Africa’s city planners must look to the global south for solutions: Johannesburg and São Paulo offer useful insights

Source: The Conversation – Africa – By Astrid R.N. Haas, Research associate at African Centre for Cities, University of Cape Town

For decades, the dominant theories and models in urban studies have been built from the experience of a small set of mostly western cities. Other urban contexts, particularly those in Africa, Latin America and Asia, have too often been treated as peripheral, as if they simply copy or lag behind “northern” norms.

Urban geographer Jennifer Robinson has called this out, arguing that urban theory needs to take seriously the diverse realities of all cities. This means starting from places like Johannesburg, South Africa’s commercial capital, and São Paulo, Brazil’s financial capital, not just as isolated case studies, but rather as central sites for understanding dynamic urban processes. The majority of urbanisation in the coming decade will take place in contexts just like these.

I came to Urban Power, a book written by professor of sociology and international affairs at Princeton University Benjamin Bradlow last year, with this framing in mind.

Bradlow’s focus is on three essential urban public goods in São Paulo, population 22 million people, and Johannesburg, population 6.5 million people: housing, transport and sanitation.

His central question is: why are some cities more effective than others at reducing inequalities in the built environment?

The answer lies in what Bradlow calls urban power.

What is ‘urban power’?

Bradlow defines urban power as the way formal and informal relationships come together in a city that influences how that city is governed and ultimately how the public services and infrastructures are distributed across the urban space. Two elements determine how well this functions in any given city context.

First, embeddedness – the ties between city government and social movements in civil society. Second is cohesion. This is the abiltiy of city governments to coordinate across their own departments and agencies.

Bradlow argues that effective urban power is built when both embeddedness and cohesion are strong, as these determine how well policy is informed by and accountable to those most affected.

Thus struggles to build and exercise such power form a core foundation of urban governance. This ultimately shapes both the distribution of urban public goods and how effectively they reach the most marginalised.

Basically, it’s about how those in power are willing and able to coordinate with society and within government to meet everybody’s needs fairly.

Housing: different paths

As São Paulo (1980s) and Johannesburg (1990s) entered their democratic eras, both were led by mayors who explicitly committed to redistributing wealth by extending adequate housing to the most excluded neighbourhoods.

Yet, housing is also the sector in which Bradlow finds some of the starkest contrasts in outcomes between the two cities.

During South Africa’s democratic transition, the rallying cry of “one city, one tax base” brought together neighbourhood associations, social movements and local branches of trade unions. To overcome the fiscal fragmentation left by apartheid, wealthy and largely white areas of the city were to contribute property taxes to a central fiscal administration. This central body would then cross-subsidise precisely the new capital investments in poor black townships.

But in the years that followed, the governing African National Congress (ANC) party demobilised social movements in favour of a centralised one-party system.

The effects of this were evident in Johannesburg. Weakened ties between the city government and civil society (embeddedness) led to the municipal bureaucracy becoming increasingly detached from housing movements. As a result, it was poorly positioned to challenge the dominance of private real-estate interests.

In São Paulo, the municipal bureaucracy maintained close ties with housing movements. It used this embeddedness to build cohesion within its own ranks. This enabled the city to make use of national mandates to challenge the power of real-estate interests and introduce innovations that expanded social housing.

Central to this effort was the 2001 City Statute. This piece of legislation enshrined the “social function of property,” a constitutional right, at the city level. The legal framework unlocked tools such as the Special Zones of Social Interest (ZEIS), which reserved well-located land for social housing.

Crucially, São Paulo became one of the first major Brazilian cities to adopt a master plan that explicitly advanced the redistributive goals of housing movements.

São Paulo’s housing story is far from perfect. And the city still struggles to meet the demand for affordable housing. Nevertheless, it has made important strides.

Transport: institutions or technology first?

Bradlow illustrates how São Paulo pursued an “institutions first” approach towards transport. For years, social movements had pressed for lower fares and better services to the city’s peripheries. Responding to these demands, the Erundina administration (1989-1992) restructured the relationship between private bus operators and the municipal concessioning authority. Fare revenue was collected by the authority itself. It then paid operators based on the quality and quantity of service provided.

This shift allowed the city to introduce reforms like the bilhete único, a single ticket valid across the entire network. It meant that shorter trips subsidised longer ones. This made access more equitable regardless of where one lived. In addition, large and small operators were integrated into a single system, revenue became more predictable, and planning could prioritise network-wide benefits.

