfits. In the end, African streetwear brands are not just participating in skate culture; they’re defining a new generation.

Cover Credit:  Wear Thirsty Instagram

As the African continent is gaining more and more global recognition due to its entertainment industry, one aspect that is rarely discussed is content creators. For many diaspora communities and curious outsiders, their content becomes a gateway to glimpses of everyday life in Africa. Not only do they challenge the image that the rest of the world imposes on the continent, but they also provide access to the stories of locals, authorities or in certain instances, even celebrities.

Whereas foreigners are focused on displaying poverty, chaos, and underdeveloped areas of Africa, our storytellers depict the contrary. We have selected the top content creators who we believe are currently making an impact and deserve their flowers. This is years in the making, and despite whether one may agree with all of their content choice, they certainly have put in the work and grown organically in our hearts.

Wode Maya

Berthold Kobby Winkler Ackon, better known as Wode Maya, is the voice of Africa. A Ghanaian vlogger, YouTuber, storyteller, and Pan-Africanist who, since his early days in China, has made it his absolute mission to represent the best of Africa. Now a husband and father, Wode has visited approximately 38 of the 54 African countries, and with an African passport. To put it further into context, it is extremely difficult for an African to travel across the continent, let alone travel globally, which Wode does not shy away from displaying. 

However, this is one of the many reasons we adore him so much; Wode wants us to see the opportunities available as much as the potential our beautiful continent has to improve. To this day, he is the most followed content creator on our list, with an impressive 1,98 million subscribers on YouTube.

Steven Ndukwu

Stephen Anthony Ndukwu, or Stephen Ndukwu in short, is a Nigerian filmmaker and content creator. His videos explore Africa's diverse landscape as much as its people's drive for entrepreneurship and successful businesses. He recently began extending his reach by unpacking the lives of the diaspora in the Americas. Steven’s content comes across as an individual just like you and me who is trying to better understand the world around him, whilst uncovering a much-needed reality check of the unrealistic dreams some of the natives still believe in, for example, the perception that life in the Occident is all sweet.

Although Steven may not be the most popular or established YouTuber on our list, he certainly contributes in a unique manner that feels both amicable and relatable to the average viewer.

Tayo Aina

‍Tayo Aina has been perhaps Wode’s biggest competitor and rival throughout the years. A Nigerian documentarian and YouTuber who seemed to have the world in the palm of his hands, but when Africa needed him the most, he left. All jokes aside, Tayo just moved to Portugal; however, his content still embodies the spirit, mind and soul of the African man. Contrary to Wode, who focuses on the African world from an African lens, Tayo’s philosophy is rather about viewing the world, including our continent, from an African man’s perspective.

From Italy, Siberia, or the US, if there’s one Nigerian resident, Tayo will be the first to locate them and unveil their incredibly unique story. Some may say that the business-savvy (Lagos is evidently still within him) has the heart of an entrepreneur rather than a man behind a camera, and that is what drives him to the extent that he is willing to go to discover the rest of the world.

Korty Eo

Eniola Korty Olanrewaju, better known as Korty Eo, could be the girl next door. That is, if your neighbours were as cool as she is, following Wizkid around, setting up strangers on dates, and chilling with the most sought-after celebrities Nigeria has to offer. We are convinced that there is nothing Korty can not do, but in her free time, she mostly acts as an interviewer, YouTuber, and commentator. 

Korty’s content feels like exchanges shared in a friend group chat. Whereas online personalities want to display their best foot forward at all times and the highlights of their lives, Korty isn’t trying to sell you a dream. Au contraire, her content is raw, her settings are replicable; however, the magic lies in the way she can bring the human side of her subjects. In other words, Korty strips down the X-factor from your favourite artists, and suddenly, their dreams are attainable; they become a version of themselves we would never get to see unless it were for Korty and her content.

Shank Comics

Adesokan Adedeji Emmanuel, better known as Shank Comics, is a Nigerian comedian, streamer and content creator. For most, he has become a bridge for Nigerians and the diaspora to mingle, share laughs and connect through a lens we had never experienced before. Shank has organically put himself in the position of the go-to for American streamers like Kai Cenat and DDG, who want to visit and learn about Nigerian culture. Ever since, Shank has only grown in popularity, while his content mainly speaks to a young audience.

