Clapback Issue #1: AKOBEN

Contents **Hands The Mic To Our Editors** Africanism by Linda Lubi &The Roots Learning Africa in America & Janeke’s Graduation As My Dark Skin Shines Utterly Lost Local Third Culture Kid So Do You Know Any Gangsters ft. Biscuit I Heard Us Hoes Aint Loyal ARTISTE FEATURE: Kami Awori Bathtub ft. Biscuit (photo series) Is My Black Any Different To Yours?

Slave to Love How Not To Talk About Africa ARTIST FEATURE: Akua Shabaka I Remember African Print, Misnomer ARTIST FEATURE: Naomi Doras AKA Nomesdee Dollhouse Special Shout outs

**Hands the Mic to our Editors** This is our very first issue and after months of hard work, we’re proud to say that it is finally here! We started this zine to create a space that prioritizes African women-identifying people such as ourselves to support and learn from each other. In doing so we had to think past our current reality to imagine a platform where we would feel comfortable airing our views, discussing our issues and accomplishments, and, just as importantly, where we could ask for help. We looked for a group where it was ok to admit you were still on a journey, that you were unsure or insecure about things you were told you shouldn’t be, where you could be unapologetic, strong and kind. Eventually, we decided to create our own. Clapback. Whether you’ve lived in Senegal for your whole life, or you call Oslo home, this is your space.

Whether your parents moved here from India or you speak your colonizer’s tongue better than your mother’s, this is your space.

Whether your skin is the shade of honey or ivory, or as rich as the soil that gives life, this is your space. If Africa was born in you, this is our space. Hello.

Our most important accomplishment so far has been building a community of people who share the same desire to practice self-love and seek out growth in all that they do. In this issue we have a variety of short stories, poems, photos and articles and every piece is a testament to us fighting to reclaim our narratives by writing our own!

The Editors of this zine would like to say thank you to all those who have supported us since December and we really hope you enjoy the fruits of our (everyone who helped to make this baby) labour of love. This is a powerful collection of voices. This is what the people had to say.

The Clapback Team

“My body is made of African blood Inside of my veins, it flows inside my body and it keeps me alive My heart beats like the African drum, loud and fast as my hips dance to the rhythm of the music My eyes sparkle at the bursting colors of my newly tailored African dress.

My mind grows as I expand on my culture and all the interesting things about it My taste buds explode when my mother makes me Jollof rice!

I smile happily as I remember why my parents came here For a better life in the land of opportunity I thank them every day for their bravery and courage Although I was born in the land of red, white and blue, my heart aches for the land of yellow, green and black I was born American, but in my heart, I will always be African.

-ism noun a distinctive practice, system, or philosophy, typically a political ideology or an artistic movement.�

Photo series: Roots by Gรณblin, 2016. (@nycgoblin)

LEARNING AFRICA IN AMERICA

By Arnold Nteranya Sanginga

“However long the night, the dawn will break.” African Proverb

Up until the last two years of high school, all the history I learned was Euro-centric, with Africa only ever showing up under the infamous topics: Atlantic Slave Trade, Colonization and Non-Alignment in the Cold War. I finally had the opportunity to take courses at a US college that were Afro-centric and I ran to every single class I possibly could.

As I enter the classroom I am met with students possessing the ‘saviour syndrome’. This is the belief that they have a calling to save people in Africa. By this I mean that when you ask them why they take interest in a particular course on Africa, it is likely that the answer will be along the lines of them wanting to understand these communities in order to save Africa from some form of oppressive lifestyle. Some will extend their statement to say they had an exposure to some part of Africa and their experience motivates them to join a renowned international organisation that is involved in saving Africans. This can be entirely genuine, but one must see how having this mind-set has already disabled these students from engaging in studying the African continent in other forms apart from pity. This pity may not seem like a problem, but for an African it does change your involvement or interest in the topic. If a student from Niger said in an American Studies class, “I am here to learn more about America because I am really moved to save Americans from junk food.” American students hearing this would find this either offensive or very disturbing. This is because not all Americans face those circumstances or are threatened by those situations. In the same way, saying “I am here to learn more about Africa because I am really moved to save Africans from poverty and hunger” would definitely hurt a student from Niger, Cape Verde or Djibouti because not all of them face those situations.

Then there is the ‘false promise’ teacher. This is the teacher who begins their lesson by stating that the way they view the African continent differs for many scholars within their field. Even though I do understand that this more common disclaimer is said as a result of criticism of African Studies scholars, it is more of a distraction than it is productive. Once that is said, I am more focused on seeing if you meet the criteria

‘Self portrait // We made it’, Sochi.

you have set. So with every action or lack thereof, there is more criticism even when it is not the teacher’s fault. Sadly, I would rather prefer a professor that does not make any claim or disclaimer beforehand, as disclaimers only extends the level of expectation that I, as a student, have of you.

Another one of those expectations is how specific professors and classes are when speaking about Africa. In my classes I have heard people say “Africa is not a country” and or have had a map quiz, which is quite the illusion that it is enough for a class to then be able to specify and not generalise an entire continent. Africa has at least 54

recognised nations and even then those nations vary a lot, both internally and in comparison to their neighbours. Africa is the second largest continent with a melting pot of diversity very few continents can match. It is a continent where the Arabic spoken in Egypt is not the same as that spoken in Tunisia. This continent has over 1000 languages – no not dialects, languages – and if you travel to the eastern coast from Kenya through to Mozambique you will encounter over 100 different languages.

I as a Congolese do not have the same experience as someone from Mauritius, nor do they have the same experience as someone from Mauritania. I come from the centre, Mauritius is an island in the south east and Mauritania lies in West Africa. We constantly have to be conscious about what we are saying. In the same way we are conscious in saying, “New York is presumed as the business hub, whereas the Carolinas were once large rice producers.” Specificity helps, and upholding it creates even livelier discussion and better analysis. Instead of discussing corruption as an African problem, analyse a country like Democratic Republic of Congo and the different levels and versions of corruption from Mobutu’s era to the incumbent Joseph Kabila. Classes cannot continue to say “Africa is not a country!”

Yet follow it swiftly by saying “Africans…” However, the assumption I had taken was that everyone would have the same understanding and perspective as me. This is not the case and once I understood that, I could see the attempts to properly introduce the continent to newcomers. I may not know much about the history of African nations, but by having lived in Nigeria, Uganda, Kenya and South Africa as a Congolese, there are things I already know that students here do not. Even then I still say, Africa is the second largest continent with a melting pot of diversity very few continents can match.

There is a massive resource of history on the African continent that USA currently has access to and increasingly, the global community as well. With this said, it disturbs me that instead of discussing how Nubians transferred their wealth through their female descendants, we instead remain perched on the issue of whether the author is credible for example. There are a multitude of historical events that classes need to engage in discussion about. It is commendable that there exists discussion over the credibility of people and scholars who write about Africa. Nonetheless, a situation has now occurred where discussion has stagnated on the tension of who truly has the rights to write about the continent. This I believe was a more nuanced conversation, but is now over-exhausted and it is now time to discuss the events learned from these recounts. Open the doorway, to a discussion that allows for students to explore avenues that are not necessarily tailored to the ‘doomsday’ continent constantly depicted, instead seeing to lessons that can be learned today from the examples of the ancient kingdom. It is no use having these resources and classes if you are only to use a mere third of it. Would the same be done if studying British, French or Greek history?

Surprisingly, my frustrations are not in fact with US colleges, rather with the clear need for universities across the 54 African nations to take this on. It is not the responsibility of foreigners to tell the world the stories we do not know yet and more importantly stories of ourselves. History has shown that this has not reaped the best impact in regards to depicting peoples across the continent. Universities in African nations need to push themselves to tell us more than just who colonized us. For students from African nations, we need our own universities to tell us of how the Tuareg and Fulani lived, how there is so much more to Ethiopia than Aksum, Teff and Amharic and even the fact that Christianity did not first appear in the continent with the Scramble for Africa. How is it that we have somehow managed to remove ourselves from the discussion of our own people at such a level?

I dream of a class where I can ask my professor about the Ashanti and Fante of Ghana and they can take me on a journey tracing their origins, lifestyle and evolution before the European presence. And then I can ask about the Kongo Kingdom and they can tell me more than just Leopold. My cry is for universities to give us more than just the tension of studying Africa. My cry is for fifty-four nations to tell their people their stories from a truer starting point. My cry is to non-diaspora and diaspora Africans– I use this in endearment – hold on and keep asking, for surely our dawn is coming.

“She went to school, her head strong” - The Game “ Sochi.

As My Dar

By Marg

“…but I think the major problem with some of us is this resounding tune about exploration, ‘college is a time to find your passion’, “I’m sorry, I know this may sound weird, but I really love your skin.” – This is the day I truly fell in love with my complexion. *Food for thought: This great revelation happened some two weeks ago. Lol But that’s beside the point. I am not here to play the race card, or go on and on about colorism, nor should this piece be interpreted as a campaign against my light skinned sisters (the naturally blessed and the bleachers inclusive). With the latter being said I don’t plan on going into the history behind bleaching and the effects of the team-light skin movement. There’s also the point that I don’t bash my bleaching sisters (and brothers) for the harm they cause to their skin to feel beautiful, that is not to say that I support the act. But really think about it, when society for many decades continued to praise the FAIREST OF THEM ALL, thereby indirectly and directly, making the blacker berries the underdogs, who are we to judge them in the conquest to attain worldly beauty?

Anyway, back to my incentive for this post. Azeb loved my skin. Azeb with a milky nutmeg paste for skin, (you know that kind that glistens in the sun) with her bone-straight silky fine strands of ebony luscioness, loved my skin!!! ~Yikes!! *blushes brown~ .Me, Maame Fosua Obaa Mike Tyson was beautiful in the eyes of one who is considered visually more “appealing”.

I’ve had my fair share of names, blackie (bla-key), black knight and even Dark-ooo (Darko), as my surname would permit. Interestingly I was

rk Shines

garet Darko

never interested in being light, I preferred a milk chocolate tinge, the kind that was acceptable everywhere. This wasn’t really a problem till this ‘blackie issue’ became a regular song, annoyingly from the dark skin boys, mome!!!

It was sunny Sunday afternoon of October, 2007. It wasn’t just sunny it was scorching hot (trust Gh) and ridiculously humid, a weather with perfectly ideal conditions to break me. I was in church when I realized that I too, in all my confidence and fake self-pride, was not happy in my dark skin.