Johannesburg, by contrast, led with a “technology first” approach. The Bus Rapid Transit (BRT) system, Rea Vaya, emerged in the early 2000s. However, the minibus taxi operators, who were the backbone of existing transport, were largely excluded from the planning process.

The BRT’s economics were challenging from the outset, given Johannesburg’s spatial fragmentation. Operators were offered shares in newly created bus companies if they withdrew their taxis. But this arrangement relied on an untested profit model.

Institutional complexity (lack of cohesison) compounded the problem. Operational licences and recapitalisation were controlled at the provincial rather than the municipal level. Most importantly, the lack of embeddedness meant that resistance from the local operators was almost inevitable.

The comparison of the transport sector highlights a recurring theme. São Paulo’s slower, messier process fostered embeddedness. It treated redistribution through collective transport as a political project rather than a technocratic exercise. Johannesburg pursued a faster, technology-driven route that bypassed the negotiations which might have made the system more sustainable.

Sanitation: building accountability

If housing is a residential public good and transport a networked one, sanitation sits in between. It’s delivered to individual homes, but reliant on city-wide infrastructure.

Bradlow highlights how in São Paulo, the municipal government succeeded in creating downward accountability from the state-level sanitation company (cohesion). By doing so, it shifted decision-making power closer to the local level. This ensured that service priorities better reflected the city’s everyday realities rather than distant state-level agendas.

The new alignment made it possible to extend services into informal settlements without requiring formal tenure, a critical flexibility that had long been a barrier to inclusion. At the same time, it strengthened municipal planning and coordination capacity. Service delivery became more firmly embedded within the city’s own governance structures.

In Johannesburg, by contrast, weak cohesion, reflected in the lack of planning integration, meant housing projects were often implemented without corresponding sanitation infrastructure. Reforms had separated sanitation from broader spatial planning, fostering fragmented governance.

The city also adopted a model shaped by private-sector principles. Examples include self-financing, performance-based contracting, and competition. In practice, these led to service cuts in poorer areas where cost recovery was impossible.

The comparison illustrates how the same broad national reform agenda can play out very differently depending on municipal capacity and institutional alignment (cohesion).

Why the comparison matters

Cross-context comparisons reveal patterns and possibilities that single-city studies might miss. Bradlow’s book illuminates how rapid urbanisation, entrenched inequality and fiscal constraints intersect. These insights have significance far beyond these cases.

His book is a call for urban theory to start from the global south not as an afterthought, but as a foundation. As urban studies specialist Jane Jacobs observed:

Cities have the capability of providing something for everybody only because, and only when, they are created by everybody.

Bradlow’s book shows, with precision, what it takes, politically and institutionally, to make that vision real.

For anyone interested in the politics of making cities fairer, it is essential reading.

The Conversation

Astrid R.N. Haas does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

ref. Africa’s city planners must look to the global south for solutions: Johannesburg and São Paulo offer useful insights – https://theconversation.com/africas-city-planners-must-look-to-the-global-south-for-solutions-johannesburg-and-sao-paulo-offer-useful-insights-263285

African debt and climate change: how the ICJ’s Vanuatu ruling could be used for broader justice

Source: The Conversation – Africa – By Danny Bradlow, Professor/Senior Research Fellow, Centre for Advancement of Scholarship, University of Pretoria

African sovereign debtors in distress face terrible choices. They are often forced to choose between fully paying their creditors and financing the needs of their populations – health, education, renewable energy, water. Discussions with their creditors focus on financial, economic and contractual issues. The environmental and social impacts of their situation are largely excluded from negotiations.

Thanks to the initiative of some Vanuatan law students, this may be about to change.

Vanuatu is a country consisting of small islands in the south Pacific. It has been ranked as one of the countries most affected by climate change, facing threats of rising sea levels and storm surges.

In 2019, a law professor in Vanuatu, Justin Rose, asked his students to propose ways to deal with the climate threat confronting their country.

They suggested that Vanuatu ask the United Nations general assembly to request an advisory opinion from the International Court of Justice on the international legal obligations of states regarding climate change. They convinced their government to adopt their proposal. They also mobilised international support, saying they wanted to take the world’s biggest problem to the world’s highest court.