Shank’s content expands from comedy skits, food trials, to reality shows and more–to his core, he is an online personality who wants to make anyone laugh. Perhaps what was unintended is for Shank to play such a pivotal role in normalizing African beauty standards, Nigerian humour, and overall culture from the outside looking in. For long, the outside world had no idea about the African mind, and Shank’s skits not only make Africans feel relatable,  but also the content is refreshing to see.

Whereas music makes the world dance, our content creators are the guardians of culture. Africans have this unique ability to inform the mind and express themselves like nobody else. Their content feels personable, but also doesn’t shy away from showing their expertise, often looked down upon by outsiders. It no longer becomes a question of whether Africans can write their stories themselves, but how they can do so under not always the best conditions and yet still manage to overcome and succeed.

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Women's History Month shouldn't just be a single month on the calendar; it should be an ongoing, year-round celebration of the multifaceted roles we inhabit. Whether they lead with integrity and grace or revolutionize industries, these women prove that leadership is defined by empathy and expertise. I have the distinct privilege of knowing each of these women personally and can speak directly to their incredible character and impeccable reputations. Their work ethic is nothing short of inspiring, but it is their dedication to the community that truly sets them apart. By bringing a deep sense of professional "know-how" to their respective fields, they are raising the standard of what it means to lead. 

The Blueprint of Success: Strategic Authenticity and Discipline 

Throughout these interviews, a powerful recurring theme emerged: the importance of strategic authenticity and unwavering discipline. For these leaders, being "authentic" isn't a marketing tactic; it is the very foundation of their business infrastructure. They refuse to conform to a single mold, choosing instead to stay true to their unique belief systems and the standards they have set for themselves. Success in these high-pressure industries is rarely about being the loudest; it is about being the most prepared. The "invisible work" often involves restraint, choosing long-term alignment over immediate gratification. There is a shared respect for the "old-school" grind, showing up humbly, learning the craft, and putting in the work until you've earned your seat at the table. 

Pillar I: The Foundation of Care & Advocacy

Gloria for Deeds Magazine: When you first entered spaces like Jacobi Medical Center and Montefiore, what was the 'missing piece' you identified in how we treated children in crisis? 

Troy Pinkney: "When I was on the floors, I often saw children being given medical information that was either too vague or deliberately obscured by well-meaning staff. The missing piece was a formalized, systematic approach to age-appropriate, truthful communication and emotional preparation. Trust that children can understand more than we give them credit for". 

How did you ensure that the 'humanity' and 'progressive pedagogy' of child development remained intact when you founded the online 'Master’s in Child Life' at Bank Street College? 

Our program was known for the relationships we built with our students and for creating a community. I wanted to create this in the virtual space. Virtual instruction is here to stay. It is up to instructors to ensure that students feel connected to them and that students voices are heard and appreciated. 

How do you describe the unique 'magic' and necessity of a Child Life Specialist? 

I believe childhood is the best of many worlds. We use developmentally appropriate language to teach youth and families what is happening to them in the healthcare environment and to advocate for them with members of the multidisciplinary team. We support the entire family during their most challenging times". 

Why is it impossible to provide true Child Life care without an intersectional lens on race and equity?

If we are to truly support the healthcare needs of all patients, we must understand their lived experience and the systems that impact care. For example, there is still a belief that Black children need less pain medicine than do white children. Some of the old stereotypes about Black people still exist in the field of medicine. 

Pillar II: The Design of Brand & Identity

Gloria for Deeds Magazine: What was the specific moment you realized that a person's brand isn't just about image, but the business infrastructure? 

NeeJay Sherman: There wasn't one defining moment; it was a realization over time. Studying Visual Studies and Business at LIM College taught me that perception is intentional and constructed. Every detail shapes how people feel; branding at its core is psychological. When I began working with talent, I saw the real gap: visibility without infrastructure. Many have attention and image, but not long-term positioning. A brand isn't what you post; it's the framework you construct around it. 

How do you balance immediate demands with the need to build a legacy? 

There are always two timelines running at once, the present and the future. The present demands visibility: press, campaigns, and cultural moments. The future demands positioning. Every decision goes through one filter: does this serve the long arc of the career? Buzz is temporary. Identity is lasting. Legacy isn't built in loud moments; it's built through disciplined, intentional choices. 

What does 'culture-first' leadership mean to you in practice? 

Culture-first means we don't chase relevance; we build it. In practice, culture-first leadership means understanding the community before monetizing it. It means protecting identity over chasing hype. It means asking a simple question before every partnership: does this expand the narrative, or does it dilute it? Temporary noise looks exciting. Cultural shifts feel inevitable. 

