Browse Author: Spectra Speaks

Spectra is an award-winning writer, media advocate, and new media consultant. Her work explores the relationship between culture, technology, and philanthropy, and her writing, gender, media, and the African diaspora. She's also the founder of QWOC Media Wire and community philanthropy programs officer at Africans in the Diaspora (AiD). Her mantra: "Love is my revolution."

CODE RED: African Women Rising in Media and Tech (Social Media Week Lagos Event)

Dear Readers,

I’m breaking my blogging fast (I’ll explain later) to bring you news of some of the work that has been occupying my time in Nigeria.

(Yes, despite the fact that the government has gone crazy with their human rights violations of late, life must continue — hope will persist, allies will rally, and love will always win.)

Social Media Week Lagos (SMWLagos), a leading media platform and worldwide event with local presence and global reach across five continents, including Europe, North America, South America, Africa and Asia, kicks off this week in Lagos!

Last year, the week debuted as the first and only African city to serve as an official host for this global event. Naturally,  there were a number of hiccups that coloured the week’s reception – scheduling issues, late starts, poor attendance etc, to name a few — but the organisers have clearly learned from their mistakes.

This year, Social Media Week has been way more organised, and judging from plethora of keynotes, workshops, and social events on their calendar (over 50), extra thoughtful about curating events hosted by and for a diverse group of constituents, including women.

Incidentally, I’m hosting an event called ‘CODE RED: African Women Rising in Media and Tech.’ In line with the theme, “The Future is Now: Always On, Always Connected”, CODE RED, a networking event, will facilitate connections between women who are trailblazing in social media and technology.

The event aims to not only celebrate the gains African women have made in media and tech, but ensure the sustainability of those gains, by broadening the conversation about gender in media to include girls, the next generation of media producers.

Check out the event below. And if you know any Nigerians/Africans attending Social Media Week Lagos who might be interested in this event, please share this post with them  :)  



Technology has impacted everything, including media. Its rapid adoption has created new opportunities for media professionals to deliver content to their audiences, disrupting existing institutions and business models. As a result, Africa’s new media landscape is thriving, and women, no longer just passive consumers of media, but avid content creators, media producers, and tech innovators, are at the heart of it.

In Nigeria, women not only run the most widely-read blogs (Linda Ikeji’s Blog and Bella Naija), but are at the forefront of game-changing ventures such as the refreshing pan-African television station, Ebony Life TV, and new media tech startups, such as Ndani TV, the fastest-growing online video platform in Nigeria.

However, the sudden increase in visibility of women across digital media and technology doesn’t capture the entire story. In traditional TV, radio, and print across Nigeria (and indeed, the continent), African women’s voices are still under- and misrepresented.

FACT: According to a global report on the status of women in the media, 83% of all news subjects in the world (including Nigeria) were  male, while less than 17% were female.

There is a lot at stake.

The negative impact of the gender imbalance in media representation affects more than just women; adolescent girls who need positive female role models to inspire, guide, and fuel their aspirations, are stifled by the dearth of narratives about women.

Incidentally, the plethora of African women with powerful stories and expertise worth sharing often lack the media savvy to promote and amplify their work, thus, remaining invisible as success models to each other, and role models to the next generation of media producers: girls.

There is a lot at stake for women, but there’s even more at stake for girls.  

Ensuring that African women and girls continue to participate in media and technology is critical for Africa’s success in the global tech and innovation arena. This is why we need everyone – including men – to invest in African women and adolescent girls as both producers and creators of media and tech. This is why we need you.

Now more than ever, we need fresh and creative perspectives to see this vision through; you might see yourself as an unlikely proponent of this agenda, but, on Wed February 19th, we invite you to see yourself differently.

Choice 2

CODE RED, an invite-only event for African women in media and tech (and those who love them), will convene trailblazers in media and tech for the purpose of galvanising an ecosystem that is both women and girl-friendly.

CODE RED is a call to action, an alert, both for the challenge and the opportunity ahead of us. It is a movement of culture shapers, amplifiers, and innovators coming together to unleash our collective power in the most important currency of this digital age — connections. Because where there are connections, there are solutions.

Are you a TV producer searching for positive girls’ story? A techpreneur in need of some good PR advice? A blog editor seeking new contributors? A digital media maven with klout to share? Most importantly, do you support girls and women in media and technology? If yes to any of the above, CODE RED is for you.


