Things I Feel Strongly About: Water No Get Enemy

Things I Feel Strongly About: Water No Get Enemy: You absolutely must listen to Shakara too.. .

Yellow Fever, Fela Kuti

This hit song by Fela Kuti from 1976.

Yellow Fever, the term is used as a satirical metaphor to criticise the popular and harmful practice of skin bleaching among African women. Fela framed the artificial lightening of dark skin using chemical creams as a form of sickness. He compared it to a fever, singing that while an "original" fever (like jaundice fever or malaria fever) is a natural illness that the body can fight off, skin bleaching is a self-inflicted, artificial disease. 

Beyond physical health risks, Fela used the term to attack a post-colonial inferiority complex. He viewed the obsession with lighter, "Caucasoid" skin tones as a sign of mental colonisation and a rejection of natural African identity.

The phrase "Yellow Fever" was originally a local nickname given to traffic wardens in Nigeria because of the bright yellow shirts they wore. Fela borrowed the term and redirected it at people who bleached their skin.

In truth, yellow fever, is, in fact, a serious viral disease spread by the bites of infected mosquitoes in tropical and subtropical regions of Africa and South America. 

Cotonou

I watched the dust of Cotonou settle onto my shoes, realising how strange it felt to be an outsider in a place that looked exactly like home. As an African travelling across my own continent, crossing a border doesn't mean entering a new world; it means entering a mirror that has been slightly tilted. Back in Lagos, the cacophony is loud, the soundscape is always of busy traffic, loud car horns, and raised voices, but here, there is hardly a noise, with the Atlantic humidity wrapping around you like a heavy, familiar cloth, as if you are constantly in the pleasant Lagos city district of Victoria Island wherever in Cotonou you are.

Walking through the Dantokpa Market I didn't feel the sharp detachment of a foreign tourist. Instead, I felt a quiet frustration—the sensation of recognising everything and recognising nothing at all, all at once. The rhythm of the women bargaining, the vocals of the Beninese local music spilling from speakers were familiar yet unfamiliar at the same time; the aroma of roasting plantains was entirely intimate, but I could not speak the local Fon and Egun languages, or French, fluently enough to blend in.

My friend and I went to the city’s port. There were newly imported used cars from Europe for sale, and my friend was interested in replacing his car. The ambience was relaxed, nothing like the hurried helter-skelter of Lagos where everyone seems to be dashing around at a frenzied pace. It was in Cotonou that I heard Zouk music for the first time, this French Caribbean music genre pioneered by the French Antillean band Kassav' in the early 1980s. In Cotonou, in the Republic of Benin, the word "chill" took on a new meaning for me.

Stranded between the comfort of shared identity and the isolation of being a stranger, I found a strange kind of peace. I didn't need to explain myself here. The land understood my bones, even if the city didn't know my name.

My Africa

"No matter where my feet walk or how many oceans I cross, the rhythm of the red earth stays in my chest; my heart remains anchored beneath the vast African sky."

It's like a homecoming for me whenever, or wherever I set foot on the continent. The feeling is visceral, a strong automatic reaction that comes from deep emotion. I visit a country or a part of the continent I have never been before, and I immediately identify with it. 

I'm usually self effacing, modesty and humility are qualities that were inculcated in me from my upbringing, and I'm grateful for it, but in saying this, without bragging, I have, in fact, travelled around a bit, and I still intend to do quite a bit more travelling for as long as I'm able. Travelling to new places is one of my favourite things to do. But nowhere else among the myriad places I have been to outside of Africa — in South America, the Middle East or wherever else,  have I had that strong feeling, that powerful emotional reaction that Africa gives me. Africa itself is quite diverse, but the feeling is the same whether in Kano, Nigeria or in Kampala, Uganda. 

Geography can map the physical coordinates of a person’s body, but it can never chart the boundaries of the soul. For those who carry the dust of the African continent in their bones, displacement is merely physical. You can cross vast oceans, adapt to the frost of northern winters, and learn to navigate the grid-locked streets of foreign metropolises, yet the internal compass never shifts. It remains unyielding, always pointing back to the place where your story began. This connection is not a fleeting sense of nostalgia; it is a permanent anchor, a quiet and powerful gravity that pulls at you across thousands of miles of open water.

To live away from the continent is to exist in a state of beautiful duality. On the outside, your feet walk through new landscapes, learning the rhythms of different cultures and the cadence of foreign tongues. You build a life, you progress, and you survive. But beneath the surface, a different pulse dictates your days. It is the memory of the red earth—rich, warm, and heavy with history. That vibrant soil leaves an indelible stain on the spirit, a reminder of a land that doesn't just sustain life, but demands to be felt. It is a rhythm that beats in tandem with your own heart, a steady drumbeat of identity that grows louder in moments of silence.

Ultimately, home is not defined by a roof or a postcode; it is defined by the sky that holds your memories. The African sky possesses a unique, sweeping vastness that seems to swallow the horizon whole, offering a sense of clarity and scale that stays with you forever. No matter how many oceans you put between yourself and that horizon, the sky follows you in your mind’s eye. It becomes a sanctuary you can retreat to when the world feels too small or too cold. Your heart remains anchored there, safely kept beneath that endless blue expanse, ensuring that no matter how far you wander, you are never truly lost.