What is the 'invisible' work that goes into being a brand strategist?

The invisible work is discipline. People see the deals and milestones, but they don't see the preparation, the strategic 'no's,' the long-term thinking, or the constant refinement behind it all. If there's one trait that has sustained me throughout my journey, it's discipline. Success isn't about being the loudest in the room. It's about being the most prepared. 

Pillar III: Creative Production & Gatekeeping

Gloria for Deeds Magazine: What was the 'catalyst moment' when you realized you needed to build Tunnel Media Group (TMG)? 

Danielle Hawkins: As a market editor, my role was focused on discovering hidden brands and emerging talent, giving the underdog a platform to shine. With TMG, my motivation came from growing tired of the 'Glassdoor and gatekeeping' effect that often defines how the industry operates. I wanted to create a more level playing field where creatives have a fair opportunity to showcase their abilities and be recognized. 

How does your agency provide a 'creative safe haven' for your roster? 

It's no secret that being a woman, especially a woman of color in the fashion industry can come with its challenges. I believe it's important not to overpromise and to consistently deliver excellent work. For our artists at TMG, we work hard to create opportunities that they genuinely want to be part of and to place them with teams that truly appreciate their creative perspective. Our goal is never to put an artist in an uncomfortable position.

What is the one intangible quality you look for when deciding who is 'Tunnel' material? Energy rarely misleads. We're far more interested in a person's character and moral compass first, and their creativity second. We don't rush to sign every artist who wants to be represented by us. We prefer to spend time working together first, understanding the dynamic. No one wants to work with a jerk, no matter how gifted they are". 

How are you intentionally 'breaking the tunnel' open for the next generation? 

I come from an old-school mindset where you learn the craft, show up humbly, and put in the time. Today, it's common for someone to immediately feel entitled to a seat at the table. In my view, it doesn't work that way. I believe in seeing proof of consistency, dedication, and growth over time before someone is truly ready for that opportunity. That process builds character. 

Pillar IV: The Bridge to Cultural Impact 

Gloria for Deeds Magazine: How do you learn to trust that inner compass over the external noise when leading marketing campaigns? 

Janelle Gibbs: The best judgment of self is yourself. The relationship you build with yourself will guide you on the path meant for you. When you stay grounded in what you truly want, it will always set you apart. A lot of the outside noise is just a distraction meant to trick you out of your spot. If I had let that noise consume me, I wouldn't be where I am today. 

How do you protect the authenticity of an artist's narrative when the industry demands faster content? 

I make sure the artist's narrative stays authentic to who they are, their voice never gets lost, and people connect with something real, not just something quick. We all love a good trend, but authenticity lasts.

How do you manage the emotional labor of holding the 'bridge' up for others through initiatives like therapy and health resources? 

We Black women are often superheroes without capes. Lately, I've been realizing that underneath it all, we're just human, far from perfect. My boss, Rayna Bass, reminded me that I can't put so much pressure on myself. I've been prioritizing uninterrupted 'me time' to protect my peace of mind. 

How have you evolved your definition of 'success' from being reachable to being a strategist? 

Early in my career, success in PR literally looked like having 3 phones. I still believe accessibility matters. As I've grown into the marketing space, I've realized it's not about being on all the time, it's about showing up smarter and more intentionally. These days I'm down to 2 phones, but I still always take my artists' calls. 

Pillar V: Sound, Style & Heritage

Gloria for Deeds Magazine: How does your Liberian heritage fuel the energy you bring to the decks in NYC as 'The Biggest Jue'? 

Mohogany: My Liberian heritage is central to who I am. My parents came to America and built a life rooted in excellence and tenacity. In Liberia, 'Jue' refers to a beautiful, independent, boss woman, and that's exactly what I represent. I'm intentional about representing my people with pride and authenticity. 

How do modeling and DJing help you express yourself beyond music? 

I've never seen myself as just a DJ; I've always wanted to merge all my interests—fashion, fitness, and even my love for politics. It humanizes me. Social media often presents perfection, but I value showing that I'm a real person with depth, curiosity, and individuality. 

What was the hardest moment you had to turn into a breakthrough? 

In 2022, I lost an opportunity to DJ a Met Gala afterparty after a difficult set. I left feeling defeated—I even cried behind the booth. But that moment pushed me to grow. Two years later, I DJed at Burberry's Met Gala afterparty. I believe in turning setbacks into glory; you can always rise again.