In 2023, the UN general assembly agreed to seek the International Court of Justice’s advice on the following two issues:

  • the obligations of states under international law to protect the environment from the impact of human-caused greenhouse gas emissions

  • the legal consequences for states if they fail to meet these obligations and thereby cause significant environmental harm for present and future generations.

The case attracted unprecedented attention. The court received over 150 written submissions. Over 100 states and international organisations made oral presentations in nine days of public hearings. On 23 July 2025, the International Court of Justice issued a unanimous advisory opinion. It was only the fifth time in its nearly 80-year history to do so.

The court’s opinion was that the obligations of states extend beyond the treaties they have signed and ratified. They also include obligations arising from customary international law. This is the law that states practise out of a sense of legal obligation. It is binding on all states and international organisations, regardless of whether they have signed any applicable treaty.

The rules that matter

The court declared that there are two relevant customary international legal obligations.

The first is a duty to prevent significant harm to the environment. This requires states to exercise due diligence before acting in ways that could cause environmental damage. They must assess both the probability of causing serious harm and the likely extent of any expected impacts.

In making these assessments, states must take into account current binding and non-binding international standards. It also requires states to ensure that companies and individuals subject to their jurisdiction comply with these duties.

The second is a duty to cooperate with other states to protect the environment and to help solve international problems of an economic, social, cultural or humanitarian nature. Here, the court opined that a healthy environment is a pre-condition for the enjoyment of human rights. It affects the rights to life, health and livelihoods, and the rights of children, women and indigenous people.

The court, in discussing the second issue, advised that states can be held legally responsible if they do not take all measures within their power to prevent significant environmental harm. It noted that while all states have this duty, its precise contents will vary depending on their capabilities. The critical factor is the effort the states make and not the results they produce.

The debt angle

Although the court’s opinion is only advisory, it is likely to be highly influential. It was informed by a wide range of submissions. It was a unanimous decision of 15 judges who come from 15 countries.

The fact that the court grounded its decision, in part, on customary international environmental and human rights grounds means that it has implications for any state actions that can have significant adverse impacts on climate, the environment and customary human rights.

My work as an international lawyer working on sovereign debt and development finance convinces me that this includes the renegotiation or restructuring of African debt.

Whatever action African sovereign debtors take to deal with their debt crisis will affect their ability to manage their greenhouse gas emissions. It will also affect their ability to deliver on their obligations to their citizens’ rights. These include the rights to life, health and livelihoods.

This suggests that African sovereign debtors and their creditors need to understand the environmental and climate impacts of their transactions.

They must also work together to resolve their transactions’ negative environmental, social, economic and cultural impacts. Their respective responsibilities will differ depending on their capabilities.

The International Court of Justice opinion may therefore offer new opportunities to make debtor and creditor states, and creditor institutions, accept responsibility for the environmental and social impacts of their actions.

Three possible avenues for relief

There could be at least three ways to relate the climate opinion to debt.

First, the debtor and its stakeholders can use the decision to bolster their arguments for including the environmental and social impacts of debt in their negotiations. They can point out that the debtor state cannot avoid international legal responsibility for the effects of the transaction on its greenhouse gas emissions and on the human rights of its citizens.

They can also point out that its creditors and their home states also have a legal obligation to assess these impacts and cooperate in managing them.

Second, the stakeholders can remind both the sovereign debtor and its creditors about the content of their international legal responsibilities. There are international norms and standards that can help establish that content.

Some of them are:

In addition, there are many private financial institutions that have human rights and environmental and social policies that often specifically refer to these international standards.

Third, drawing inspiration from the Vanuatu law students, activists around the world can use the judgment to strengthen their arguments. They can say that creditor and debtor states have an international legal duty to prevent significant harm to the environment and to cooperate to protect the environment. This duty extends to ensuring that companies and individuals subject to their jurisdiction act in conformity with these duties. They can be held legally responsible for failing to comply with these duties.

Finally, there are international mechanisms that non-state actors can use to hold debtors and creditors accountable for failing to perform their duties. These include the National Contact Points. These exist in each state that has signed on to the OECD Principles of Responsible Conduct for Multinational Enterprises. Another possibility is the independent accountability mechanisms in the multilateral development banks.

There are also the courts in the growing number of states in which governments, central banks and private actors have been sued for violating their obligations to climate change.

States and financial institutions, of course, can avoid these consequences by respecting the court’s opinion and developing ways of managing African sovereign debt that comply with its international legal advice.

