Perhaps outside of Fela’s Egypt 80, very few music bands have managed to influence their countries in the manner and to the extent that Sankomota did.
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Binyavanga Wainaina was a friend, a Chimurenga founding father, an award winning writer, author, journalist, chef, lover, a literary revolutionary and an inspiration. We pay tribute.
We tune into radio trottoir, radio one battery, radio 33, boca boca to get the word on the street from Angola.
Cheikh Anta Diop spent much of his life in academic exile pitted […]
By Akin Adesokan The news comes through to enthusiasts of African cinema […]
By Sophia Azeb Scene I. Arabité and its discontents The first issue […]
By Dominique Malaquais and Cédric Vincent The moment has stayed with every person […]
“We should take out that word ‘national’ and reconstruct that word ‘theatre’. It could become a play house or an artist city.”
A conversation between Jude Anogwih and Ayodele Arigbabu Jude Anogwih: I find […]
By Brent Hayes Edwards The Nigerian superstar bandleader Fela Anikulapo-Kuti hosted a […]
Featuring the maverick Ejiogbe Twins Photographed by Owen Logan Told by Uzor […]
The new issue of Chimurenga is about football. And politics. But no, […]
“Music Is The Weapon” “…The struggle of black people inevitably appear in […]
The Library recognises people as knowledge and memory as the art of […]
On January 16, 2001, in the middle of the day, shots are […]
Africa has a long history of comic production that span multiple forms […]
Since its launch in 2011, every edition of The Chronic has engaged with this question: […]
From January 15 to February 12 1977, thousands of artists, writers, musicians, […]
The Chimurenga Library focuses on how we forge communities, produce and circulate […]
Who invented that piece of nonsense called truth? Tired of truth, I am. And metanarratives and more truth and post colonies. An intellectual world in which each paper rewrites its own perceptual framework; everybody is represented, nobody is real.
Sick, I am, of affirming stories about strong brown women; of being pounded into literary submission; patronised beyond humanity. I miss beginnings, middles and ends. Please bring back the myths and legends – even those ones about wise rabbits and wicked witches.
The hot dry breeze is lazy. It glides languorously collecting odd bits of paper, they tease the ground, threaten to take flight, tease the ground.
Every so often there is a gathering of force and a tiny tornado whips the paper into the air, swirls dust around, dogs lift their ears, tongues lolling, then burrow their faces between their forelegs as the wind collapses, exhausted.
Children are in school, long lines of spittle reaching their desks as they try to keep awake