What do you want the next generation to understand about building a brand like The House of Jue? 

It's not easy, and it didn't happen overnight. It takes consistency, practice, and the willingness to fail publicly. Most importantly, it takes community. With humility and a commitment to your craft, not virality, you can build something real and lasting. 

Final Reflections 

As I look back on these conversations, the common thread is a profound commitment to purpose and calling. Each of these women, Troy, NeeJay, Danielle, Janelle, and Mohgany, stands as a testament to what happens when you follow your heart with an unshakeable sense of dedication. They have shown us that being a creator of your own path means constructing a legacy that creates space for others to thrive. Their work proves that thinking outside the box isn't just a business strategy—it is a way to create a better world for those who follow in their footsteps. 

To close, I am reminded of the words of the incomparable Maya Angelou: "I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel".

Cover Credit: Izeyah Narvaez

As is now tradition, International Women’s Month this year has occasioned a welter of women-centered efforts. In the first week of March, the women of Deeds Magazine shared profound and poignant musings on what it feels like to be a woman in this age, when AI, divisive political rhetoric, and fraught socio-cultural dynamics steer us into truly unprecedented times. Elsewhere, there has been no shortage of talks and workshops catering to the growing female creative class. Nonetheless, we’d be remiss if we closed out this month without shining a light on female creatives making exceptional strides and refusing to shrink themselves in a world where defiance often comes at a cost. It’s with this understanding that we have curated a selection of four exceptional women we think you should have on your radar.

Indi

22-year-old Indi is one of the most exciting voices within Nigeria’s rapidly exploding underground music scene. Her ethereal, romance-sodden music beautifully marries Y2K-nostalgia with a contemporary sonic sensibility, resulting in a sound that feels timeless and deeply enrapturing. Indi’s interest in music stretches all the way back to her childhood, when she’d regale herself and those around her by singing and playing the piano. But in 2021, she found herself with a gnawing desire to make music professionally. “I think I had an awakening. I became more intentional with what I was listening to. I think I watched a documentary about how Pharrell (Williams) used to produce, and I was like: ‘maybe I should start producing,’” Indi tells Deeds Magazine. She started out producing for her brother Luwa.mp4, also an explosive presence within Nigeria’s burgeoning underground music scene. Around 2023, she began recording to beats she produced, and by July of 2024, she would release her first two-pack—‘Nova/Be Like’—officially launching her career as a music artist. 

Essel Ekuban

To observe the work of Ghanaian photographer and filmmaker Essel Ekuban is to be steeped in a newfound appreciation for the magic ensconced within everyday life. In their hands, the camera becomes a tool for transposing the mundane into something of a transcendental experience. Their placid, compositionally austere stills and films mostly interrogate queerness in Ghana, familial relationships, and cultural histories. Based in Accra, Ekuban’s practice homes in on deploying photography as a bridge between personal family narratives and broader community histories. Ekuban’s photography journey began in 2020. As the pandemic stirred a global reckoning, they increasingly sank deeper into the clutches of a depressive episode. It was at this period that Ekuban discovered photography’s restorative powers. “It (photography) became a way to process what I was feeling. Over the years, that initial spark has evolved from a private practice into a deeply communal one. I’ve moved from simply capturing moments to becoming a researcher and a storyteller,” they tell Deeds Magazine.
—Chibuzo E.

Hameedah Aminu

Hameedah moves between Form and Freedom. With a background in law and law enforcement, but instinctively drawn to creation. As the founder and creative director of Mulawwan, she channels both worlds into a unique design language. Mulawwan derived from the Arabic word  “colorful” is more of a declaration than a name. A refusal to be boxed in. A commitment to exploring identity, contrast, and the full spectrum of expression through fashion. Her entry into fashion was organic. A birthday outfit she made for herself sparked unexpected attention, with people drawn to its originality and asking for more. That moment became a quiet turning point, setting the foundation for a brand built on instinct, individuality, and originality.
Through Wan Clan, she extends her world beyond fashion… building a community rooted in art, books, charity, and shared experience. It’s less about audiences, more about connection. Her design process is far from  rigid. It begins with a feeling, sometimes unclear, sometimes disruptive. Interestingly, some of her strongest pieces have come from mistakes, reinforcing her belief that imperfection isn’t a flaw, but a catalyst. Through Mulawwan, her legal background, and Wan Clan, Hameedah Aminu is carving out space, unapologetically…for creativity, growth, and impact. On her own terms.‍