The Conversation

Danny Bradlow, in addition to his position at the University of Pretoria is Senior G20 Advisor to the South African Institute of International Affairs, a Compliance Officer in the Social and Environmental Compliance Unit of UNDP and a Senior Non-Resident Fellow in the Global Development Policy Center, Boston University.

ref. African debt and climate change: how the ICJ’s Vanuatu ruling could be used for broader justice – https://theconversation.com/african-debt-and-climate-change-how-the-icjs-vanuatu-ruling-could-be-used-for-broader-justice-263859

What makes Lake Iro in Chad so special? It’s not just a viral sunglint photo

Source: The Conversation – Africa (2) – By Pierre Rochette, Emeritus professor in geophysics, Aix-Marseille Université (AMU)

Lake Iro in Chad was in the news in early August 2025 after a picture taken by a NASA astronaut was published showing it looking like a large, circular silver mirror as sunlight reflected off its surface and into space. The phenomenon is known as a sunglint and can happen to any water surface under the right conditions. The startling picture led The Conversation Africa to find out more about the lake. Pierre Rochette is an emeritus professor in geophysics from Aix-Marseille University in France. He has studied the lake, and navigated it too for a geophysical study. He answers questions about its properties as an impact crater from an ancient meteor.


What’s there to know about Lake Iro?

The lake is in south-eastern Chad, about 120 km from the border with the Central African Republic.

Lake Iro lies in the middle of an “inland delta”, which was formed by river waters diverging from the Bahr Salamat, a river which flows in the wet season, with very limited flow in the dry season.

It has a semi-circular shape and is about 12 km in diameter. A number of rivers meander around it.

Iro Lake is a vital resource for people living in the area. It provides permanent water and fodder for the large herds of cattle migrating from the Sahelian zone when it’s too dry to keep the animals up north.

People there also produce dried smoked fish, which is exported.

What’s unique about the lake?

Iro may be the largest extraterrestrial impact crater lake in Africa. Volcanic or karstic (where rock has dissolved) crater lakes are much more abundant on Earth.

When an asteroid or comet strikes the Earth’s surface at a speed of about 10km per second, it excavates a crater about ten times larger than itself. So the extraterrestrial body must have been 1km wide in the case of Iro Lake.

My research shows several examples of such impact craters in Chad. Their age is unknown, but likely older than ten million years.

The crater that is home to Lake Iro is a bit larger than the better known Bosumtwi Lake in Ghana. Bosumtwi crater was also excavated by an asteroid strike, but more recently, about one million years ago.

Africa has only 20 proven impact craters (among which seven have a diameter larger than 10km). That corresponds to one tenth of the total proven craters on Earth.

Since 2014, no new crater has been discovered in Africa. A large number (around 49, according to some studies) and a few other potential impact structures have been proposed in Africa, mostly based on satellite imagery and topography.

But solid proof for impact in these proposed structures, including Iro lake, is lacking due to limited or non-existent field studies.

As a group of scientists we have been heavily involved in tracking down impact craters on the continent. Our most recent work involves an ongoing study of the 40km diameter Velingara structure in Senegal.

Studying large impact craters is important to better evaluate the future threat of asteroid impacts. They also provide potential resources (like water, petrol and metals) and a record of ancient climates in the sediments accumulated in the crater lake.

How do you know it started off as a meteor crater?

Proving the impact nature of a circular structure requires traces of either extraterrestrial matter or of very high pressures endured by the target material.

Due to the likely old age and thus strong erosion of Iro’s circular depression, hardly any rock can be found on the surface. Only drilling for several hundred metres can reach the impacted rocks and thus provide definitive proof. This is a very hard task in such a remote area.

Nevertheless, the known geological features of the area provide no other explanation for the presence of this circular depression, apart from an impact.

That’s why we consider Iro Lake as a potential impact structure. It’s still unproven, but likely.

What are its distinctive geological features?

The area around Iro is extremely flat, as demonstrated by the slope of the Bahr Salamat river, south of the lake, of the order of 0.2 metres per kilometre. This explains the meandering nature of the river, highlighted by the published sunglint image.

Bahr Salamat’s altitude south of Iro is 396 metres, higher by only 40 metres from its altitude 160km to the west-south-west. In fact the Bahr (“river” in the local language) seems to go around the Iro lake depression (the average altitude of the lake is 387 metres).

This is odd as the river should have been attracted towards the depression, but can be explained by the fact that the impact generated a regional uplift that resulted in the Bahr changing its course to the south, to avoid the uplifted region.

