Decolonisation is often spoken of as a historical moment, an
event contained within the mid-twentieth century when African nations declared
independence from European empires. Flags were raised, constitutions signed,
and the old colonial powers forced to retreat from the continent they had
carved into possessions. Yet what followed independence was not always freedom.
The colonial state left behind more than soldiers and governors; it left its
languages, its economies, its symbols, and its ways of thinking. It left
structures of dependence so deep that to be “independent” often meant still
looking outward for approval, for validation, for permission.
But today, across the African continent, we are witnessing
something different something more profound. We are witnessing refusal.
Refusal is not merely opposition. It is not simply protest.
Refusal is the act of saying no to the conditions that attempt to define us. It
is the insistence on stepping outside the frameworks that diminish us, the
courage to reject what has long been normalised. And refusal is taking shape
not only in the streets, not only in the parliaments, but also in the languages
we speak, the clothes we wear, the ways we understand ourselves.
In Burkina Faso, under the leadership of Ibrahim Traoré,
refusal has become government policy. It has become a national ethos. And it
offers a glimpse of what Africa’s future might look like if it chooses not
merely to be free in theory, but free in practice.
The Burkinabè Example: Decolonisation in Action
When Captain Ibrahim Traoré assumed power in 2022, many
outside observers dismissed him as just another young officer seizing the
opportunity of instability. But what he has represented since then is more than
a military takeover. His government has redefined the meaning of sovereignty,
moving decolonisation out of the abstract realm of politics into the tangible
spaces of culture, language, and daily life.
In December 2023, Burkina Faso’s transitional authorities
declared that French would no longer be the country’s official language.
Instead, French was reduced to the status of a “working language,” while the
national languages Mòoré, Dioula, Fulfulde, Gourmantché, Bissa, and others were
elevated to official recognition. This was not only a linguistic reform; it was
a profound act of refusal. It refused the idea that law and governance must
always speak in the tongue of the coloniser. It refused the silent assumption
that modernity and progress are tied to Europe’s words. By translating the
constitution and the anti-corruption law into indigenous languages, Traoré’s
government declared that democracy belongs to the people who live it, not just
to those who can read French.
In the courts, refusal has taken another form. Judges no
longer don black satin robes imported from Europe. Instead, they now wear Faso
Dan Fani, the handwoven cotton cloth that is a source of Burkinabè pride. This
change may appear symbolic, but symbols matter. They shape the imagination. To
see justice robed in Faso Dan Fani is to see justice rooted in local soil, not
borrowed from a foreign culture. It is to remember that even law can be clothed
in dignity that is ours.
Burkina Faso has also banned the import of second-hand
clothes from Europe, a market that for decades has flooded African streets with
discarded fashion. By saying no to this trade, the government is refusing the
logic that Africa must wear the West’s leftovers. It is insisting on supporting
local production, on weaving its future with its own threads.
Each of these decisions is political, yes, but they are also
cultural. They are not just about statecraft; they are about identity. And
identity is where the battle for decolonisation is truly fought.
Refusal, for me, has meant something similar, though lived on
a personal scale. It has meant refusing to shrink myself into the images others
made of me. Refusing to let racism decide the limits of my worth. Refusing to
let disability be treated as silence or absence. Refusal has meant insisting on
being heard in my own voice, even when others would rather, I repeat back
theirs. When I see Burkina Faso translate its constitution into local
languages, I recognise the same struggle: the fight to ensure that dignity
speaks in its own tongue.
Traoré’s project is not without precedent. He walks in the
footsteps of Thomas Sankara, the revolutionary leader of Burkina Faso in the
1980s, whose vision remains one of the most inspiring in Africa’s modern
history.
Sankara understood that true independence required more than
a flag. He renamed the country from Upper Volta, a colonial label, to Burkina
Faso, the “land of upright people.” He urged Burkinabè citizens to wear local
fabrics instead of imported suits, to eat food grown on Burkinabè soil rather
than relying on foreign aid. He refused the domination of the International
Monetary Fund and World Bank, declaring that debt was another form of slavery.
In this, Sankara was an early prophet of refusal. His
assassination in 1987 interrupted his project, but the spirit of refusal he
ignited never disappeared. Today, Ibrahim Traoré is reclaiming that
inheritance, reviving Sankara’s radical commitment to dignity. To wear Faso Dan
Fani in a courtroom, to reject second-hand imports, to elevate national
languages these are echoes of Sankara’s conviction that freedom must be lived,
not just declared.
Refusal, for me, has meant looking at inherited narratives
and deciding not to carry them further. It has meant saying no to the ways
history tries to script my life. Sankara’s refusal was continental, but mine,
too, has been revolutionary in its own small way. In the face of those who
reduce me, refusal has been survival. In that sense, I know exactly why refusal
matters for nations it matters for people first.