‍Khadija Dikko 

Textiles is not just clothes; it mirrors people, their lives, heritage, experience, and legacy.
Deeds had the opportunity to speak to Khadija Dikko, a textile artist who is all about creating intentional and culturally inspired textiles, the process behind them, and the craft itself.
Khadija Dikko is a consultant at This Is Us. She studied Textile Design, specializing in Woven textiles, at Falmouth University, and later pursued a Master’s degree at the Royal College of Art to further her knowledge in textile design.
Khadija’s passion for textiles began in an art class, a passion her teacher noticed and encouraged, and that became the starting point of her journey into textiles.
Her designs have always been inspired by her culture, heritage, and personal experiences. This is seen in one of her works at the Royal College of Art, Tsuntsuwa Che — She is a Bird, which explored the concept of “home”—something she never really connected with, shaped by her nomadic upbringing across Kano, Abuja, Kaduna, Lagos, and the United Kingdom.
The project brought together indigo dyeing, woven shibori, and film photography, showing how she translates her experiences into textiles. This also reflects in another project from her first degree, where she explored food and its relationship with women, which helped deepen her understanding of texture in textiles.  
Her creative process depends on the kind of textile she is working with. She usually starts with visual research, which helps her approach different types of textiles. Her work continues to reflect her experiences, drawing from memory, movement, and the different places she has called home.
—Ruqayyah S.

We had a lovely time speaking with some of the exceptional women shaping today’s creative landscape, gaining a glimpse into their artistry and the passion driving their contributions to African culture.

Pullquote: “From Dior’s flower earmuffs to sculpted blooms across the runway, these Spring 2026 makes florals feel deliberate again”

Florals for spring are supposed to be easy. Predictable, even. The kind of visual shorthand fashion reaches for when it wants to gesture toward renewal without having to say much at all. It’s a language so overused it’s almost invisible. You see a flower, and you understand the assignment. For years, the “spring florals” motif has operated on autopilot through printed dresses, soft palettes, and an easy return to femininity that rarely asks to be interrogated. Spring 2026, however, slows that instinct down.

Across the Spring 2026 runways, flowers are not quite performing the way they used to. Rather than dissolving into dresses or romanticising the body into soft and palatable silhouettes, it sits awkwardly. It feels estranged entirely from the idea of nature itself. Many designers approached spring florals much more grounded and made you actually look again.

At Christian Dior, Jonathan Anderson’s haute couture debut set the tone early in the season. He reoriented the house’s longstanding relationship with flowers away from surface-level romanticism and toward process. 

Inspired in part by a bouquet of cyclamen, Anderson translated botanical forms into sculptural silhouettes. The collection did not rely on floral prints. Instead, flowers appeared as constructed elements through sculptural petals layered into skirts, stems translated into accessories, and most notably, flower-shaped earmuffs that framed the face in a way that felt both playful and slightly surreal. It’s the most obvious extract from nature to fixate on, but that’s exactly why it worked. It pulled florals away from the expected (dresses, embroidery, softness) and placed them somewhere colder, more deliberate. The intentional placements were almost architectural in how they framed the body.

The Spring-Summer 2026 collection made it clear that Anderson was not interested in florals as background decoration. He treated them as standalone forms capable of being repositioned on the body. Even the silhouettes followed that logic and successfully created a controlled version of “blooming” that felt engineered.

What’s compelling here is not just the final look, but the insistence on process. Each element was meticulously assembled through couture techniques: silk petals cut individually, shaped using moulds, dyed to achieve tonal variation, embroidered and reconstructed into their individual pieces. You can visibly see the work in them. Dior’s florals do not attempt to replicate the spontaneity of nature; instead, they foreground the effort required to approximate it. Flowers in this context are a demonstration of craft, discipline, and control. In doing so, Anderson situates florals within the logic of couture itself, slow, deliberate, and resistant to the speed of contemporary fashion production.

There’s a similar thread at Alexander McQueen, though it manifests differently. Here, the bloom is undone. Petals are distressed and intricately layered into garments. If florals once symbolised growth, McQueen leans into the opposite by focusing on decay, erosion, and the slow collapse of something that was once considered beautiful. It’s not exactly nihilistic, but it refuses the optimism traditionally embedded in spring dressing. With Simone Rocha, the florals feel preserved, pressed into sheer fabrics, suspended beneath tulle, as though trapped between states of being. There’s an archival quality to it, like these flowers are no longer part of the natural world but relics of it. Even Valentino, so often synonymous with overt romance, pulled back for S/S26. The florals are sparse, almost reluctant. A single bloom interrupts an otherwise restrained silhouette. The effect is less about indulgence and more about control, suggesting that the excess historically associated with femininity is being reconsidered, perhaps even rejected.