(Choir music plays) Immortal, invincible, God only-wise.

Our light inaccessible, hid from our eyes..

At least I think this was the hymn that was being played. I turned to my mother, my eyes wet from tears reforming, the painful words that would represent my thoughts struggling to come out. “Why couldn’t I speak?”

I wondered. Probably because I was ashamed of what I was about to say, I was disappointed in myself, fearful of what Mama would think, maybe SHE WOULD be disappointed in me…. It was one of the lowest moments in my life. In the House God and staring at my sweet mother, there I was, as vulnerable as ever, shamefully summarizing my experience with ‘colorist bullying’ (if that’s even a term). In the moment, I was broken, I had become weak, the derogatory comments about my dark skin accumulated over the years had finally taken its toll, and despite my many achievements at the time for the genius kid that is me, I felt worthless.

“Should I come to school with you and talk to your teachers, so they

stop” E eee, Mama wan kill me (*Nigerian movie shocked voice). Ironically, my mother’s proposition to defend her child seemed even more embarrassing than my own confession. To begin with, I would be considered as the tattle tale, an enemy to the oppressors, and most importantly to let my oppressors know that they had broken me was definitely not an option. No thank you, Ma! “oh no , its fine. It’s not that bad” “Maame, woy3 sure?”

“Oh yeah, I’m ok”, I said quickly wiping away the tears that could cause my social downfall, and grinning slyly to my defense.

But the main point is, Azeb found my skin was beautiful! Take that back, Azeb FINDS my dark skin beautiful. What did she say differently from my mother? What effect couldn’t the ‘Love your skin’ campaigns achieve that Azeb’s words effectively executed? The realization make I conf roff.

Class six was an interesting period in my life. It was the year of change, the year where the observations that actually made sense: a. thirsty girls (…and boys), grinding, c. fair girls were preferred d. I was pretty for a dark skin girl e. if a boy was constantly on your case (bullying) he low key had feelings for you f. new friends, new schools, …uhmm … whadelse??? g. oh yeah, the struggles of a dark skin girl… duh!

Back then, the ‘black’ boys liked fair girls, and fair boys felt to pretty/ cool to admit feelings for whatever kind they liked. Boys in between the extreme hues were still boys, so their preference was practically a combination of the other two categories. I was insulted by this discovery and it led to the birth of my immunity to the glorified “fineness” of the black man. And for the next 4 to 5 years, I would have no attraction for a ‘brother’.

But that’s again besides the point.

I’d like to take this moment to thank the creators of hashtag loveyourmelanin, melaningirls, fleeky melanin and the general melanin campaign.

My sisters and I have got some mad compliments, including the not-so genuine ones from the social trend lovers. *I’m not complaining, since the inception of this phenomenon.

All of a sudden-ly, having melanin, as a matter of fact, having a truckload it had become a cool thing. We see Lupita, Tika Sumpter, Cécile Kyenge and my personal favorite/twin Khadija Shari slaying in their fields and being celebrated not just for their ‘melanin overdose’, but for their talents and skills. I too, am eager to let my dark shine. I want to inspire younger versions of me living in societies where darkness is not juts valued but becomes a limitation to success and happiness.

Let’s not let the melanin craze and movement die. Let’s supplement the change with not more just dark skin girls appreciation, but rather an acceptance of the diversity for beauty in general, regardless of complexion, ethnicity, size, social trends, history or origin. All we really need is time to affect and effect.

I, needed time to recognize, assimilate, interpret, and accept that I am rich, I am pure, I am sweet, and I am raw I am tough like the rock, A diamond rock, I am strong A precious rock, I am soft For I am and will always be an ebony shock.

I am done with hiding in the shadows, and I admit that I have fallen prey to the notion that darkness is the absence of light. But I beg to differ, for as my dark shines, I am a living testimony that we should not be defined by the science: the science of science, the science of history and the science of society. ~ You can call me Yaa (A descendant of Yaa Asantewaa to be exact)

‘Inner battle: Lion Vs. Girl.’ Jasmine-Nicole Amoako

Utterly Lost

by Dagmawit Libanos Assefa

When all the springs are already dry There is neither means nor reason to cry And not a single lie you need to buy Ceasing to believe the reality Doubting the rightness of your sanity Everything you had held onto tight All that you counted on to hide at night Has now fled away with not a shadow left Stolen all you had what a brutal theft.

You now know it is all gone The flesh to be bone and the bone to go stone.

Then what will have sense on this empty?

Under this deity that has no pity What is left now? What is there to go for?

Why miss the future? Why wish more?

But time goes on leaving flames to burn That nothing will be the same is all there is to learn.

Local Third Culture

By Ivana Akotowaa Ofori Kids Ivana Akotowaa Ofori

Identity is this tricky little thing that determines just about everything in our lives, whether or not we are conscious of it. So just imagine how it feels for those of us who don’t know where it is because ours doesn’t seem to have been defined yet. I’m talking about third culture kids. But not the conventional kind.

Third culture kids was the term invented to describe children who have been raised in a different culture from the ones their parents grew up in, for most of their formative years. For the most part, it seems this has been interpreted as the kind of children who move a lot from place to place, following their parents’ work transfers, for example – or children of diasporans, who live in a community of people from similar backgrounds but are undeniably also suited for and used to the ways of the wouldhave-been foreign country around them. But here I am, challenging the notion that you have to fit into categories such as these to be a third culture kid.

I am ethnically Ghanaian. So are both of my parents.

For the most part, they grew up in Ghana. My father even lived in the capital, Accra. I have lived in Accra my whole life as well, and throughout my childhood, made frequent visits to the town my mother grew up in. Yet, somehow, I still consider myself to be a third culture kid. Though I know there are many other

kids who feel like me, it can be difficult to explain exactly why and how we feel about our identities.

It is helpful to first admit to ourselves that with the rapid globalization and technological advancement in the world now, geographical location does not at all have to change, to make the nature and experience of a place much different than it was before. That being said, I can guarantee that the Accra I was raised in and how I navigated through it (what I call Metropolitan Accra) is not the same as the one my father grew up in; but neither is it the same Accra that members of a different income class than me, living in the same city at the same time, are experiencing (a Rural Accra if you will).

The division between “rich” and “poor” may sound familiar to anyone in any part of the world. However, in these places that are classified within the somewhat fuzzily-defined “Third World Countries”, the divide between classes is way deeper than income. It is, of course, about tradition and culture.

And this is, perhaps, a more potent identity marker than wealth. Not every nation has this problem.

There are factors, both subtle and glaring, that make one question if they certainly belong. To illustrate just a few local examples, which of course vary from person to person based on their upbringing:

We often have certain ideas of “if it comes from here, this is what it should look like, sound like, taste like…”

You have lived your whole life in a nation whose language is integral to its identity, but were raised speaking English, and can barely speak a local language past domestic level.

Often, the closest you come to local clothing is attire sewn exactly in Western styles but in “African” print. When diasporans do it, it seems to be a thing of pride, but you being in your African nation, know that your grandparents still living in their ethnic hometowns would not be greatly impressed, knowing in their hearts that it is as foreign to their ancient culture as jeans.

You can’t reminisce with others about those moments when you were writing local exams, because

you were thrown straight into international education systems the moment you started school.

You speak in what you think is an accent local and typical to the area you were raised in, but other locals consistently insist you have some degree of a “foreign” accent. When you go abroad, however, people can barely understand you, and claim your accent is 110% local.

In summary, you are what would be referred to, in Ghanaian slang, as “dadabee”.

The list goes on.

If you were born and raised in a diaspora, it would, in fact, be the perfect excuse. But that’s not the case. And that’s why you flounder when other peo-

ple ask you questions whose answers they expect to prove your localness. A classic example is the “Where is your hometown?” question. Classically, one is supposed to answer based on which ethnic groups their parents originated from; but truly, one who was raised in Metropolitan Accra, whether or not they belong to the Ga ethnic group which has been historically known to occupy this territory, should be able to call Accra their hometown?

It’s an identity crisis; too local to be international and too international to be local.

My issue is not, however, a question of how to change who we are. For some of us, our formative years are done – and who can go back to relive their history differently, after all? We are who we are now, and to embrace that is not a crime. It is, I would suspect,

far healthier than drenching ourselves in wistfulness for lives we never had. My own issue is with our representation, or rather, under representation.

Many of us tend not to be able to fully identify with much of anything; stories told, articles written, art created. My relationship with music, for example, is complicated. I wouldn’t be able to understand a song fully sung in a Ghanaian language, even if I could vibe to its beat; a large part of the song is lost on me.

At the same time, I wouldn’t be able to identify with an American rapper going heavily about violence in the hood – because though I can understand the language, I can in no way identify with its content.

We often have certain ideas of “if it comes from here, this is what it should look like, sound like, taste like…” and in our desire to keep things conforming to cate-

gories, we hold back from allowing full representations of our cultural hybridization to thrive. Often we feel like because it does not conform to what we have already seen, what we have done is not legitimate. I feel the need for the cultural hybrid culture to arise in full force.

One of the best examples I can give to such a movement is the rise of Christian Hip Hop (CHH) culture. A generation was being born who could no longer identify with conservative ways of the Christian church, while still embracing a lot of its fundamental values. Tattooed, dreadlocked, hyperactive, rap-obsessed youths were feeling displaced and unable to identify with secularism or hyper-conservatism. Because of this, a new culture had to arise.

What I am pushing for are not immigrant stories.

These have been told and are being told over and over again at increasing rates. These are not returnee stories either; those too are in abundance. Instead, these are stories of and for these locals who have not had to move away in order to become foreign. Perhaps as of now, we seem like a minority; but we are growing, both in age and in number. When the bulk of the responsibility of representation falls on our shoulders, we will be unable to authentically represent either the foreign upbringing we have never known, or the typically traditional upbringing we have never had.

Cultural hybridity may soon become the new normal – and it could turn into a disaster if we don’t figure out how to embrace and represent that now.

““So do you know an Being coloured in the workplace is a different kind of precious. When you’re out of your element – the Cape Flats – it can be a rewarding experience. You’re exposed to the socially conscious as much as you’re confronted with the decidedly unconscious. But this doesn’t mean that an awkwardly timed, stereotype-based question from a work colleague won’t leave you feeling out of place, unqualified, too coloured.

My upbringing was nothing out of the ordinary.

Days out with family meant a trip to McDonald’s not an independent movie at the Labia.