Connect with African Women in Media and Tech

Meet and learn about African women in media, including TV, Film, Print, Web, and Mobile. Learn about African women trailblazers in technology, from brand new startup CEOs to popular mobile app developers.

Learn about Girl Hub Nigeria and Tech Cabal

Connect with the folks behind the girl effect in Nigeria, our work connecting and convening leaders for girls in Northern Nigeria, and our phenomenal event partners, Tech Cabal, a web blog at the forefront of the narrative about technology in Nigeria.

Join the CODE RED Movement

We’ve distributed invitations to over 100 media producers, content creators, tech innovators, and, change agents for the purpose of connecting, and intentionally amplifying each other’s work. We are expecting a room full of some of the brightest, powerful, influential, and inspiring leaders, and we hope you will be one of them.


CODE RED will take place at ‘A Whitespace’ in Ikoyi, Lagos, on Wednesday  February 19th. Dress code is semi-formal or traditional in your interpretation of CODE RED. Be there or…be there.

++CODE RED: African Women in Media and Tech++
Hosted by Girl Hub Nigeria in partnership with Tech Cabal
Wed February 19th, 5 pm – 8 pm
@ The Whitespace | 58 Raymond Njoku, Ikoyi, Lagos
Official RSVP (Required):

Note: This is an invite-only event. To request an invitation (or nominate others to attend), please complete this form.

Love Was My Revolution in 2013, But So Was Resilience.

I know it’s been a while. I’ve had a lot going on. 2013 was quite a year – one that I’m not likely to miss but will always remember for how much it grew me.

Why am I writing now? Well, I don’t really have much else to do. I’ve sung through about 4 musicals (Les Mis, Rent, Chicago and Wicket, in case you were curious), played my computer game (The Sims 3) for over three hours, and I’ve run out of credit on my phone to make any more international phone calls.

In Nigeria, it’s a few hours to 2014 and, admittedly, I’m depressed. I’m alone in a city with no friends or community, no furniture in my apartment, save for a very hard mattress, and feeling overwhelmed with sadness at having to spend yet another festive season away from my family (who – as usual, due to geopolitical circumstance – is separated across several continents). I would say that I’m used to it, and it’s probably true; but it doesn’t make it any less difficult, especially with all the music, laughter, and raucous I can hear happening outside my window.

So, yeah, I’m not in the highest of spirits. But I’m determined over the next 90 minutes to work my way back to the optimism and positivity that propelled me so far ahead of where I was just a year ago, that I now have the luxury of complaining that I’m alone in a brand new city, doing work that nourishes me, and with really bright prospects for 2014.

I’m choosing, right now, at this very moment, to not let my ambitions, my personal drive, my impatience at achieving the goals I’ve laid out for myself, diminish my gratitude for all the positive things that have transpired in my life this year. I’m choosing to remain the positive spirit that believes things are what you believe they will be, that I am in control of my thoughts, my outlook, my destiny.

It was about two years ago, I looked at my partner and told her that I wanted – no, needed, to move back home. I missed warm weather, dark soil, tactless conversations, and loud parties. I was tired of people asking me where my accent was from, or thinking that I’d been named after a character on Cartoon Network (yeah, “Dora the Explorer”, don’t get me started).

I missed greeting people in different languages, having fellow Nigerians laugh at my bad pidgin, being made fun of for being the first daughter – a fact they could tell instantly from my name. I missed fried plantain, african music, annoying aunties that poked you in the ribs, and called you fat while hugging you. And, most importantly, I missed being able to be close to my parents, who I’d watched age so fast over the years via the occasional low resolution photo. I was tired of the weight of the Unite States’ xenophobia and racism crushing me, my family, my dreams.

The day I told my partner it was time for me to go home, I knew I would be choosing to swallow the poison of Nigeria’s thick sexism and homophobia for the sake of experiencing the  affirmation of being with my own people: women whose curves looked like mine, who didn’t “eew” at food I liked, who walked with the same grace – as though we each balanced pails of water, golden crowns on our heads, masculinity whose gyrating hips to afrobeat I recognised, however entitled, domineering, flawed.

I don’t regret moving home. Not even for a second. But it hasn’t been easy.

I have no idea how I’ve actually survived in Nigeria as a ‘single’ woman (who isn’t the daughter of a governor, or the wife-to-be of a rich suitor) and managed to position myself for professional success in an environment in which over 70% of women don’t even own a bank account, and men think it’s improper for a woman to travel alone.