Taken together, these collections show a shift in florals through fashion. What connects these collections is a refusal to let florals fade into the background. Designers are thinking about placement, where a flower sits and why, and considering scale. Whether it overwhelms or barely interrupts. And most importantly, they’re thinking about texture. You see this clearly in recent ready-to-wear drops as well. Across brands, florals are moving off the surface and into three-dimensional space: rosettes that protrude from tops, sculpted appliqués that sit on skirts, fabric flowers that function as accessories rather than embellishments. Even when prints do appear, they’re often enlarged, abstracted, or distorted, less about prettiness and more about impact.

It’s a subtle shift, but necessary. For a long time, florals have been doing very little. They’ve been safe and an easy way to signal femininity without challenging it. But Spring 2026 asks more of them. By stripping back the excess and focusing on construction, designers force the spring floral motif to feel deliberate once again.

There’s also something slightly ironic in how “natural” all of this feels. These are not spontaneous, carefree flowers. They are highly controlled, cut, placed, and fixed in position. Nothing about them is accidental. And maybe that’s the point.

Fashion’s version of nature has never really been natural. It’s always been mediated through fabric, through print, through the designer’s hand. What feels different now is the refusal to hide that mediation. And in that sense, florals this spring feel less like a return to tradition and predictability, and more like a critique of it, which stirs us in a different direction almost entirely.

A thin line between the thunder of traditional Yoruba percussion and the mesmerizing pulse of South Africa’s log drum, a new sound is finding its footing. Fujipiano, the unlikely marriage between Fuji music and Amapiano sounds, which feels less like a passing experiment and more like a cultural conversation unfolding on the dance floor. 

In a region where music is constantly reinventing itself, trying out every and any genre; Fujipiano happens to be the latest reminder that African sound has never been about abandoning its roots. Instead, it is reshaping tradition in a way that it speaks fluently to the present. 

Nigerian music is known for  reinvention as genres rarely disappear. Instead, they evolve, adapt and find new audiences in unexpected places. Ghanaian gave birth to Afrobeats, street-openers form the fusion of Hip-Hop, Fuji cadence and everyday Nigerian storytelling, and now, another hybrid is slowly carving out its identity; Fujipiano. 

At its simplest, Fujipiano is the fusion between Fuji music, which is a widely accepted genre within the Yorubas and the globally popular Amapiano sound that emerged from South Africa. But reducing Fujipiano to a simple genre mashup misses the deeper story behind it. What we are experiencing now is not just a sonic experimentation, but it is a cultural bridge between two generations, a negotiation between heritage and modernity and a reflection of how Nigerian youths are interpreting the sounds they inherited. 

 To understand why Fujipiano matters, one must first understand the concept of Fuji itself. The genre dates back to the late 1960s through the world of  Sir Sikiru Ayinde  Barrister of blessed memory, who was widely regarded as the father of Fuji music. Having drawn his inspiration from Islamic devotional songs performed during Ramadan, Barrister transformed traditional chants into a rhythmic, percussion-driven style that resonates across the Yoruba communities quickly. 

Fuji was more than entertainment; it was storytelling, social commentary and celebration wrapped in one aspect. In the years that followed, artists like Kind Wasiu Ayinde Marshal and Saheed Osupa expanded the genre’s influence as they started filling halls and street festivals with drums, layered percussion, and call-and-response vocals that somehow turned their audience into participants.

Fuji carried the weight of memory as it echoed through wedding celebrations, Ramadan gatherings and late-night street parties where the music felt inseparable from the community's social life. Yet for years, Fuji seemed to occupy a generational niche as younger generations gravitated towards Afrobeats, hip-hop and other globally oriented sounds, leaving Fuji to be largely associated with the older audience and traditional settings because it belonged to a world that moved at a different pace, one where music was experienced physically, collectively and often locally.

Then Amapiano arrived. Originating in South Africa in the early 2010s, it gradually transformed into one of Africa's most influential musical exports. Amapiano did not just enter in Lagos nightlife; it was absorbed into it. DJs reworked it, producers localized it, and the audience embraced it. During the time of absorption, Fujipiano was brewing quietly, less importantly but more culturally significant.
Fuji started to reappear. 