I only saw the aquarium on school field trips, and moving meant same-home-different-ghetto. This is the norm for many coloured, middle-class families in a nation where we’ve not yet bridged the divide of inequality over 20 years after Apartheid.

The lines of inequality are drawn in the streets.

Its presence meant my first real conversation with a white person came in my 20s and up until then, I had been blissfully unaware of what it felt to be different based on the colour of my skin. What’s more, I learned that people (black, white, and coloured) held a strong, deeply entrenched belief that they know me, what I am,

Image: ‘Biscuit” by Ella Frost

what I stand for, and what my life must be like because the story of a coloured couldn’t possibly be more than the passion-gapped, exaggerated accent.

“You know what? I’m just going to say it. You eat like a typical coloured.”

The first thing I tried to do when I began working in a multicultural environment was change my accent. As a journalist, it’s important that I sound as though I know what I’m talking about, but Joe Barber and countless other comedians had already ensured that my real accent, the one cultivated by struggle and perseverance, was better suited as the butt of a joke, not at the head of a business meeting.

This and the notable cringes at my Rs and Ss informed my decision – I needed to sound whiter if I was to be taken seriously. Later, I’d add more rules in an effort to slide comfortably into my allocated slot: Don’t wear sneakers at work, don’t be even a few minutes late, only say yes, make time for extra tasks… the list goes on Don’t make your white bosses uncomfortable.

Subconsciously, I had decided that this corporate world I so deeply longed to belong to was theirs and not mine. But there was some truth

ny gangsters?” to this. As it stands, most people in senior management positions are white and most of the wealth and assets of the country are owned by white people despite the fact that white people do not even constitute 10 percent of the population. But it’s more than facts and statistics. It’s something you feel- it’s in the air, it’s in the tone of voice only used in reference to you, it’s in the look of pity you get when you tell people where you live.

“Why are they protesting over this statue when Rhodes donated the land to them for education?”

There have been a number of moments in my life that would serve to shape my perspective and wake me up to the reality of the Rainbow Nation. When students first rose up against the celebration of colonial figures in the nation’s higher learning institutions, I wasn’t yet “woke” enough to get it. The arguments I would be privy to during this time, however, left a bitter taste in my mouth. White and coloured non-protesters would argue that the

“monkeys” should just leave if they don’t like the statue; it’s just like them to throw faeces at a statue. Let’s disregard the fact that Cecil John Rhodes robbed black people of land, deprived us of resources, taxed us unfairly and forced us to become cheap labour. The once-stolen-now-donated land and an odd scholarship should make up for all of that, right?

My second awakening came with the Fees Must Fall protests. For all of my life, I’ve lived in a perpetual pit between ‘not poor’ and ‘not poor enough’. This translates to not poor enough to receive financial aid but not rich enough to actually afford university fees.

But no one really cares about the middle. I went anyway, uncomfortable, hungry, sans textbooks.

By the time the student uprising began this year, I was tired and so frustrated with feeling uncomfortable in my own skin, in my own land, that arguments against the violent nature of the protests didn’t even resonate with me anymore because this protest is not just about fees, and the one before this was not

“Just because the spew of fire isn’t reaching you doesn’t mean it’s not spewing. It just means you’re at the back, watching your brothers and sisters get burned in the front. When they are dead and gone, the flame will reach you too”. just about a statue. It’s about challenging a system of deeply entrenched, institutionalised racism that politely and without fanfare makes you sit on the sidelines in your own country. It’s about this belief, extremely prevalent in the coloured community, that we should be happy with less, happy with what we’re allowed to have in this country because we are the awkward middle.

It was through the exploration of this idea that I began to understand who I am as a coloured woman at work, at home and in this country. I am from the Cape Flats, I talk like it and I move like it but I deserve more than just enough to get by, I deserve everything

this country has to offer and I have the right to hold those in charge accountable because I am not just here to hold my head down and help breed the next generation of minimum wage, coloured workforce. My brothers and sisters are both white and black and there is more that unites us than nationality. As one of the protest placards read: “Just because the spew of fire isn’t reaching you doesn’t mean it’s not spewing. It just means you’re at the back, watching your brothers and sisters get burned in the front. When they are dead and gone, the flame will reach you too”.

l Jamie Leigh Matroos

I HEARD US HOE

C U LT U R A L CO N S U

By Maïmouna Camara The first time I heard the hit “these hoes ain’t loyal” I couldn’t help getting hyped up by the beat. Soon enough, the song was blasting on all the major airwaves, across countries. As a French speaking woman, the beat aroused my senses before my mind could grasp the lyrics. The more I heard it, the more I felt something wasn’t making the equation. I couldn’t exactly point my finger on it.

At first, I thought that saying I was hurt by the overtly misogynist and sexist lyrics would be oversimplifying. As an avid rap addict, I can say I managed to develop a thick skin to derogatory terms while keeping my mind awake and remaining accountable for the guilt (and contradiction) of ‘digging’ some songs when I knew they were clearly an attack on womanhood. I often struggled to navigate through my doubts, my choices as a cultural consumer and my behaviours…Moreover, I was wondering why my love for Rap music sometimes collides with my vision for gender equality, or (note : I’m going to use the F-word) feminism. Why did it feel so good vibing to lyrics hurting my sensibility as a Black woman who adhered to the main concepts of feminism? I found relief in the works of Bell Hooks, Tricia Rose, Aya de Leon and Joan Morgan, to name a few. Much of these authors’ works helped me navigate through popular culture, consider the context of cultural creation(s) and understand my position as, not only a Black woman, but also a lover of art, a part of a dialogue, and finally, as a consumer.

However, this Chris Brown song left me with a bad taste in my mouth. This is not a musical critic defending how RnB should be a genre solely revolving around “love” matters and serenades as Tyrese did, in his own brilliant way.

Music is a safe space for the artist and its audience. In between the many roles and uses of music, I like to remember that it is a tool for communication, a place of creativity, and a great indicator of societal concerns at a given period.

What Chris warns us about, through this song, is the overwhelming threat of “hoes”, their love for money and their lack of “loyalty”. Perhaps I would be more understanding if he expressed his views about sexual freedom, the impact of capitalism and aggressive neo-liberalism on trust and social bonds, or the ongoing rise of individualism in western countries. Better than yet, this song is an attack. A bad joke to the best. And who is ‘hoe’?

ES AINT LOYAL :

UMPTION AND MISOGNY

I have been guilty of using one of the defence mechanism that consisted on pretending that “they’re not talking about me”. For a while, the profusion of “bitches”,“hoes”,“gold diggers”,“rat” or “slut” in songs were attacks which belonged to another world and were directed towards another type of females in my confused and maybe hypocritical young mind. I clumsily decided to hide behind the lyrics of my favourite female rappers to demystify these terms and force myself to unload the misogynist definition from these attacks.

Truth is, while listening to most songs which allude ‘hoes’ or bitches’, it is safe to say that most women could unfortunately, sooner or later, fall into these categories. ‘Hoe’ and ‘bitch’ are super-inclusive terms and we can see it with the variety of justifications used in popular music to convey these terms. Heck, you’ll be called a “hoe” if you dare leaving your abusive/unfaithful boyfriend and later on, find a more suitable one.

Along with a couple of friends, we were ourselves ‘baptized’ hoes because of our clothing style when we were only twelve.. Without surprise, we grew up ‘believing’ we belonged to this category, as a natural principle, because it was ascribed to us by young men who knew better since they allegedly had moral knowledge and sexual control over us. Just like Chris and his clique do. Their moral knowledge allows them to tell a “hoe” from a “good girl”, while their sexual control allows them to choose who and when they want to engage in sexual activities without being ostracized or judged. Similarly, this is how we end up with pastors praising how “these hoes ain’t loyal” to his church, in Maryland. Misogyny is a form of oppression that is both pernicious and pervading.

That’s how we grew up. That’s what we were made to believe. Thus, when I started being harassed by an older drug dealer of the neighbourhood, I just shut my mouth because, after all, I internalized that I was a “hoe” and it came with the territory.

It wasn’t the last time I would be categorized as a “hoe” for superficial details and sexually assaulted as a consequence. My imaginary social position was reinforced by the lack of support from my female peers who didn’t want to “associate” with a hoe.

More dramatically one of my closest friend ended up in a very abusive relationship. She stayed as she thought her wrongly acquired reputation would prevent her to find a better situation. Some would argue that music and the ‘hoe’ label might not have a direct, causal effect on her relationship choices, but I’m sure it was a decisive factor among other circumstances including the lack of emotional and familial support.

This is what a song like ‘these hoes ain’t loyal’ might make younger girls believe. A catchy song will allow misogyny take root in our minds and normalize bad treatment from not only men but society in general. Again, the trap will be that the young women, worried to keep their honour intact, will make everything to differentiate themselves from the ‘hoe’ figure, even if they have to tear another sister down. Such songs are a threat to sorority or social bond between women. That’s surely why out of frustration, later on, as a young woman, I was doing all to demarcate myself from the ‘hoe’ or forcing myself to believe Ice Cube when he said ‘he’s not talking about me’.

Music is a powerful medium. Many sociological and psychological studies had this fact proven and a good deal of research highlighted the link between specific cultural consumption and risky behaviour or low self-esteem. While a catchy beat has more that often led me to indulge in listening to violent, sexist or misogynist songs under the guise of “guilty pleasures”, my personal experiences as a millennial also made me realise the impact of music and lyrics on personal development. I realised that I would chose to date according to specific visions of masculinity present in my favourite rap songs, I would forgive a man in hope that we could reunite “like they do in R&B songs”, I would make decisions to emulate the myth of the ‘strong Black woman’ or the ‘sexually open’ images I saw on music video while downplaying the gap between fiction and reality, … It is crucial to realise that every experience is personal, artists may talk about a personal experience but because of their capacity to use a ___powerful medium to capture the attention of the masses, their lyrics can easily become generalization or mould behaviours, for better or worse.

It is also our responsibility assert our agency while making conscious choices in terms of cultural consumption, despite the magnet of celebrity culture.

As of today, I’m wondering if music is still a safe space, not only for performers but also for the audience. Is the dialogic power of music used in a positive, way by record companies?

The fact that “These hoes ain’t loyal” made a great number of sales and had major airplays made me raise an eyebrow to the way society cosigned this song. Furthermore, regarding music genre, I naively thought R&B was a safe space for women audience. I believed that as first buyer of music, we would be more respected. Unfortunately, today, I listen to some new songs with apprehension, especially when ‘today is not the day for bullsht’ !! Who’s got time to listen to music which is going to question your integrity for just being a woman? I used to have time, and a high level of tolerance, but as these messages are more and more normalized, I no longer do. Seeing the rates of domestic violence and sexual assault is surely the incentive for me to lose patience.