I have no idea how I still find the courage to correct strangers when they erroneously refer to the fiance who “put a ring on it” with male pronouns. “She… she’s in Boston,” I say, each time, before holding my breath for either backlash or a barrage of questions at having “met a real one.”

I have no idea how I’ve experienced the amount of blatant exploitation, devalue-ing, and frustration from leadership in the development sector in which I work (which resulted in my near homelessness for over 2 months, waning mental and physical health, and personal finances – but I can’t even get into it), and still come out, relatively okay.

I mean, there was one night I stayed up, out on the street, till 5 in the morning, because I had no place to sleep, and no one to call. I remember crying to my sister on the phone, stating over and over again that I couldn’t do this anymore. I couldn’t. I remember she kept saying to me, “You can. You can. You have. You already have.”

A dear mentor recently said to me, “If there’s one theme I feel that describes your year it’s Resilience.” And you know, sitting here, thinking about everything that has happened to me – so much I can’t even write about – I’m encouraged by her observation, and the fact that she’s absolutely right. Yes, the Love from people in my life was encouraging. But, at the end of the day, “I” had to get up in the morning; “I” had to face Nigeria on my own; “I” had to go home alone, with no one’s shoulder to cry on; I had to learn to comfort myself and. just. keep. going.

Resilience. That’s how I got through the year. That’s how I’ve made it this far. Resilience. That’s how I left my home country at the age of 17 and moved to a physically and politically cold place that could never learn to pronounce my name, let alone recognise the pain of having needed to leave your family to make life better for them in the long run, maybe.

Resilience. And perhaps a bit of stubbornness. That’s how each of us continues, persists, even through the worst of circumstances.

And on that note… when I take a step back, my ‘circumstances’ aren’t all that bad. In fact, they’re pretty great. I’m sitting on my own bed, in my own apartment. Yeah, it’s empty. Yeah, mosquitoes are biting away because the landlord still hasn’t fixed a broken window and they’ve decided to have a party on my legs (cause, oh, I also have no blanket lol), but! After being homeless for so long, I finally have a place that’s mine. And what’s more…

I said I would move to Nigeria, continue to hone my craft as a storyteller, media, and communications professional, and I am doing just that.

I said I would find a way to be closer to my parents (who still aren’t in the same city, but now a 45-min vs. 8-hour flight away), and I did.

I said I would always take big leaps, I would always live out loud in love, and in hope, and I have. I have. I really have.

I’ve been kicking myself for not having the emotional capacity to write about my experiences in Nigeria so far (aside from my cockroach post, which was just so necessary given how many sleepless nights those critters cost me!); I’ve been hard on myself for not being ‘stronger’, maintaining high spirits while adjusting to a completely new terrain, all by myself; but I’ve been ridiculous – I’m human! And we all deserve to experience the full spectrum of our emotions. That is the only way to honour our individual journeys, by being honest about where we are. It doesn’t matter what things we didn’t accomplish along the way; all that matters is that we’ve kept on.

Love was my revolution in 2013, but so was resilience. Love kept me hoping, reaching, but Resilience kept me going.

So tonight, I celebrate my accomplishments against all odds, and my will to continue even when things get hard. I celebrate my courage to persist on a path that is NOT easy, because I know I’m doing what I’m meant to do. I celebrate the LOVE I received from everyone that cheered me on from afar – friends in the US, UK, fans and followers of my work. It is in part because of you that I’ve been able to stand my ground in the face of an environment that has many times attempted to silence me, force me into submission and conformity. I celebrate my rebel, my non-conformity, my humanity, and my convictions. And I celebrate my audacity to strive for more than just surviving, despite all the media propaganda that suggests queer Africans like me are simply lucky to be alive.

Nigeria, I love you. But come the morning, I will conquer you. You’re not even ready.

Nevertheless, till then, the seasons best wishes to everyone, and a very Happy New Year to all.

Confessions of a Serial Roach Killer: On Irrational Phobias, Racism, and Black Genocide

I didn’t know what else to call this post, so forgive the title.