What is a sunglint?

Depending on the angle of view, any body of water can behave as a mirror for a light source, such as the sun.

Completely still water just reproduces the object emitting the light, like a perfectly still mountain lake reproduces the rocky landscape above it.

But if the water surface is disturbed by wavelets, the perfect reflection vanishes, and is replaced by blurred light – in this case from the sun. This is the sunglint.

Anybody can experience it in clear weather from an aeroplane or from the top of a mountain, looking at a landscape containing water surfaces riddled by a breeze, in the direction of the sun.

Spectacular examples of sunglints, especially when the sun is not at its highest point (at noon), are reported from satellite imagery, as can be seen here.

The visual phenomenon is not limited to satellite imagery. The term sunglint has been in use since the 1960s. Earlier mentions of the phenomenon used the term “sun glitter”.

The Conversation

Pierre Rochette receives funding from Agence Nationale de la Recherche (French ministry of Science), ET-Megafire grant ANR-21-CE49-0014-03. His mission to Iro lake was supported by the University of N’Djamena in Chad, as well as the Institut de Recherche et Développement (IRD)

ref. What makes Lake Iro in Chad so special? It’s not just a viral sunglint photo – https://theconversation.com/what-makes-lake-iro-in-chad-so-special-its-not-just-a-viral-sunglint-photo-263228

Christians and the British empire: how a church NGO got entangled in colonial violence in Kenya

Source: The Conversation – Africa (2) – By Poppy Cullen, Lecturer in International History, Loughborough University

In the 1950s, Kenyans fought against colonial control in what came to be known as the Mau Mau rebellion. In response, the British government announced a state of emergency in 1952 and engaged in a brutal counter-insurgency campaign to secure control of colonial Kenya.

During the emergency, tens of thousands of Kikuyu, Embu and Meru – tribal groups predominantly from central Kenya – were detained without trial in camps. These detention camps relied on torture sanctioned by government to get detainees to renounce their nationalistic ambitions.

More than one million other Kenyans were forcibly relocated into new and controlled villages. These were frequently sites of forced labour, coercion and violence.

This was supported by the colonial policy of “rehabilitation”. The objective was to get Mau Mau adherents to “confess” their Mau Mau activities, give up their ties to the movement and receive education to become valuable colonial subjects.

But rehabilitation became a cover for excessive violence perpetrated against those in camps and villages.

It was not just the colonial state which engaged in rehabilitation. NGOs also employed people and spent money to help enact rehabilitation policies. These organisations included Save the Children and the Red Cross.




Read more:
Academic sleuthing uncovered British torture of Mau Mau fighters


My recent research looks at another organisation that became actively involved: the Christian Council of Kenya. I am a historian of the relationship between Kenya and Britain before and after independence, and interested in the intersection between humanitarianism and decolonisation.

The Christian Council of Kenya was established in 1943 as an ecumenical group of missions and churches based in Kenya. It involved all the major Anglican churches, but few African Independent Churches. It was mostly made up of white European Church leaders and missionaries.

It was not a very powerful organisation until the 1950s. This all changed with the Mau Mau emergency. The council viewed its involvement in Mau Mau rehabilitation as an opportunity to evangelise and win converts to Christianity.

The council’s involvement reveals the variety of ways that NGOs became involved – and sometimes implicated – in policies of colonial violence.

The emergency provided the Christian Council of Kenya the opportunity to grow through a process of “NGO-isation”. This involved the transformation of missionary organisations into NGOs during the period of decolonisation.

As secular NGOs emerged, and policies of development increased, missions expanded their activities. This included employing new staff, fundraising, organising ambitious development projects, and working with governments and other NGOs. These were all things the council first did during the emergency.

In the process, the council became part of the colonial system of violence and mass incarceration. While sometimes directly criticising the government, it came to support the government and sanction its violence.

This was especially clear in later years when violence and torture increased but the council spoke out less against them. Through its place on a rehabilitation advisory committee and its direct connection to the governor, the council positioned itself as an ally of government rather than a critic.

The council’s involvement

In 1954, the Kenya colonial government invited the Christian Council of Kenya to help with the project of rehabilitation. This involved employing staff who could work in detention camps and new villages.

The council worked with Christian Aid in Britain, which raised funds for its activities. Christian Aid was at the time expanding from its roots in Europe. Working with the council in Kenya was Christian Aid’s first major project in Africa. The council also received colonial government grants.