While I have a lot to say about the effects of aggressive and greedy capitalist tactics in the music industry, I realise that as a “consumers”, it is our choice to refuse to buy a song or support an artist if we are concerned that his or her music is harming my well-being, or doesn’t suit our values. I am not preaching for any kind of artistic censorship or promoting ideas relating to cultural or musical classism, far from it. In the meantime, I am aware that we are not passive recipient of culture. I just want to encourage you, my sisters and my brothers, to refuse buying into negatives limitations of your selves in music. Artists are humans, they are flawed and can convey terrible messages through their music, at the same time, they are backed by and hegemonic music industry whose main concern is the ‘Benjamins’. A good reason to enjoy the beat yet remain super critical when it comes to the messages that you are listening through the airwaves.

Despite what we’re made to believe, we can be in control of how we see ourselves in the midst of these multi directional visual and lyrical attacks.

Kami Awori are a music duo consisting of producer and pianist Juline Michele and singer song-writer Cynthia Othieno. Hailing from Haiti and Hungary, and Uganda respectively, the two musicians are currently based in Paris via Switerzland.

After performing at this year’s Afropunk Paris Battle of The Bands and dropping their Lunation EP dedicated to Black Lives Matter in June, Kami Awori are definitely making themselves known. In this interview our co-editor, Yaa Kankam-Nantwi, talks to them about the politics behind their music, race in Europe, and Beyoncé.

Clapback (CB): So How did the two of you meet?

Juline Michele (JM): We met at school when we were 13 because we were friends and would hang out together. When we were 17, and we were doing this thing that we do in Switzerland in high school which is like work experience or an independent study and I did something artistic to do with composition in photography and I remembered how Cyn used to sing so we did it together. So it really started with school (Cynthia Othieno): Yeah we started at around your age actually because we were like 17 going on 18. So it went from a school thing and then she went to Cuba for a year and I went to Montreal for one year so there were times were inactive.

Then in 2013 we decided to do music full-time so we’ve been doing that since then.

CB: Was it easy deciding to do full-time?

I’m not sure if it was the same for you but there’s this stereotype in Ghana about young people always having to be engineers, doctors, lawyers etc . So were your parents chill with it or you had to show them how much you wanted it?

CO: So with my parents, I kind of didn’t tell them for about of year. Before leaving for Canada I did a year of med school to become a doctor and I wasn’t into it even though I really loved science. When

I moved to Canada it was more of ‘okay maybe I should try medicine somewhere else’ and I didn’t like the program so I switched to jazz and film studies and then I told my parents at the end of the year. But they ended up being cool with it and after that experience I got full support.

CB: Oh cool, that’s great. How would you describe the music you make now?

JM: So it’s a lot of bass and soul. At the beginning it was more like soul with a lot of different elements.

Like for example with our first EP Esquisses, it was mixed with hip-hop,jazz, electro, and classical music. It was definitely more orchestral because we used to work with more musicians but more more we became more sonically minimalistic- especially when we changed our live formation from

having previously had a live band with horns, bass, drums, live guitar etc. Later we started playing with just the two of us on stage and introduced a machine and this corresponded with the time we started to play more and produce with instruments to mix with analog drums and electro. In between that we had a trip to Cuba where we did a collaboration with a band called Via Libre who we already knew for about a year and we recorded 2 songs with them and that experience made us realize we really needed to include influences from our Afro-Caribbean descendants in our music. Especially the rhythms and the sounds, we just felt like we couldn’t ignore that that was a part of us and thus should be part of our music. So since that experience in Cuba and after having decided we wanted our music to be more minimalistic and electro, we describe our music as minimalistic, poly-rhythmic with all the different rhythms and traditional percussions from Haiti and similar places and also electro and a bit of soul.

CB: So you’ve mentioned how you wanted to include more African and Caribbean sounds in your music because that is a part of your identities. So in your music and in your everyday lives, how do you find having to balance more than one identity?

CO: For me, I was born in Uganda and then I moved to Switzerland when I was to 10 so when I moved to Switzerland I felt the need to assimilate and be almost-less African and that was definitely a struggle for me growing up. Almost having to, not reject per se, but not express or be as proud of my heritage, just because the environment I was coming into real-

“I felt the need to assim African and that was de me

ly disregarded everything African and from African culture. It wasn’t like now where everybody wants to wear wax or big jewelry -now its kind of cool – but when I was growing up it was more of ‘oh so you’re the African kid’. When I got older and even now, in Europe people often ask me where I’m from- and I say ‘Europe’ just because I’ve had this experience in different countries- and in Uganda people also ask me where I’m from. So heritage is something that I am now more proud of, having grown out of that wanting-to-be-accepted phase. Now I love my African jewelry and traditional clothes and doing my hair like my mum used to do and all of these things that I didn’t used to so it’s in our music but also something that I can’t live without embracing 100%.

CB: I relate completely to everything you just said. Was it the same for you Juline?

JM: Yeah, I mean I can use my relationship with my hair as an example. When I was younger I used to not like and always wanted to straighten but my mum never let me. I was always holding it tightly back and not liking it how it was but now when I look back I realize that in Switzerland, I didn’t have any models or any representation that I could relate to and that made it harder for me to accept it.

Then one day when I was 14 I just wore it the way it was to school and I got all these compliments and I just started to do it more and more and now I love my hair and all of it’s volume. Like what Cyn said in Switzerland people ask where I’m from a lot, and sometime its not a bad thing- it’s like a genuine question from people like me who want to know where else I call home or my heritage but other times its about what I look like and more of ‘why this hair? Why this face?’ and so it has an element of exoticization and making you an ‘other’. I’m really proud of my origins and my identity though but I want to choose who I am and not have other people define me because at the end of the day, I was born here.

CB: Yeah that’s a really big thing, people sometimes do that in London too even though its really multicultural. So judging from your most recent EP, Lunation, and your twitter, would you say your music is political?

milate and be almost less efinately a struggle for e”

CO: Yes I mean, we have discussed political issues in the past but with this EP it’s more clearly political. On our first EP there was one song were we talked about society and how we go about our day being numb to what goes on around of us.

Before Lunation, we had a song which we re-arranged, composed and produced for Tamir Rice and played live with this accompanying political message to honor victims of police brutality and what’s very telling is that around that time we would have one or two gigs every week, and in between those gigs the list of those who were dedicating it to just kept getting longer and longer. So like Mike Brown, then Sandra Bland, then Darnesha Harris- there was always a new name and that’s what inspired us to be more vocal about these issues. We’re actually working on an album right now and some songs on it are going to be pretty political too. For us its very important for us to get a message across with our music, for people to listen to it and think of things that they hadn’t before.

CB: Generally speaking, how would you describe the political climate in Paris regarding topics such as race and police brutality? Would you say its more so people who are directly affected by it who have these conversations or is it more of a mainstream discussion like it is in America?

CO: I wouldn’t say it’s a mainstream or widely acknowledged thing yet. In France, there’s this thing that’s very similar to stop and frisk in the states where the police can just stop you and ask you

for your ID and if you’re selling anything illegal and usually black and brown men are targeted- but not men exclusively.

So these tend to be the communities that speak up. There are quite a few organizations and collectives too so for example, Ferguson in Paris that started after what happened in Ferguson to offer support to the movement against police brutality in the US but it came to represent more local injustices too as the name suggests. There are so many cases of Police violence and brutality that happen in Paris and all over France, like last week we were at a commemorative silent march for Lamine Dieng who was killed in a police car after he’d been arrested. The general population is definitely in denial- if you bring up racism or islamophobia the response is usually ‘yeah well it’s not as bad as the States’. When in fact you can’t really compare the two when France has colonial history and still has complex relationships with its former colonies that actually still feel

like colonies. So even if its not a direct history with slavery, it still has a racist history that brings about tensions. There is definitely institutional racism, its harder for people of color in this country.

KAmi

Kami Awori, album art for EP: Lunation.

rent existence because it wasn’t done on its soil- all its dirty work was done in its colonies overseas and in the Americas, as opposed to America where it’s entrenched in its makeup.

So lots of people know more about Rosa Parks than they do Claude McKay or Olaudah Equiano or any Afropean that has done things to confront racism.

JM: In France a lot of people, especially the media, push this idea of equality and there not being race or racism.

CO: The human race, is what they say.

JM: They talk about racism rather being anti-white and ‘reverse racism’.

CO: Right now in France the tensions are really high after what happened with the Charlie Hebdo attacks and now the attacks in November and ever since the government declared a state of emergency and that happened about a month after we moved here so we definitely saw the before the after. A lot changed but what was and still is very visible was the presence of police and military forces all over the city. It doesn’t make you feel safe, it actually makes you feel scared so its counterproductive. During the state of emergency, people can’t protest- even though people still do, and when they do the police shows up with military gas like teargas and batons and trucks, its just very violent and a disproportional use of force. Sometimes even on innocent people that weren’t involved. It’s not only racial though, its also religious. Anyone with religious display, but mostly

CB: Yeah most definitely in London too, people like to outsource racism to America. I remember I went for this talk- nothing to do with race though- and they asked us who we thought had been the most influential person in the world and this white girl said Rosa Parks for ending racism in America. I found it very telling that 1) she said ended racism and 2) that she picked Rosa parks over black activists that have done work in England and other European countries. I feel like Europe is in this weird place where a lot of European countries do not have to acknowledge their complicity in racism or the history of black people. Britain for example was a huge player in slavery and colonialism but it doesn’t have to acknowledge that as an integral part of its cur-

Muslims are highly disregarded and discriminated against by the media, the police and society. It’s very islamophobic.

CB: Have you guys heard of Cecile Emeke’s strolling by any chance?

CO&JM: Yeah, we love it.

CB: One of the things I love about strolling is how it highlights the different black experiences around Europe which is really unrepresented in how we think of blackness. Especially being in college in the States, often when I say I’m from Ghana and England- it’s like ‘oh they’re black people in England’ when its like yeah, there are lots of us down here.

London is crazy multicultural. Even being African, we’re seen but not really engaged with or included in conceptualizations of blackness, just put on a pedestal more often than not. I feel like because of its cultural power and global presence- everyone sees America, but America only sees itself.