A Bit of Background: My Fear of Nigerian Roaches

I have a really terrible phobia of Nigerian roaches. Yes, Nigerian roaches. Have you seen them? They’re HUGE — from a meter away you can see their entire, segmented bodies, rotating heads, menacing antennae, including what they’re doing — sniffing the bare floor, eating decaying particles of food, ugh… *shudder*

I’m okay with other kinds of roaches. I’m even okay with other kinds of insects. When I lived in the U.S., on the east coast, I remember thinking that the insects there were such a joke; small, few in number, and always fleeing, they didn’t stand their ground like the ones I knew from home. But then again the coldness of winter kills most insects, so I rarely had to contend with the range (and size) of species that thrive in warmer climates. Still, I don’t think one can claim to have seen a real cockroach until they’ve come face to face with the African-sized sort that perch themselves on your fridge handle in the middle of the night, and dare you to try to get by…. but I digress.

We all know that phobias are irrational.

As a smart person who perhaps over-intellectualises almost all of my emotions so that I may better take control of them, and be proactive (vs. reactive) in my responses, whenever I encounter a big Nigerian cockroach, all that critical thinking and control goes out the window. I almost always scream, jump up and down, become really religious (“Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!), and descend into a dry-heaving panic, crashing into nearly everything around me. To compose myself, I almost always go through this exact train of thought:

Sad Harmless Nigerian CockroachCalm down.
It’s just a cockroach. An insect.
It’s harmless.
I’m nearly 1000 times its size!
This is just a phobia – it is irrational.
Phobias are irrational.
(Ahhh, it’s so scary!)
Okay, stop. Just stop.
It won’t do anything. Really! Look at it!
It’s just chillin’ over there.
You can kill it.
Just kill it.
It’s just a useless cockroach.

I’m going to tell you something very embarrassing, but true.

A few weeks ago, I woke up in the middle of the night to go use the bathroom. Yawning and rubbing my eyes, I walked dazedly through the door, then caught the sight of a dark brown figure on the mirror. Squinting to bring the figure into focus, I stopped dead in my tracks; staring back at me was a big brown cockroach – the size of a USB modem, with extra-long, thin antennae flailing wildly about. I freaked out.

Screaming madly as I recoiled at the sight, I stepped back and lost my balance, falling hard unto the ceramic floor and scrambling away to safety. The commotion caused the cockroach to begin crawling frantically against the mirror glass, further freaking me out. Still unhinged and shrieking, I reached for the doorknob and pulled the door shut; I couldn’t risk the creature flying into my bedroom, you see — ’cause, yeah, Nigerian cockroaches fly. In 92 degree weather, I slept with my head buried under the covers.

The next morning, it took me about 30 minutes to muster up the courage to re-open that bathroom door. When I did finally, I discovered there was no cockroach; it had clearly slid back into its hiding place, away from the daytime light. I got ready in the bathroom mostly with my eyes shut (don’t ask how), then hurriedly fled the apartment. However, when I returned home later on that evening, and absent-mindedly walked into the bathroom, I saw the cockroach again! Startled, I ran back out, shut the door, and sat trembling on the bed. I spent the entire night dreading that the cockroach would grow tired of the bathroom and sneak into my bedroom from underneath the door. But the really sad, pathetic part was this:

I let my fear of this one cockroach chase me out of my apartment for a whole week. 

I normally wouldn’t share this much, but I need you to realise how deeply rooted my phobia is: my paranoia at running into the nightcrawler persisted — and got worse — over the course of the week. It got so bad that I resorted to using the bathroom only when I was out for the day, just so I wouldn’t need to when I got home in the evenings (when nightcrawler would be out on the prowl).

Nigerian Cockroach Takes Over HouseThe straw that broke the camel’s back was the day I forgot to pee before I got home. I’d been out at a restaurant with friends and it had slipped my mind. I’d ordered a soup for dinner, so around 10 pm, I really needed to go. But it was dark outside, the night belonged to the cockroach, not me. So rather than brave the inevitable face off in the bathroom, I held my pee… for 8 hours.

Yup. I stayed up rocking back and forth in the fetal position in my bed trying to hold it until dawn, when the ferocious bug would have retired. I got NO sleep that night and, as a result of the exhaustion and anxiety, I developed a severe headache and wheezing (from my asthma). By the time I had to get ready for work, I had no choice but to call in sick. I was so ashamed of myself. It was totally pathetic, right? But now you know how frightened I was, and how deeply-rooted my phobia is.

Despite hours of reading about how non-threatening this insect was, I couldn’t shake the fear. He had to go. It was either him — the cockroach – or me; two of us couldn’t occupy the same space. I wanted him out, period. So, the next day, I purchased some insecticide (the cruelest way to kill bugs), sprayed the bathroom, and left the apartment for the damn thing to die

Where am I going with this, you might wonder?