The Christian Council of Kenya appointed a general-secretary, Stanley Morrison, a British national who led council efforts in the rehabilitation programme. Morrison believed that detainees would feel a spiritual lack after renouncing Mau Mau and that Christianity could fill the gap.

He saw working with Christian Aid and the government as a chance for growth and actively set about pursuing these opportunities. A key part of this involved sending priests into prisons and detention camps. This was a vast and literally captive audience for evangelism.

The council also designed a “cleansing ceremony” for detainees. This was intended to follow an extensive programme of Christian instruction, in which detainees would renounce their adherence to Mau Mau and embrace Christianity.

But the Christian revival it hoped for did not take place. The council’s activities and influence were limited, mainly due to the fact that there were hundreds of thousands in detention and over a million people in new villages. The council did not have the funds to employ enough people to meet this need. This meant that interventions like the cleansing ceremony weren’t widespread.

The complexities

The Christian Council of Kenya’s relationship with the colonial government was complicated.

On the one hand, it shared common aims with the government. On the other, the council was also concerned about the violence and abuses that occurred in the emergency.

This raised a challenge frequently faced by NGOs working in sites of violence: whether and how to voice criticism while ensuring access to their intended recipients.

Council members had different views. The group criticised the government publicly several times, but more often preferred to raise concerns privately. In this way, it ensured its friendly relationship with the colonial government.

The biggest clash was between Anglican bishop Leonard Beecher and David Steel, the moderator of the Church of Scotland. Steel favoured a direct approach against the violence, preaching a sermon that was broadcast on radio to raise awareness of abuses. Beecher criticised this as likely to damage the Christian Council of Kenya’s relationship with the government.

The government invited the council to join the Rehabilitation Advisory Committee in October 1954. This gave it the chance to mitigate excesses, but also meant it was implicated in government policy.

The council’s criticisms decreased further over the final years of the emergency. For example, when told of the “dilution technique”, which involved beating detainees who refused to confess their Mau Mau oaths, the council shrugged it off with the view that those men were probably psychiatric cases.

As the fighting wound down from 1957, the council no longer focused on rehabilitation, but on long-term development activities, such as training church leaders, running youth training programmes and working with industry.

By the official end of the emergency in 1960 when the colonial government lifted restrictions, the Christian Council of Kenya was well established as a development-focused NGO, with an active portfolio of activities, supported by Christian Aid in the UK, and with close relations to the Kenya government.

The opportunity that the council expected from the emergency – more converts – did not arise. But there was an opportunity for it in its own expansion.

The consequences

My findings highlight the need to pay more attention to missions and churches as major actors at the end of empire. They are often overlooked in favour of political actors, but could have played significant roles behind the scenes.

The council, with Christian Aid’s ongoing support, continued working in Kenya past independence, and still exists. It was renamed the National Council of Churches of Kenya. In 1963, the year of Kenya’s independence, the council appointed its first African general-secretary. Its role in the emergency helped set up its later success.

The Conversation

Poppy Cullen does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

ref. Christians and the British empire: how a church NGO got entangled in colonial violence in Kenya – https://theconversation.com/christians-and-the-british-empire-how-a-church-ngo-got-entangled-in-colonial-violence-in-kenya-262566

Sex workers in colonial Senegal were policed by France – book explores a racist history

Source: The Conversation – Africa – By Caroline Séquin, Associate Professor of Modern European History, Lafayette College

Desiring Whiteness is an award-winning book by historian Caroline Séquin. It explores the intertwined histories of commercial sex work and racial politics in France and the French colonial empire, particularly in Senegal. We asked her five questions about her study.


How was sex work regulated in France?

A new system controlling commercial sex developed during Napoleon’s Consulate in the early 1800s. It was first implemented in Paris, then across France. Known as regulationism, it tolerated, rather than banned, commercial sex. But under specific conditions.

It licensed brothels, so long as the women who sold sex (it was assumed men didn’t) were registered with the vice police. They had to undergo a regular gynaecological exam to detect any sexually transmissible infections (STIs) they might inadvertently pass to their clients.

At the time syphilis was a serious public health threat. Doctors didn’t know how to treat it. Women caught with an STI or who broke the regulationist rules were interned in hospitals or prison without proper trials.