So I’m wondering, as black women living in Europe, how do you navigate Black Lives Matter to fit into your own context as well?

CO: With Strolling, like what you said, of course some of the experiences are different but a lot of it is very relatable too. For Black Lives Matter, just the mere fact that it was started by three black women is amazing. The first time I saw that hashtag, I was like ‘wow, yeah we do matter’ and it wasn’t ‘Black American lives matter’, it was just Black and so I didn’t feel the need to distance myself from it, just

make it make sense for me as well and support theirs. Black Lives Matters means us, means you, means people in Brazil, means people all over the world. Like Strolling, our experiences are different but they’re still the same. So with black lives matter, it’s also a global movement and the issues that black people are facing in America really resemble a lot of what is going on here, even if its not as discussed, so it was natural for us to feel concerned and want to contribute.

much melanin it was beautiful.

CB: You’ve mentioned the media a lot so far and also in your EP, and so what role do you think the media has to play in all of this?

CO: Initially our name was CaramelBrown, but that name became problematic for us in Switzerland. We picked the name when we started the band so nearly 8 years ago and it was picked up by media outlets that would reference our race so like ‘caramel brown is not only the color of their skin’ and it just got weird. People, especially white journalists, felt the need to talk about our race and our heritage which is fine but it should be on our own terms. At that point we were really considering changing our name. Juline is Kami and I’m Awori. So Kami Awori is a combination of our identities but also our individuality, because unlike CaramelBrown, its not written together. Awori means the moon, it’s a Ugandan name, and Kami is a nickname of Juline’s. So there’s no literal translation but the moon is important because we’re both thinking of other worlds and bigger things. So it’s like a connection with space and having ‘our heads in the clouds’ which is sort of said negatively in French, but also means we’re different.

JM: I remember this time when 3 police officers were killed and the way it was being portrayed on the news made you very empathetic and feel touched by the situation, but when the thing with Tamir Rice happened- the media tried to desensitize us with the situation. So I think the media is very powerful and can create distance, but also proximity. A very similar thing happened with Haiti, where it was portrayed as cursed and the images were so hard to watch that you couldn’t watch them and truly feel along with people because it was ‘just another tragedy’. Yet when the earthquake happened in Chile, it wasn’t shown the same way. So what is it about black bodies that makes the media create distance and use information in such a way? So I prefer the radio to TV, even though it can do the same thing, I just don’t like how images are manipulated with TV. CB: Growing in a society that endorses this media and believes these things, how did you develop your political beliefs?

JM: The internet really allowed me to find communities where people thought these things, like strolling, and other alternative forms of media like radio shows and podcasts.

CO: For me, when I was getting to the age where I was starting to develop a political opinion, the internet was my best friend. So twitter, tumblr and all of that. Instinctively, I started following mostly black folk and activists that resonated with me. Tumblr was a huge source of just everything.

Being yourself and your views being represented was amazing. From there I started reading more blogs about feminism, especially black feminism and meeting people thanks to forums and Facebook groups to talk to and re-assure me that I wasn’t crazy – because sometime people make you think you are.

JM: Also through traveling and meeting people through our shows. Once a girl told us she was so happy to see a black woman and a biracial woman on stage because she rarely sees that and that touched us just as much as it did for her.

CB: We’ve talked a lot about representation. What did you think about Lemonade, especially how it featured fellow African artists such as Warsan Shire and Laolu Senbanjo and the imagery of Yoruba spiritualities etc? Beyoncé seemed to pay homage to a wider definition of blackness than we usually talk about.

CO: Visually, I loved it and I love Warsan Shire. There was so

JM: Same. The album itself was a bit of a patchwork of many different genres though and so I personally preferred to watch it than to listen.

CB: Oh, I forgot to ask, what does Kami Awori mean by the way?

JM: Also on being a woman in the music industry, we started to be more conscious of our name and other things like personally, I never thought I could be a producer. You’re not really encouraged as a woman to manipulate machines or create beats- that’s very male-dominated. But I was surrounded a lot by producers in Geneva and I started to think: well why not? As our sound started to be more minimalistic and more production-based than before, we would collaborate with producers and I started learning bit by bit and now I produced our EP myself. The sound engineer helped with a few arrangements but the production was me and that is also a part of our new identity. I would like female producers to be more visible because I know they’re there.

People always assume its men behind the scenes, creating the sounds. So with the change of our name, was also our personal evolution. Its no longer a hobby, it’s a full-time job and a part of who we are.

CB: This has been so great and there is so much people could learn from this. What’s next for Kami Awori? Your album?

JM&CO: Yeah JM: We’re very excited about that. We’re working a lot on it and that will be our next project but we can’t say when just yet.

CO: And we’re working on a few collaborations!

CB: Thank you again for your time, it was great to talk to the people behind such powerful music.

image: ‘biscuit’. by Ella Frost

BATHTUB

In her high profile and self-absorbed lifestyle, with her $1,000 handbag, and her ruby woo lipstick, she still sits in the bathtub with water running down her back, cursing her mother for making her love loneliness.

Her over stamped passport does not lie. With her thunder-filled fist she bangs on the walls for wearing independence around her neck the same way her mother wrapped defensiveness around her waist.

She curses at the thought of looking nothing like her grandmother but everything like her mother.

She is still sitting in the bathtub, wondering why she makes sweet love each night to the empty side of the bed. She wonders if she is a reincarnation of her

mother, she is confused and dismayed about the fact that she loves the idea of being alone but hates the feeling of loneliness.

She is tired of being suffocated behind the towering walls she has built; she is tired of fighting to be heard when in all her strength and morphed aggravation all she wants is to be loved and love back. But the gifts her mother tied hand in hand with her black and gold scarf passed down to her are now a part of her she cannot say goodbye to.

She is afraid that she has now become her mother.

Woman that is afraid of being lonely but does everything in her magnitude to stay that way, woman is afraid that she has become her mother.

-AKOSUA ATUAH

image: ‘biscuit’. by Ella Frost

Is my Black any different to yours?

“Fine girl, let me be your friend” “Hei, obroni*, come and see this thing” “Your skin is very beautiful; let me give you a good cream for it” (a skin-whitening one, for all the lost souls out there) Hot tears burned at the rims of my eyelids as I jostled through the sweaty, focused masses swarming through the market. I brushed them away angrily and tried to pretend as if I hadn’t heard, or smiled politely if I accidentally caught the eye of one of the hawkers. I pushed forward.

So I’m newly 19, half Ghanaian and half Jamaican, and I’ve lived here in Ghana for the past five and a half years. My skin is a yellow-tinted butterscotch colour, born of my father’s rich dark-chocolate, and my mother’s pale butter pecan, which darkens to match mine in intense sunlight. I only really learnt to describe it like that when I moved here. Before that I was just………….. black.

For those of you that don’t know, let me start off by defining colorism: prejudice or discrimination against individuals with a dark skin tone, typically among people of the same ethnic or racial group. As a lighter skinned person, the idolization/fetishization of my skin tone is something I’ve only seen and/or experienced intensified here in Ghana, after having lived in South Africa for seven years, and visiting Jamaica repeatedly, most recently in 2015, during August. It’s weird because it’s such a big deal here- the colour of my skin in comparison with others. And it’s even weirder because I’ve never considered it myself, you know? I’ve always just been me, and maybe I don’t look like everyone else, but no one ever pointed it out to me the way Ghanaians do.

I moved here when I was thirteen, which is generally the age when everything starts to go haywire. I was starting to look at boys as more than just the kids who were more likely to hit you on the playground, and I felt more than just disgust when I saw them……. And maybe even a creeping interest (Is that……

HAIR………on his CHIN??). I was still following the crowd, but I was starting to find out that I might need to form my own crowd, or actually *gasp* learn to be by myself sometimes. Inconceivable, right??

I was choosing what I wore more carefully, and trying to see people’s reactions when we interacted (do

“It’s so deeply ingrained in us that we don’t even know when we’re doing it!!!!”

I get more attention in a skirt or pants?). Long story short, I was trying to find myself. And I suddenly had people telling me who and what I was. And to this day I’m still struggling to decide.

In a world where everything and everyone is neatly categorized into pre-defined boxes, my light skin often leaves me at odds with identity, grasping at 2 thinning strings at polar opposites of the spectrum. I’m still trying to decide if I’m Ghanaian, or Jamaican, or American, because of my citizenship. I still don’t even know whether I’m supposed to call myself mixed race, because my Grandpa was mixed but white passing, and both my parents identify as black. But I know I’m not “as black” as my friends, so does that mean there’s a little of me that isn’t black, and shouldn’t be treated differently to anyone else? And in embracing the drop of whatever it is that has changed me like drops of milk in a cup

of coffee, do I acknowledge that there is the blood of my oppressor in me? And that I am structurally better off because of it? When my accent, a mongrel breed of American, Ghanaian, Jamaican and South African distinguishes me from others, do I speak “nicely”, and “white” because I don’t have the strong Ghanaian accent of my companions, or do I just speak differently? It’s so, so hard trying to be yourself, and discover who that is, when there are people ready and waiting to categorize you all the time.

And there’s still a sense of dissociation sometimes, when I look down at my arms and around at the arms of others, and I just don’t see that much of a difference. Do I not even know the colour of my own skin, or am I just seeing it the way I want to?

It’s just a whole lot of “what’s the big deal?” for me.

Let’s not even get started on the self-confidence aspect. “We always get more attention when we’re with light-skins”, “He likes you because your skin colour dey be”, “All light-skins are fresh**” are comments I get aallll the tiiiiime. And sometimes it makes me wonder whether I would still be considered attractive if I wasn’t this colour. Is my skin colour the only thing people see when they look at me?

Am I anything more than that?? Is there anything else to me???” Are “yellowbones” ever appreciated for their intelligence? Or their business smarts?? Or really, anything other than their yellow bones???

And I know these may just seem like a whole lot of silly, fake-deep questions but it’s my thought process every single time I hear a comment like this, and it’s my way of finding myself. If I can answer all these questions, maybe I’ll get a little further on the proverbial path to self-discovery, you know?

Don’t get me wrong, this is not to re-iterate my privilege by centering myself the way white people do in discourses surrounding racism, but rather to shed light on my experiences with race, being black but lighter-skinned. Besides not being able to identify myself, sometimes I also feel like I can’t identify with others. If I’m black when I go to predominantly white countries, but when I come back to Ghana, I’m considered white, then where am I supposed to be? Where is a place where my skin won’t be explicitly acknowledged at any given opportunity? When my friends tell me I’m white, it makes me feel like I don’t get to be part of some of the things that a “full” Ghanaian has unfettered access to. When I make attempts to speak Twi, people laugh at the “obroni*” trying to reclaim her language, and marvel at the way her accent fits awkwardly over such strong, beautifully sharp words.