But not in its original form, rather in fragments; in vocal cadences, lyrical patterns and unmistakable rise and fall of Yoruba chants embedded in contemporary production. It surfaced in  Asake’s “Peace Be Unto You” and then his “Sunmomi”, after which it was noticed in Seyi Vibez, Fujimoto, which demonstrates that Fuji’s essence can exist within modern and  digitized soundscape without losing its identity. 

Fujipiano is the next step in that evolution. Or at least, it is trying to be. 
At its best, Fujipiano is a meeting point between two rhythmic philosophies that share a surprising comparability as both rely on repetition, build atmosphere through rhythm and create immersive listening experiences that are more about feeling than they are about sound. But comparability does not guarantee cohesion. And this is where Fujipiano reveals its promise and limitations as a genre. 

Presently, much of what is labeled as Fujipiano feels incomplete; it feels more like an aesthetic overlay than a fully realized genre. Amapiano beats feel like it carries the  Fuji’s vocals. And street-pop structure borrows Fuji inflexions. The elements coexist, but they do not always integrate. Which raises an uncomfortable but necessary question: is this evolution, or is it appropriation of form without depth? 

The distinction matters because cultural evolution requires more than proximity; it requires intention. It demands that artists do more than just reference tradition; it requires that they engage with it, understand it and reshape it in ways that preserve its essence while allowing it to grow. Without the depth, fusion risks becoming surface-level, something that looks like culture without fully carrying it, more like a caricature.

To dismiss Fujipiano entirely would be equally shortsighted. What it represents, even in its unfinished state, is still significant. It symbolizes that a generation raised in a hyper-globalized world is not entirely detached from its roots and culture. Instead, it is negotiating with them, translating and reframing them within the contexts of its own experiences.  

This is not unique to the sound, but participating artists do it with no particular intensity. Its music has always thrived on collisions of genres, influence and histories. From Afrobeat’s fusion of jazz and Yoruba rhythms to Afrobeat’s fusion of dancehall, pop and hip-hop, the country’s most defining sounds have emerged not from purity but from hybridity. 

Fujipiano fits within that lineage, but it also exposes a tension that feels distinctly contemporary, the balance between reinvention and preservation. For the older generation, Fuji represents continuity and a direct line to cultural memory. For the younger generation of listeners, it feels distant, tied to contexts and spaces that no longer define the everyday lives of people. However, Fujipiano tends to bridge the gap, but by doing so, it inevitably transforms what it touches. The question at hand now is whether that transformation deepens the culture or dilutes it. 

There is no easy answer, but it is clear that Fujipiano reflects a broader truth on modern identity as it is layered, fluid and constantly in negotiation. Today, a young artist can move seamlessly between local and global influence, between tradition and trend, between heritage and innovation. Their music must reflect complexity. Fujipiano, in this sense, is less about sound and more about self-definition. It is what happens when a generation refuses to choose where it comes from and where it is going. 

Whether it becomes a fully realized genre or it fades into the background of Migeria’s ever-evolving music scene is almost beside the point. Its existence alone reveals something essential; culture is not preserved by keeping it unchanged. Its existence alone survives by allowing it to be reimagined. But reimagination comes with responsibility. If Fujipiano is to become more than a passing moment, it is expected to move beyond experimentation and into intention. It must find a way to carry the depth of Fuji, not just its aesthetic, into new soundscapes. Until then, it remains what it has always been: Not a genre. Not a movement. Not yet. But a question, which perhaps is its most honest form. 

Because in a world where culture is constantly sampled, remixed and redistributed at speed, the real challenge is not about creating something new, it is about ensuring that in the process of reinventing, nothing essential is lost.

 IG: anuhola_

Every March, the world celebrates women. Corporations turn their logos pink/purple. Governments issue statements. Social media is filled with the language of progress -  empowerment, equality, sisterhood. And underneath all of it, a quieter and more urgent story continues: the organised, global rollback of the rights being celebrated. This piece is not about whether progress has happened. It is about why progress, every time it happens, produces a counter-movement determined to reverse it and why the African feminist tradition, more than any other, has understood this dynamic longest and fought it hardest.