Burkina Faso may be a focal point, but it is not alone.
Across Africa, a wave of refusal is building.
In Mali and Niger, governments have expelled French troops,
rejecting the idea that security can only come from external saviours. These
states, alongside Burkina Faso, are now pursuing a confederation, exploring new
forms of regional sovereignty that place African solidarity above Western
alliances.
In Tanzania, the long-standing use of Swahili as the national
language continues to serve as a powerful example of how indigenous languages
can unify and empower a nation. In South Africa, debates over reclaiming
African languages in education challenge the dominance of English and
Afrikaans. Across the continent, young Africans are refusing to be defined by
colonial tongues alone, insisting on the richness of their mother languages.
Culturally, too, there is refusal. In music, Afrobeats and
Amapiano dominate global charts, no longer imitating Western pop but shaping
global soundscapes. In fashion, designers are reviving traditional textiles and
fusing them with modern styles, refusing to be mere consumers of Paris or
Milan. In literature, African writers are rejecting the expectation to write
“for the West,” centring their stories in African contexts without translation
for a colonial gaze.
This is not coincidence. It is the emergence of a continental
ethos: Africa is learning again how to say no.
Refusal, for me, has also meant saying no to second-hand
identities. Just as Africa rejects discarded clothes, I have learned to reject
the second-hand expectations imposed on me expectations of silence, compliance,
invisibility. I have learned to say no to the stories handed down by those who
would rather I disappear. Africa’s cultural refusal mirrors a personal one: we
both insist on wearing what is truly ours.
A nation may raise its flag, but if its children are taught
to despise their mother tongues, has it truly broken free? A country may have
its own constitution, but if its people must wear the garments of Europe to
feel dignified, is it truly sovereign? A continent may trade with the world,
but if its people are dressed in the cast-offs of others, how can it claim
self-respect?
Cultural decolonisation is about re-rooting identity in the
soil of the people themselves. Refusal is creative: it clears the ground of
dependency so that something new can be built. To refuse is not to close off
possibilities, but to open them. When Burkina Faso refuses French linguistic
dominance, it opens the possibility of justice understood in every village, of
laws that speak to the farmer and the trader in their own words. When judges
wear Faso Dan Fani, they not only refuse European robes they affirm that
African cloth can carry the weight of justice.
Refusal becomes a path to affirmation.
And here again, the personal resonates with the political.
Refusal, for me, has never been only about turning away it has always been
about turning toward. Toward self-respect. Toward survival. Toward dignity. In
my refusal to be diminished, I affirm the fullness of who I am. And so too does
Africa, when it chooses refusal, affirm its potential to be whole.
Challenges of the Refusal
Yet refusal is not without risks. The global economy is
tightly bound, and rejecting foreign imports can bring short-term hardship.
Western powers do not easily tolerate disobedience; sanctions, diplomatic
isolation, and economic retaliation often follow acts of refusal. There is also
the danger that revolutionary language may be used to mask authoritarian
practices, with leaders suppressing dissent in the name of sovereignty.
These challenges are real. But they do not erase the
necessity of refusal. Rather, they highlight the courage it takes for nations
like Burkina Faso, Mali, and Niger to walk this path. The refusal is costly, but
dependence is costlier.
Across Africa, from the Sahel to the Cape, refusal is rising.
It is not uniform, not without contradictions, not without setbacks. But it
signals a turning of the tide.
Burkina Faso under Ibrahim Traoré is more than a national
story; it is a symbol of continental possibility. It tells us that
decolonisation is not finished. It is not a chapter closed in the twentieth
century. It is alive, unfolding, demanding to be lived every day.
Refusal is not despair. Refusal is hope. It is the courage to
imagine differently, to say no to what diminishes us so that we may say yes to
what liberates us. It is a reminder that freedom is not given it is taken,
insisted upon, embodied.
Refusal, for me, has always been about survival in a world
that often tries to erase me. For Africa, refusal is about survival too. It is
about dignity, sovereignty, and the right to dream its own dreams.
The question is not whether Burkina Faso alone can transform
Africa. The question is whether Africa is ready to embrace refusal not as
retreat, but as rebirth.
Because the age of refusal has begun. And with it, the chance
for Africa to finally be free.
Postscript
We celebrate when Africa recognises itself in its languages,
its cultures, its knowledge systems, and its people. But we do not celebrate
nor accept authoritarian regimes that use identity as a mask for oppression.
True decolonisation is not the replacement of one domination with another, but
the affirmation of freedom, dignity, and self-determination for all African
peoples.