The funniest thing, to me, is that a lot of the “you’re so white” comments are only made when I do

something that is supposed to make me better.

It’s hard to explain, but for example when I happen to use bigger words, or phrase my sentences a certain way, people look at me and laugh, and I have to resort to more basic sentences structures or vocabularies. This whole mind-set is holding us back. The idea that you can only use certain words or speak a certain way when you look a certain way is stopping us from reaching our true potential. If I say a new word, instead of people trying to understand it better, it’s immediately dismissed, because I only say those things as a white person, and a darker person couldn’t even reach that level if they tried, so, what’s the point? Instead of learning from people around us, we restrict ourselves and can’t learn valuable skills from each other as people.

The habit of ranking yourself below others and assuming them superior is a manifestation of internalised racism, one in which the undervaluation of darker skin shades is somehow presented as a natural phenomenon. I think it’s because we were made to feel so crap and useless by the people who owned and ruled over us for so long that we eventually started doing it to ourselves. And it comes through in the smallest ways, as micro aggressions. And people don’t even notice when they say this kind of stuff! After some discussions with my friends, some of them even apologised because they didn’t know it was even a thing at all!! It’s so deeply ingrained in us that we don’t even know when we’re doing it!!!! (Exclamation points are really the best). At clubs, white foreigners and lighter skinned black people get let in first. In stores, lighter/white customers get treated better and paid more attention to, and in the local markets, white people get charged more because it’s assumed that they have the money to be able to pay higher prices.

Like for example, my mum couldn’t visit the market by herself, because she always got ripped off.

She doesn’t get to enjoy that experience anymore.

I think the problem with the most far-reaching consequences is the limited beauty standards colorism creates, and the underrepresentation of darker girls. If only lighter girls are considered attractive, then only lighter girls are going to be photographed for magazine campaigns, or made brand ambassadors, or have the kind of success everyone deserves.

And then all the little girls are going to read these magazines, but they aren’t going to be able to see anyone who looks like them. And they’ll just grow up feeling like they aren’t beautiful enough to be on magazine covers. And then there’s this whole vicious cycle, where girls grow up not feeling beautiful and struggling with their self-image, and their

self-perception, which seriously affects how far they can get in life (speaking from experience here).

And if you don’t learn to love yourself, and love your skin colour, you can’t persuade anyone else to love you, and even when they do, it’ll be hard to accept. And without strong role models who look like you, and who you can mould yourself after, it’s difficult to know if it’s even possible to get to where you want to be. And then there’s whitewashing, where black women are featured, but edited to look lighter, which defeats the entire point, if you ask me.

I want to work in fashion (creative direction specifically), and there are a few women of colour working in the industry, like Julia Sarr-Jamois, who is the Senior Fashion Editor for i-D magazine, and Shiona Turini, who was the Fashion Market Director for Cosmopolitan magazine. But their stories don’t get told like Anna Wintour and Grace Coddington’s stories do. And Shiona has styled for Beyonce!

She’s not small chops! And even worse is that these women are both light-skinned and even mixedrace passing. This is not to say that there aren’t other darker women in fashion, but we just don’t get told about them as much as we should. This doesn’t even apply to just black women either. Indian and Latina women suffer two. Women of diverse colour are, on the whole, painfully underrepresented.

It would sound pretty callous if I was to say that I feel lucky that I’m this colour, but it would be true but just because I am grateful for my genetics (which is all it really is), doesn’t mean I use them to place myself above others. It’s not enough to just acknowledge it, we have to make moves towards stopping it, by checking our language and those of our friends when they say stupid stuff like “That’s how all light-skin people are” or “Light-skinned girls are the way forward” (insert loud rolling of eyes and hefty sigh here).There are so many bad things

happening to the coloured community at this particular time, and a divided house cannot stand.

From workplace discrimination, ‘good hair/ bad hair’ debates and caste systems to why statistically a darker skinned person is more likely to be stopped by the police than a lighter skinned person, across cultures darker skinned people suffer most. It’s racism wrapped in a blanket, and how are we going to teach people black lives matter, if we subconsciously can’t believe it ourselves? How you gon’ win if you ain’t right within? (Lauryn Hill dropping facts.)

We can’t stoop to maintain the ridiculously formed ideas of our colonial masters, who were the first ones to separate us by colour. That would make us just like them. We can, and should, acknowledge differences in experiences and systemic privilege, but not in a way that invalidates other people’s blackness. In a society where diagrammatically we can see it as black on one side and white and white privilege on the other (as blackness was first defined in relation to whiteness) it only makes sense that as a shade gets closer to the white side, they also accumulate some of that privilege - not as much as a white person but they start to benefit from white supremacy usually completely unaware. Then again, we only know what we know until we know better. If we really want to overthrow these systems and not just hustle in them, it means putting guilt, stereotypes and pride aside and looking at it from a whole. Change starts by looking at ourselves and those around us, with love.

This is a hard conversation to have because it is one in which we are all implicated in and feelings are tricky. However if we really want true liberation for all, we have to rise above the legacy of colonialism and internalised racism to include every single shade in this beautiful, black family.

By Akua Tiwaa Kwakwa

Slave To Love

By Mourine Cheptoo The journey of life isn’t easy child please listen. Firstly, love yourself that’s the first rule. Who’s that guy next door, do you like him? Can you give me a reason why you like him? Does he love you back?

By the way I’m leaving soon grand ma, he completes me and we love each other. We want to get married I want to marry him, to give birth to sons and daughters, I want to be with him.

Don’t go child, don’t let love trap you, He is ready to marry me and I’m ready to get married.

I didn’t want to listen coz his love deafened my ears and his words kept ringing in my mind. Sleepless night, crazy love, dangerously in love. Whatever grandma said were blown away by wind. Yes, I was in love!

After 5 years it wasn’t the same love. He turned to be the predator and I became his prey, Weeping back on those same door steps I choose to leave.

I’m back grand ma tell me you said so, but instead she hugged, fed me and made sure I was warm enough.

She said ‘’you are still an angel in my heart and whatever you do, you are still mine nobody will take that away. You are always welcome home child.’’

But I still couldn’t let her love cage me. I was still in love, every time I went back he still thrashed my heart. Beat after beat, stop! Stop! Please, instead he continued shamelessly.

I still gave him love, I still prayed for him, I still cooked for him and I still stayed with hope that he would remember who we were. I still took care of us, I still washed his feet, I still told the kids we were gonna be alright, I still lied even though they knew it was never coming to an end, I still wanted to be loved.

NOT

How to Talk About Africa We matter and reducing us to tired stereotypes, cultural hotchpotches and caricature-like aesthetics make us feel like we don’t.

This is for you, the profile picture changers and curious do-gooders of the world as you navigate the mystery and danger of Africa.

Special S/Os to Beasts of No Nation (we see you mixing up languages, a great way to portray that unnnamed African country), Captain America (Loved Lah-gous and the click-y language that Black panther somehow spoke despite Wakanda being in East Africa.

Also loved how he spoke in proverbs, good touch, v. authentic African) and Mean Girls (I, too, navigated high school like it was an African jungle). In fact, shout out to all of Hollywood and the Western gaze, y’all are great!

other but sometimes at the expense of a tug of war. Africa is not a country - and that goes for everyone, even black people. Reconnecting with your heritage at the risk of erasure of others is self-centred and denies those of us on the continent of our nuance, experiences and personhood. We are people, not symbols (and three dots on your face or a lion’s tooth is as remotely ‘African’ as indomie). Especially if you are only willing to be African when it comes to showing off some cool and obscure culture (that looks nothing like the one I know) or when it’s useful in a political agenda and not in our everyday suffering, burden and complicatedness. Basically, where are you when shit gets real? We are not just cultural capital. Considering that our history has already been largely rewritten and art “I’m going to Africa” - any statement claim- devalued unless it’s heralded by foreigners, ing Africa as if it is a piece of a toast. Like this just adds insult to injury. Everybody sees where in Africa? Morocco? Liberia? Malawi? Africa, but very few actually engage with it.

There are literally 54 countries on this CONTINENT! And no I do not know your friend “Africa will always have a place in my heart”/“I in South Africa. Do you even geography? love Africa”/“Africa is my home” - expats who have lived extremely cushy lives in one ‘I’m reconnecting with my African roots.’ - there area of one country in Africa, whose knowlis a way for all black people, both in the dias- edge of the continent is limited to safaris, pora and on the continent, to dialogue and beach trips, copious wine drinking, good connect with each other, but it begins with weather and the benefits of cheap labour. actually hearing one other. There is loss, but also a sense of home that we both seek in the ‘Wow, like so much poverty!”…there is pover-

ty everywhere. This is not to say to ignore or deny the economic realities that exist in many parts of Africa, but rather to confront the often racist and sadistic lens in which African bodies are viewed through. We are not your tragedy or sad news story! We are a people that have been continuously exploited, brainwashed, and ignored, yet still manage to hold our own and do better.

“How did you get here?”- this is literally ridiculous. Have you never been in an airport and seen an African city on the flight schedules?

And somehow we are the ignorant ones.

“Your English is so good” - as if your forefathers did not shove it down my throat.

This one in particular, I find very hurtful. Wait, so you are not only complicit in fucking up my country but now you get to act like it didn’t happen, too?

“I really just want to help. I come in peace” - oh dear, heard that one before. It was called slavery, colonialism and general white nonsense. While some voluntourists truly do come with good intentions and a genuine purpose to practice their poses with African children, it is still very telling that you think you can swoop in and save us from ourselves.

‘So much culture, so much dashiki” - alright, okay. Reducing ‘African culture’ (whatever that means) to some paint and a dashiki is not only rude, but also indirectly asserts Western cultures as default, therefore allowing you to portray African cultures as somehow alternative and exotic.

‘It is such a shame, how backwards it is over there. It’s like… super oppressive’ - you are super oppressive! First of all, ‘over there’ has already been addressed so let’s discuss colonialism: how it fucked up a lot of societies and ingrained their ideals in us, convinced us they were ours, and now allows Western powers to use human rights abuses to stronghold African countries. Again, not invalidating the gravity of these issues, but context matters.