The pattern begins in 1848. Women gathered at Seneca Falls to demand the vote and basic civil rights. The backlash began before the convention was over; newspaper editors attacked the Declaration of Sentiments with such vitriol that many attendees withdrew their signatures in embarrassment. The movement was one day old, and the counter-movement had already begun. Women eventually won the vote in most Western countries by the 1920s. What followed was not expansion but erosion: coalitions splintered, anti-communist politics were weaponised against Progressive women, and the social welfare gains fought for alongside suffrage were quietly dismantled. The pattern repeated so consistently through the 1980s that Susan Faludi named and documented it in her 1991 book Backlash: The Undeclared War Against Women - the systematic reaction of patriarchal structures to feminist progress, dressed up as common sense, tradition, or protection. She was writing about the 1980s. She could have been writing about now.

African feminism understood this backlash structure long before Faludi named it, because African women were navigating two systems of oppression simultaneously, patriarchy and colonialism, from the very beginning. The movement did not emerge from academic theory. It emerged from the liberation struggle. In Algeria, Mozambique, Guinea, Angola and Kenya, women fought alongside their male counterparts for state autonomy and women's rights at the same time, building a feminism rooted in the specific and the urgent rather than the abstract. Figures like Funmilayo Anikulapo-Kuti, Lilian Ngoyi and Wambui Otieno were not responding to Western feminist frameworks. They were building their own, and they were doing it under conditions of colonial violence that Western feminism has rarely had to reckon with directly. All strands of African feminism are informed not only by patriarchy but by colonisation, imperialism, heteronormativity, ethnicity, race and class, making it one of the most intersectional feminist traditions in the world. 

That tradition is alive and urgent in the present. In January 2024, Kenyan women took to the streets in the largest protest against sexual and gender-based violence in the country's history, demanding President Ruto declare femicide a national crisis. In Nigeria, the Feminist Coalition mobilised legal support, food and medical aid during the 2020 EndSARS protests, proving that when women organise, they organise for the whole of society. FemCo opened feminist conversations in a country that had long treated the word as an insult. In Ghana, the Affirmative Action (Gender Equality) Act 2024 was passed after more than a decade of activist lobbying. The African feminist movement does not wait to be included in the global conversation. It has been having it.

What is different in 2026 is not that the backlash exists. It is that it is everywhere at once, operating across vastly different political systems with the same directional logic. In Afghanistan, the Taliban has banned women from reading, speaking in public, or looking directly at men who are not their husbands or blood relatives - a system of female erasure so total that it has largely disappeared from international headlines, absorbed into the background noise of a world that has moved on. The women have not. In the United States, the overturning of Roe v. Wade removed a constitutional right held for nearly fifty years, and the political machinery that achieved it is still moving. In Iraq, a bloc of 25 female MPs tried to stop the child marriage bill from reaching a second vote. They failed. It passed in January 2025.

Backlash does not arrive randomly. It arrives when power feels threatened and reaches for the most available instrument of control, which has always been the bodies, freedoms and labour of women. Economic instability makes traditional gender roles a political argument for order. Authoritarian politics requires hierarchy by design, and women's equality is structurally incompatible with that hierarchy. And in 2026, there is a third accelerant that previous generations of feminists did not face: the digital infrastructure of regression. The manosphere has given misogyny a global distribution network. Algorithms surface anti-feminist content to men who were not looking for it. For some people on the continent, feminism has been successfully mischaracterised as anti-male, anti-culture and anti-religion - a deliberate and documented strategy of discrediting the movement by severing it from the communities it serves. In 2024, women, girls and gender diverse people bore the brunt of the polycrisis armed conflict, climate change, and economic hardship, while anti-gender movements grew bolder and better funded. 

No country in the world has yet reached full legal equality for women and girls. At the current rate of progress, it will take another 131 years. One hundred and thirty-one years. Set that number down and do not rush past it. And yet since 1995 alone, 1,531 legal reforms advancing gender equality have been enacted across 189 countries. Maternal mortality has dropped by a third. Women's representation in parliaments has more than doubled. These two sets of facts are not in contradiction. They are the same story - the story of a movement that advances under fire, that builds even while being dismantled, that has never once had the luxury of believing the work was done.

That is what the African feminist tradition has always known. Progress is not a gift. It is a negotiation that never ends, conducted under conditions that are rarely fair, by women who rarely have the institutional power of the forces they are negotiating against. The fight does not pause for celebrations. It does not recognise the calendar.

Backlash is not proof that progress is failing. It is proof that progress is threatening something. And threatened things fight back. Women's Month gives the world one month to remember that. The fight does not take the other eleven off.

IG- @ffeistyhuman
Cover Credit: Al Jazeera