"My heart is in Africa" means having a deep, emotional, and spiritual connection to the African continent, even when you are far away. It is a deep emotional attachment to the continent that I have felt for all of my life. 

No matter where my feet may tread,

On distant paths or foreign loam,

Or how many endless oceans spread

Between my shadow and my home,

The steady pulse, the sacred hum,

Of ancient, sun-drenched, heavy clay,

Beats in my chest like a quiet drum

That miles can never wash away.

Let city lights or cold seas rise,

Let new horizons claim my eye—

My heart remains forever bound,

Beneath the vast, unmoving sky.

It is not democracy but rather, military dictatorship that is alien to Africa

Traditional African societies had deeply rooted systems of order, law, and governance long before European colonialism.

Large empires like Mali, Songhai, and centralised kingdoms like the Kingdom of Benin, and the Kingdom of Buganda maintained sophisticated administrative structures, courts, taxation, and military organisation.

Decentralised and Consensus-Based Societies: Many other societies (such as the Igbo or Tiv) operated without single monarchs, using councils of elders, age-grades, and community assemblies to manage disputes and maintain social harmony through consensus.

Checks and Balances: Power was frequently shared between political rulers, religious authorities, and clan heads to prevent tyranny and ensure accountability to the community.

Many pre-colonial African kingdoms used formal systems of checks and balances to prevent kings from becoming absolute rulers.

The Oyo Empire (in modern-day Nigeria) had one of the strongest systems of checks and balances in history.

The Oyo Mesi: This was a council of seven state leaders. They chose the king, called the Alaafin.

The Empty Calabash: If the king abused his power, the council gave him an empty calabash (a dried gourd) or a parrot's egg. This meant he had lost the right to rule and must commit suicide.

The Ogboni Society: This religious group of elders had to approve the council's decision to remove a king. This stopped the council from staging unfair political takeovers.

Military Limits: The head military commander was legally banned from ever entering the capital city so he could not use his army to seize the throne.

The Kingdom of Kongo also divided power between the king and his advisers.

Royal Council: The king ruled with the help of 12 wise advisers chosen for life.

Power to Depose: If the king broke the rules or failed to lead well, these advisers had the power to remove him from the throne.

In the Ashanti Empire the most direct political check was the process of destoolment—the formal deposition of a king. If an Asantehene became tyrannical, corrupt, or physically incapacitated, the council and the citizens could remove him.

The Ashanti Empire (Asante) featured a highly sophisticated constitutional monarchy where power was distributed between the central king, regional chiefs, and powerful queen mothers. 

Here is how the Ashanti system of checks and balances functioned to prevent total rule by a single individual:

The Role of the Queen Mother (Asantehemaa)Kingmaker: The Asantehemaa held the supreme power to nominate the candidate for the position of King (Asantehene). She served as the ultimate adviser to the king and was the only person who could publicly scold or veto him if he veered from traditional law. She maintained her own court, separate from the king's, to hear domestic, lineage, and civil disputes.

The Asantehene could not pass laws, declare war, or make major state decisions without the unanimous consent of the Asanteman Council, which was made up of the paramount chiefs (Amanhene) of the various Ashanti states.

Citizens' Rights: Commoners could voice their grievances through youth associations (Asafo). The Asafo were traditional military organisations made up of the common people (youngmen).

Grounds for Removal: Valid reasons for destoolment included financial corruption, ignoring the council, or displaying cowardice in battle. Several Ashanti kings were successfully destooled throughout history for failing to meet these high standards.

Removal from Office: If an Asantehene or any chief violated the sacred oaths of office, engaged in corruption, or became tyrannical, the council and the people had the right to "de-stool" (impeach) them. In Ashanti culture, the stool represents the soul of the nation and political authority. When a ruler was de-stooled, they were physically separated from the stool, stripping them of all power.

The most prominent political check on the Zulu monarch was the Ibhandla, a grand council made up of hereditary chiefs (izikhulu), senior elders, and wise advisers.

Consensus-Based Rule: While the Inkosi held ultimate executive power, he was traditionally expected to govern by consensus. He could not make major national decisions—such as declaring war or shifting territorial boundaries—without consulting the Ibhandla.

The Voice of the People: Because the chiefs on the council represented the various clans that made up the kingdom, ignoring their counsel risked fracturing national unity and sparking civil war.

This list is by no means exhaustive. It is not democracy, but rather military dictatorship that is completely alien to Africa. 

"Blogger and African historian"?

My name appears somewhere in this article in this Canadian magazine, where I am described as a "Blogger and African historian" when quoting something I had written. I don't know when I achieved this credential conferred on me by this author.

However, although I'm hardly a scholar, if an "African historian" is one who focuses on removing Eurocentric biases and challenging colonial narratives that portrayed Africa as having no history before European arrival, then maybe I have inadvertently earned myself this designation. 

Warrior Women of West Africa