‘That time I went to Africa I was the only white person, so I like totally know what being a minority feels like” - White proverbs Chapter 1 verse 1. Numbers do not equate to power especially in the context of global white supremacy. Yes, you got called ‘Becky’ that one time and people stared at you that is not systemic racism, and that is not what being a minority feels like. ‘Becky’ is not a term coined after hundreds of years of slavery, colonialism, degradation and exploitation and the stares or marveling at your hair do not try to strip you of your value. The dominant power is still white, just in different forms (i.e colorism, cultural imperialism etc). You are in a country that people who looked like you used to RULE, the legacy of which still remains today and that you still benefit from. Therefore, the power dynamics do not allow you to actually experience what being a minority feels like in a sociological sense. If anything it’s ‘new person in school’ level discomfort or ‘I’m in a place where some people don’t look like me’ syndrome. Please stop equating experiencing a new culture to racism, it’s tiring.

Tbh, there is just too much fuckery.

Bryson Tiller says it best, don’t.

By: Yaa Kankam-Nantwi

Mother, Daughter Duo behind the lifestyle brand House of Aama #TheManWhoLovedFlowers Photos by Brandon Stanciell, 2016.

AKUA SHABAKA Akua Shabaka is a dope indie Fashion Designer based in Brooklyn, New York. Here, she tells us about her background and House of Aama, her sensational, Afrocentric clothing line.

Q: How would you describe your identity?

A: I am a black girl, person of color and melaninated human being. I am of Afrikan descent.

I am a reflection of my ancestors brought to the Americas and the Caribbean Islands.

Most importantly, I am a melanated being that feels a direct connection to the Motherland.

Q: What was it like growing up in L.A? A: I’m from the Leimert Park area of Los Angeles, California.

Leimert Park is a gathering spot and cultural hub for the African centered community in LA.

Growing up in LA, especially as a child was quite interesting because I didn’t grow up with typical “Black American” customs, traditions or religion.

However, I didn’t know this until after I started public school in second grade. My father is a Jamaican, Cuban, Bobo Ashanti Rasta. To sum it up, both of my parents are Afrocentric black people. So, by no coincidence, my siblings and I had dreadlocks since before we could remember and my parents locs were draped down their backs.

I can’t even remember a time my parents and I went to a Christian or Catholic Church.

But, we did go to Krst Unity Center of Afrikan Spirituality and Science on 78th St. and Western Ave. (I encourage all to check it out) Attending Krst was probably my closest experience to a “black church” except there was no talk of Jesus but more so the teachings of Ancient Kemet (known to most as Egypt) and the Krst principle.

Again, I didn’t know my upbringing was different until I started public school. Initially, I attended Marcus Garvey Private School. We wore red black and green uniforms. We called our teachers “Sister & Brother ___.” We recited the Black

child’s pledge every morning. We didn’t get off for western holidays but rather Juneteenth & acknowledged African-Black leaders, philosophers, poets, etc. Looking back, I just appreciate how liberating it was to attend a black school, with black kids, catering to the black experience, education and history.

Once I switched out of Marcus Garvey School and began attending public school things were drastically different. Now, I was a fish out of water. I was literally the only girl with dreadlocks

form of African spirituality, even though I did not necessarily understand this when I was younger.

(Again, I was just living, African spirituality was the norm for me.) My parents and I have Eleke beads that identify us all as Ifa followers. I was born on Oya’s day and carry Oya as one of my middle names. I definitely identify with the various Orisha’s and African spirits as manifested forces in my life and I look forward to furthering my commitment and dedication to African spirituality.

in the whole school Q: What are the and the only child Values that House with parents like of Aama stands on? mine. Certain public school practicA: House of Aama es like celebrating taps into the needs western holidays, of particular conpledging allegiance sumers to express to the flag and overt themselves and see Christianity were themselves in their completely foreign choice of fashion to me, however, I and lifestyle items. felt the need to fit House of Aama in with the other strives to be an exblack kids. In attension of this contempting to fit in sumer self expreswith the other black sion that is timeless kids, I turned my and culturally rootback on the African ed. House of Aama centered teachings I is not just another had grown up with. clothing business.

Oddly enough, deHouse of Aama is spite my numerous the spiritual exattempts, I did not pression of mother feel that I fit in with and daughter duo, the other black kids Rebecca Henry so I found myself and Akua Shabaka attracted to alterin material form.

Akua Shabaka native white culture House of Aama in music, dressing presents its fashion and emo culture. “I am a reflection of my ances- items as an offerIt wasn’t until I tors brought to the Americas ing for raw, primal later attended a energy to exist middle school in and the Caribbean Islands.” in physical form. an affluent white community that I reacquaint- Q: What are your views on Garveyism? ed myself with my childhood African centered teachings and I have not looked back since. A: Marcus Garvey recognized the importance of Africans and Africans in the diaspora to idenQ: : Has your family always practiced Ifa? What tify as African people worldwide and operate as has the practice done for you in terms of your one people with one god, one aim and one desknowledge, and connection to your roots? tiny. Garvey emphasized the importance of African people developing an economic infrastrucA: My family has always practiced Ifa or some ture to build and rebuild the African economy which is why he established the Black Star Line.

I Remember I remember the matatu driver’s rude response when I asked whether he will pass by Fire station...it was in Zulu but I could feel it, it sounded like,” Dah! all the matatus passing here pass by the fire station” well, looks like the traffic rain had other plans.

I remember reading the “ I remember King kong(the boxer)” excerpt, too engrossed to notice the route being used was different.

I remember reading “ I remember Steve Biko’s smile” and smiling only to look up and see that we were really in the middle of nowhere, at least to my foreign Kenyan brain.

I remember turning to the guy who had opened the door to the matatu for me and asking him if we shall really still pass by firestation.

I remember wondering what had made his lips swell so much.

I remember his affirming resounding yes that was followed by a reminder to the driver to drop me at firestation.

I remember the driver dropping me at some street in Hillbrow.

I remember my verification of his vague directions being met by irritation.

I remember the heaps of garbage lining part of the street.

I remember shaking as I walked that street,so lonely yet so busy.

I remember ridding myself of all the frightening thoughts about Hillbrow that I had acquired from reading Mphaswane’s “Welcome to Hillbrow”.

I remember making a note of the long queue at the taxi rank and resisting the urge to get out my phone to look at the GPS to firestation in case any of the hundreds would see me as target.

I remember recalling all the safety tips I had to cram before going out for a mall trip at the African Leadership Academy.

I remember Rancho in ‘Three Idiots’ whispering “...the heart is foolish...”to the fearful religious guy.

I remember the kind old man sweeping the entrance of some office.

I remember how he called me back to ensure that I had gotten his directions after explaining them to me..

I remember his kind smile and my thinking that he had to be Zimbabwean.

I remember getting lost despite his directions.

I remember wanting to ask the policemen in the police car for directions but quickly changing my mind as one got out revealing the huge gun that hung from his waist.

I remember too many police cars on what looked like a quiet gloomy morning.

I remember thinking that a robbery must have happened the previous night...maybe I was about to hear some gun shots?

I remember being drenched in sweat yet it was cold outside my umbrella where it drizzled and misted.

I remember the South African guard who seemed to be having a bored morning and took up the task of showing me my way with so much fervour.

I remember finally getting to Fire-station and wanting to kiss its walls.

I remember catching the school bus to Wits at 20 to 0900.

I remember rushing past the noticeboard with the “History of Sex” poster and making a mental note to read the description in small text below.

I remember arriving 15 minutes late and not feeling as guilty as I thought I would because there were many of us, also “...it could have been worse”.

I remember finally settling and thanking God that I had schemed through the slides before-hand.

I remember thinking that “passive design” was the only concept where being passive was a good thing...

African Print,the Misnomer

by Immaculata Nneoma Abba

You know how it is: one second you’re revising or doing homework, next thing you google the meaning of a word, next thing you find yourself absent-mindedly scrolling down your tumblr dashboard, occasionally hitting that reblog button. So it was for me one day when I ended up in the deep, charged corners of “woke” “black” tumblr. On my mission to unearth as much hipster music and trends as I could, I came across a video in which a young man was explaining to his younger cousins the importance of being in touch with one’s history. The young man and his cousins were apparently first-generation Americans with Nigerian parents and unlike his cousins, the young man cared very much about this communal “African” history that they supposedly share. At some point in the video, he laid out pieces of ankara fabric on the table and pointing at them he went on a ramble about how he could see his ancestors and their daily rituals immortalised in the fabric patterns.

Granted, fabric and fashion are very significant means of cultural expression and can be tied to identity and society, but I instinctively got upset when I got to that point in the video. At the time I could not pinpoint my annoyance but I soon realised that I was disturbed because it reminded me of the very common misconceptions that what is generally known today as Ankara fabric is exclusively African and that these fabrics are so ingrained in a significant longterm so-called “African” history/culture.

Today when cultural appropriation is a very common topic of conversation, it is easy to find debates in which Ankara fabric is cited with regards to Africa. Some politically conscious people sometimes get offended when clothing brands use fabric with patterns that have been tagged ‘African’, even though this implied exclusive African ownership is misinformed . The prints known today as Ankara go back to when the founder of the Netherlandish company Vlisco Group came to West Africa in search of a new market for his multi-cultural inspired fabric in the late 19th century. Not surprisingly, his prints and fabrics inspired by Chinese, Indian, Javan, Arabic and European imageries so flourished in this new market that slowly it became the next big thing, like the mirror in the 18th century and the gun early in the 20th century. About a century later, in the 1960s, when many West and Central Africa countries gained their independence, their governments prioritised local industry and so foreign companies like Vlisco either had to pack up or switch things up in their production/distribution lines to incorporate as many indigenes into the company and its process. . It then established local production facilities in Ghana and Cote D’Ivoire and today, the entire design and production process for three out of the four Vlisco Group brands (GTP, Woodin, Uniwax and Vlisco) take place in Africa, primarily in Ghana and Ivory Coast. Definitely, very many companies have sprouted along the way making the ankara textiles and fabric industry as robust as it is today.

If anything, this journey of fabric and symbols from Europe, taking root in Africa shows how dynamic and fluid culture can be. The Vlisco Company even cites the Igbo people of Eastern Nigeria as as example of one of its most faithful customers saying that ‘this is our gift to them and their rich culture in which we are gratefully intertwined.’ Apart from this celebration of cultural fusion, there is also the lesson on exclusive ownership (or rather the lack of it) to be learnt from all this. Even though the creative process has become “African” as much as it is/was Dutch, I think it would be quite the reach to claim that any significant long term‘African’cultural history can be located in the patterns and colours of these ankara fabric.