Honestly, I’m not sure how to articulate the feelings I experienced after coming home to open the bathroom door and realising what I had done: I’d given into my phobia and the cockroach had lost. The revelation of this – that I’d carried out the torture and murder of a Nigerian cockroach – might seem a bit dramatic; maybe it is, but I haven’t been able to shake or clearly articulate what I’ve been feeling over the outcome of the whole fiasco.

So, naturally, I wrote a poemthing: a somewhat apology or eulogy for the Nigerian cockroach. Silly (and comical) as it is, maybe after reading it, you’ll understand better understand why this insignificant moment about an insect holds some significance to me as an activist. If not, hey, you at least got to laugh at me shrieking and tripping over myself as I tried to flee a bug. As we say here, nuttin’ spoil.

In Memory of the Indigenous Cockroach, Nightwalker:

This morning, before I left, I sprayed the shit out of my bathroom so I could murder the African-sized cockroach that had been my torment for weeks.

I fled the scene, coughing as I escaped a fate I could not wait for the foul thing to meet. But over the course of the day, my conscience got the best of me.

A butterfly flew by, landed neatly on a jasmine leaf and I thought, “How pretty,”
right before I began to question what it means
to pick and choose what shade of life offends.

We play God with cans full of poison, then cry foul when they insist the wrong version of history is truth.

Whose home is this? Whose ceramic floor?
Who decided white tiles and bath towels meant foreclosure?
What is home if not the audacity to feel
safe — to roam freely in black and brown without fear
of finding yourself in the wrong neighbourhood?

Dear Nightwalker (can I call you that?),
you’re dead and gone
there’s no coming back
no resurrection from violence this absolute,
just a self-indulgent eulogy to make your dead corpse political
lest we forget that it wasn’t fear that killed you,
but my unwillingness to place your survival above it;
that this IS your house,
that this IS a murder,
that it is I who have been the intruder,
and life is unjust.

My phobia-turned-hate got the best of me,
so I sprayed my humanity away,
justified insecticide just so I could feel a little safer
from that cruel brown creature of the night whose corpse I cannot face
for fear of seeing myself.

But this is not a poem.

This is an apology, for killing you AND your wife.
I had no idea she’d be at home when I cast the first stone.
I thought you were a rogue in the night,
not a nighttime hustler
head of your own household
seeking bread crumbs for a family you’d kept out of sight.

You must know that when I returned home and saw not one,
but two overturned corpses laying side by side
I knew the war had just begun…

They say the sins of the father follow the son.
I do not wish to kill any more, so I hope to god they’re wrong.
(I know they’re not.
My time will come.)

RIP Cockroach (and Cockroach Wifey – my bad)

Cockroach Family

Queer Afrofeminist Reflections on October 1st: Nigeria’s Independence Day and a Diaspora Homecoming

Today is Nigeria’s Independence Day!

The internet is already being flooded by a cadence of articles questioning why a country with such bad governance should be celebrating at all, a position which, of course, is being countered by just as forceful a digital stream of idealist sentiment: “We’ve come so far, Africa is rising, let’s focus on the positives!”

To be honest, it’s challenging to keep the positive in focus, especially in the face of landlords who refuse to rent to you because “you’re a single woman who could potentially use the place for prostitution”, or men who literally grab you by the neck and pull you closer to them just so they can say they find you attractive. But on the up side, hey, there’s no “street” harassment in Nigeria – oh no, we’re way more advanced in our unapologetic display of chauvinism. Women can be sexually harassed anytime, anyplace, anywhere: grocery stores, hotel elevators (yes), in taxis, churches…everywhere.

But let’s talk about how prosperous Nigeria is when woman can be raped in broad daylight and them shamed for reporting it. After all, it’s Independence Day.

Thankfully, Nigerian women have always been outspoken about both the country’s failures and successes in achieving gender equality, balancing out oft male dominated political governance commentary with poignant social context, and painting a more authentic picture of Naija year round.  I can always look forward to commentary from some of my favourite progressive bloggers and thought leaders: afropolitan feminist scholar, Minna Salami (of MsAfropolitan) a staunch advocate of African women’s history, Nigerian feminist lawyer, Lesley Agams, whose personal storytelling grounds privileged theorists in reality, and one of my favourite self-identified “proactivists” Omojuwa, who speaks on and about everything, and recently challenged religious institutions to redirect congregation giving to social justice initiatives.