Or do patterns such as green circles on a red background designed in Cote D’Ivoire and approved by the Dutch head office symbolise the sprouting of life amidst bloodshed during the civil wars of the 60s and 70s in numerous African countries? In any case, still, why is it something that we have become overly sentimental about? Why are we expecting that an industry founded on internationalism and multiculturalism to confine itself to one culture, in practice?

In fact, I daresay, Hollywood stars do not owe any ‘African’ body anything because they are wearing ‘African’ print. As innovative, dynamic and creative as the ankara fabric industry is, surely they will flourish in markets other than those of African countries and there is nothing wrong or disrespectful about that. After all beauty is in the eyes of the beholder.

I must add that I acknowledge that not all the fight against cultural appropriation with regards to fabric is unjustified as it appears there is a fair extent to which people wear ‘African’ print because of how exotic it is or so they can be seen to partake in this ‘African’ trend. However, part of me wonders: how often is it just because of the true beauty of the fabric, how much is because of this commodification of ‘Africa’ and how (in)separable are the two? In any case, I still find that the fabric and patterns in question are too dynamic and multi-cultural to be hassled over in the name of ‘cultural appropriation’.

Nevertheless, I must also say that a line should be drawn when it comes to textile that can actually be located in traditions of different African people such adire and aso-oke of the Yoruba people, kente of the Ashanti people, bogolanfini of the Malian people etc. These textiles, unlike ankara fabric, can be firmly located in the traditions of particular peoples and so it would be disrespectful to erase the intellectual and creative property in such cases.

Not only is it counter-creative and factually incorrect, the misconception that ankara fabric is exclusively African allows and supports this image of a monolithic African culture. The company identifies itself as the ‘originators of African Print’ and this makes me think of the word ‘African’ as not meaning anything concrete and not worth the ‘cultural appropriation’ hassle. A look at history as I have shown reveals that Vlisco prints and all other derivative prints and products are ‘African’ in a way that is neither closed nor significant over any long-term period. (Over a short-term/contemporary period? yes. but long-term historical significance? I’ll say not yet.) Colourful fabric has now become a symbol for this single entity ‘Africa’. On most days, I am not upset at this because I can’t be upset all the time and because of the underlying celebration of diversity and abundance of culture which the patterns signify. Otherwise I can’t help but cringe at the fact that here again is something else which the single image of ‘Africa’ can latch on to and feed off till all chance for cultural nuance is compromised. This word “African”, at once, becomes everything, nothing and everything in between.

It’s Naomi Doras!

AKA @Nomesdee This summer Clapback co-editor, Yaa Kankam- Nantwi got a chance to speak to the talented Naomi Doras, also known as, Nomesdee on Clapback. You might have seen her afro-futuristic colourful pieces featured in places such as Art Hoe Collective and OkayAfrica. Trust us, the artist is just as amazing as the artwork.

Clapback(CB): Hey since I was in high my name is Yaa, I’m school. I don’t know, I 19 and I go to Tufts was just always playUniversity in Boston. I ing around with it study film and Internaand decided to get tional Relations and into Illustrator. Like, I’m one of the co-edhow easy you can itors for Clapback, scale the images up which centres African and down. It was kind women creatives and of like a whim thing, I their expression. So didn’t really have a yeah that’s me, how lot of plans.

CB: Were your parents also creative? about you?

Naomi Doras (ND): I’m Naomi, I’m 23 now, Or it’s something you picked up on your I finished university in 2015. I studied film own? and visual arts and got a diploma in in- ND: Yeah my parents were creative. They didn’t pursue their creative pursuits I teractive media.

CB: That’s cool! So how are you feeling? guess? They didn’t really. But my mum used to really love drawing. I always used How was your day?

ND: Good thanks, I’m a graphic designer. to look at her sketchbooks when I was I work for a medical company, like market- younger. My Dad used to do a lot of stuff with glass…yeah ing, that kind of thing CB: So I was just wondering, Nomesdee, CB: That’s good to hear because I was what does that mean? Is it a combination wondering like part of the reason why we started clapback was because there this of your names?

ND: Firstly, gnomes… like, you know, a gar- stereotype, I don’t know if it’s the same den gnome? And Dee is just for Doras. in Zambia, but in Ghana and other AfGrowing up, my friends just called me rican countries parents are usually like you have to be a lawyer doctor, or engnomes.

CB: Oh that makes sense, not No-mess? gineer, that type of thing. I just wanted to ND: A lot of people make that mistake show young people that are interested in these kind of things that other people though.

CB: I was wondering what was your back- are doing them to inspire them. Did you ground with art? How did you get into it? ever get that kind of push back of art ND: Well I’ve been doing digital art stuff being disregarded in your culture? Like

It wasn’t important and why don’t you do Law? Or everyone was chill with it?

ND: My mum always wanted me to do whatever made me happy. I guess from a young age I felt that I wanted to be an artist so I just went with that. People would ask me, “why are you doing that”? I would say … because I want to?

CB: So then what advice would you give young creatives? Let’s say a young illustrator that wants to work as an illustrator but people are giving them a hard time. Would you say do what makes you happy?

ND: Yeah totally, just work your hardest and do what you feel you want to do and everything else should fall into place. Just make sure you’re happy.

of them at the same time.

CB: Would you say you have a distinctive style with all your work?

ND: Yeah I think it can be developed a bit more but I like the way it’s looking right now.

CB: Yeah I like it too. I’ve noticed you use Instagram primarily, how do you think that platform and the Internet in general has affected art in your experience?

ND: I love it because it gives you so many options to talk to people and meet people. My creative process is totally through Instagram so Ill like see someone, like a bunch of their pictures and decide I’m going to draw them.

CB: That’s the most important thing, that’s true. So you mentioned you are a graphic designer, how do you balance work with drawing creatively? Or are they like the same thing for you?

ND: No they’re actually different… very, very different. When I’m at work, I’m still kind of doing my illustrations whenever I can. I usually do my work day and then as soon as I get home, during my lunch I’m drawing.

CB: Do you think it’ll always be like that?

Like you’ll always be doing the two or do you eventually want to do your art full time?

ND: Yeah definitely I do want to switch over into it full time.

CB: So you mentioned how in whatever free time you get you’re drawing. Do you have a creative process where you sit down and draw in one go or is it bits… how do you do one of your pieces?

ND: Well like the Instagram ones I usually draw them at the same time so I place them side by side and work on all three

Just whoever I seem to be attracted to on that day. I have heaps of screenshots on my phone.

CB: You draw a lot of creatives of colour so like SZA, Sage Adams of Art Hoe Collective, Frida Kahlo, so how do you pick people you want to draw?

Are you drawn to other artists and musicians?

ND: I like people that have a certain style about them. I really like pastels so I love people that also like pastels and I love the Art Hoe Collective. I love their whole manifesto and when it comes to representing people of colour I think it’s really brave.

CB: So would you say those are your inspirations?

ND: Yeah definitely CB: You also use #supportblackart and I was wondering what it’s been like for you in the art world as a black woman.

ND: I find them received pretty well because imp doing something a little different. So sometimes you get met with

confusion like I don’t really understand this. It’s been a bit mixed but generally positive.

CB: You said you were 23 and lived in Zambia, a lot of people our age especially when you’re still in college wonder if you should move back home especially if they want to do something creative, like should I move back or stay here because it seems like things are happening here. Did you ever get that or you knew you wanted to go back home and make it work there?

ND: When I first started studying I thought, well I’m studying Art so I’m never going to go back home but things just happened this way and just before I left I started doing all these illustrations and stuff. I really got into it so I just told myself, I’m not going to stop now and I carried on doing it. It was like I’m just going to keep on

pushing, I’m just going to be here and do what I want to do. I think the whole visual arts culture is starting to blossom. There are way more African art blogs because of the Internet it’s so easy to access, there are so many Facebook pages and stuff… its encouraging CB: Definitely, there are all these artists and collectives and it makes me happy because it’s like if they’re doing it why can’t I? Do you feel like in any way where you’re from influences your work?

ND: Yeah I do. When I first started out I was only doing African people. Like really tribal hairstyles, it was really focused on hair. But I guess from there my interests shifted to drawing people that are living here and now. So I’ve decided to focus on that aspect of it.

CB: What part of Zambia do you live in?

ND: I live in Lusaka, the capital

CB: Do you ever draw it in any way?

ND: I draw women from Lusaka. I love it because it’s very vibrant, there’s so much going on. It’s a funny place really, it’s awesome.

CB: Do you feel as though being an artist has a role in that society?

ND: Definitely, we have the power to represent society as we see it and get people to question the way they view themselves and the way they view the place that they live. We present to them a point of view and it makes you question your own. People of colour are so underrepresented in mass media. I think we have to draw more of them. I often find with African art they’re usually doing a ‘village’ thing. I’m really tired of that.

CB: One of our Co-editors did this project about how people often see African art and Africans in art and its just very

interesting what Western media wants to take from Africans. Did you experience anything like that when you were in Australia?

ND: There is still a sense of that because at the end of the day people are going to make what sells, and that image sells.

But, I mean, why can’t you make other things as well CB: What’s next for you with your art?

ND: I want to do more animation and film because that’s what I studied.

CB: Do you think it would be more children’s media or adult animation?

ND: Definitely adult, based off hip-hop culture. I listen to a lot of hip hop and rap so I think inevitably it’s going to feed into the work. Music is an art form so we just express ourselves differently.

DOLLHOUSE Family gatherings are just wedding planning events with food when will you marry? he asks, as casually as one would the weather at first sight of hips too large to hide under pleated dresses my hands were taught to make a home without living in it it was then that I realized that make-believe and dollhouses were preparing me to be a toy too and how can plastic speak for themselves? somehow man is prerequisite praise I am not worthy of the crown unless it’s being dusted not worthy of the throne unless I am kneeling at it but if my body is a temple what is a queen to a God To my sisters: for every mouth that asks to feed off of your silence, every stare that tries to take your pride in the blink of an eye, and every back that makes you feel like you’re not there: why push you down if your strength does not terrify them?

We have things to say, and they will listen.

check out the Visual Artists!

Goblin @nycgoblin Sochi Jasmin-Nicole Amoako @jasmin.a_ Ella Frost @Ella__frost Akua Shabaka @shabakaaa Naomi Doras @nomsdee

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