I’m proud of Nigerians, as people. But my perception of the country’s progress is coloured by my own reality.

My partner visited me for my birthday recently and we had to spend most of our ‘long walks’ fending off men who invited themselves to accompany us, much less “hold hands.” My job involves using media and communications to equip and inspire audiences to see adolescent girls as critical drivers of social change, and I have to do all of this from the discomfort of a professional closet. And I’m not alone in this.

It usually takes about a half day or so for the customary ‘gay Nigerian’ narrative to emerge: “torn between two worlds, two identities, what being a gay Nigerian on independence day means to me.” Or something like that. (Hey, no judgement here. I’m totally guilty of this, too.) Despite safe spaces being created by LGBT activists all across the country, Nigeria remains largely intolerant of gays and lesbians. Shoot, a few weeks ago, my favourite artists, P-Square (who I had dreams about inviting to perform *this song* at my wedding!) just – out of nowhere – decided to go on a rant against the LGBT community. The sad thing is I love their music so much it’ll hurt me more to boycott them :( #chrisbrowndilemma

Incidentally, coming out as queer here isn’t half as bad as being perceived as a gender nonconforming person. The other day, a coworker decided to go in for 20 minutes about the way I dress – “Why do you try so hard to not be pretty? You are a woman, but you’re always wearing trousers, shirts… *laughing*” – that my boss had to intervene, diplomatically, boiling down my gender expression to a matter of personal choice. It is. But many Nigerian women I’ve met don’t see it that way. In their mind, I could be “getting so many men to fall for me” that they’re puzzled – even if I already have a partner and I’m not looking to get married (to a man anyway)- that I wouldn’t dress to attract the male gaze. “Wear some lipstick now… Or some light makeup… Buy these shoes, they’re nice.” Oy vey.

Today is October 1st, but I can’t focus on my country’s progress — I still haven’t landed my feelings yet. However, despite the challenges I’ve experienced adjusting back to life in Nigeria, I am grateful for many things, including that after 5 months of living in a hotel, I finally get to check out and move into my new permanent home.

After months of praying for my safety in street taxis tasked with delivering me to addresses I could never locate on Google maps, years of living away from my country, subsisting on nostalgia – Afropop music,, makeshift Nigerian restaurants, and old photographs — all the while ducking and weaving through racism and xenophobia in the US, Nigeria with all its complexities is finally beginning to feel like home again.

A creator, arbiter, and advocate of online support systems, my world shrank almost instantly the minute I arrived to an unsteady (and at times, completely absent) internet connection. It has taken almost 3 months for me to open a bank account (don’t even ask), even longer to rent an apartment, I’m still trying to learn how friendships (with predominantly straight women – a new one for me) work here, and I can barely eat traditional Nigerian soups because no one gives a rip about my seafood allergy. 

But this week… I attended TEDxLagos, where I met so many Nigerian women in tech and media, fellow entrepreneurs boostrapping their way to their dreams, passionate and politically-minded Diaspora returnees, and folks from my parents generation who are mentoring so many rogue young people like me with loving non-judgement. 

I woke up this morning intent on commemorating Nigeria’s Independence Day, yet I found myself wanting to finally celebrate this… this unexpectedly warm homecoming. The past 5 months has been complicated: challenging, surprising, wonderful, crazy, and inspirational all at once. Yet, despite all Nigeria’s governance issues, the homophobia, the gender policing, etc., I’ve emerged with a renewed, more mature, realistic love of the place in which I grew up, insensitive to my food allergies as it may be.

As Nigeria is still coming of age, so am I, which connects me to all its struggles and successes; Nigeria’s struggles and successs are mine as well.

Independence, personal growth, and a diaspora homecoming: Nigeria, you and me are still taking this journey together, even after so many years apart. That love, that commitment, that courage against all odds. Now that’s worth celebrating.

Dear Western Saviorists, Stop Reducing Africa to a Play Pen for Your Personal Development

I went on a rant on Twitter today about western saviorists reducing African cultures to tools for their personal and professional development. It’s pretty much all archived in my storify. Have you heard about this new book? Why do you think Africa is so seductive to westerners – white people, especially – seeking to discover themselves? #storify #westernsaviorism #whitesaviorism

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