Historians have shown how regulationism was an arbitrary and flawed system. It unfairly targeted mostly working-class women for the benefit of male heterosexual desire.

What form did it take in the colonies like Senegal?

After the abolition of slavery in 1848, French colonial authorities adopted the regulationist regime that had been developed in France.

The French empire at the time included Martinique, Guadeloupe, French Guiana, Reunion, and some coastal regions of Algeria. In addition were French trading posts in Senegal and India, and several protectorates in the Pacific.

So, in Senegal regulationism was adopted in Saint-Louis and Gorée Island. There the French had built trading posts which they converted into colonial territories around the same time.




Read more:
Senegal is decolonising its heritage, and in the process reclaiming its future


Regulationism became a way to control the bodies of formerly enslaved women. Colonial authorities saw them as a public health threat to the French men present in the region. They feared that, after abolition, women would resort to commercial sex as a means of survival. This would contribute to the spread of STIs. They extended these policies to all of colonial Senegal a year after abolition.

How did Senegal’s sex workers respond?

Not in the way that colonial authorities would have hoped. Many of the African women who were accused of engaging in commercial sex evaded the mandatory health checks or police registration. For example, they relocated to other areas to avoid detection.

And although the new colonial decree allowed for the creation of brothels, it appears none existed in the colony until the early 1900s. Authorities routinely lamented how the African women who sold sex did so “clandestinely”. Meaning outside licensed brothels and colonial control.

One shouldn’t dismiss the reality that some of these women were likely wrongly accused of being sex workers. Gender and racial bias shaped how medical and colonial authorities viewed Black women.

I haven’t found any evidence of brothels staffed with African women in Dakar or across colonial Senegal. All licensed brothels were staffed with European women and their services were reserved exclusively for European men.

The sexual reputation of white women greatly mattered to colonial authorities as it was supposed to reflect French moral superiority. Nonetheless, they tolerated their sexual activity because brothel keepers denied African male clients access to their businesses. This helped prevent interracial sex.

Sex with a white sex worker was preferrable to sexual or conjugal relationships developing with African women. Given the widespread assumption at the time that men had natural sexual needs, brothels were perceived as a “necessary evil” to maintain the social, moral, and racial order.

So, the regulation of commercial sex became an essential tool for the upholding of colonial rule. This increasingly relied on strict racial hierarchies and the preservation of French whiteness.

How does this play out today?

The regulationist regime was legally abolished in France – and colonial Senegal – in 1946. However, a few years after decolonisation and Senegal’s independence in 1960, a new law was established by Senegalese authorities. It required sex workers to be registered (with medical authorities, rather than police) and regularly checked for STIs. Those who failed to comply risked being jailed.




Read more:
Sex, intimacy and black middle-class Christianity in South Africa – a difficult history


This is strikingly similar to the regulationist system established during the colonial period and it still stands to this day.

This was a different path than that taken by other African countries formerly under French colonial control, which associated regulationism with colonial oppression. They moved to eliminate it after independence. Some scholars, however, have lauded Senegal’s regulationist style laws as one of the main reasons why the country has the lowest reported HIV rate in the continent.

What do you hope readers will take away from your book?

The regulation of commercial sex was not simply about controlling women’s bodies and sexuality. It was also about policing racial relations.

As colonial discourses about race shifted and interracial sex and intimacy became increasingly frowned upon from the late 1800s, French authorities relied on commercial sex to limit the development of more sustained forms of intimacy across racial and colonial boundaries. In their view these threatened to dilute the myth of French whiteness by creating multiracial offspring.

What this meant for who could sell and buy sex in brothels differed in colonial Senegal and France. But, in the end, the racial logic that undergirded metropolitan and colonial brothels was the same.




Read more:
Freemasons, homosexuals and corrupt elites in Cameroon – inside an African conspiracy theory


So, my book contributes to an ever-growing scholarship that has debunked the myth of France’s colour blindness, by uncovering how the regulation of commercial sex was just one of the many ways in which racial difference and hierarchies were produced and upheld in the century following the abolition of slavery.

In that sense, France was not exceptional but rather similar to other imperial nations like the United States, where the control of sex and conjugality became crucial for the racial project of white supremacy in the aftermath of the abolition of slavery.

The Conversation

Caroline Séquin does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

ref. Sex workers in colonial Senegal were policed by France – book explores a racist history – https://theconversation.com/sex-workers-in-colonial-senegal-were-policed-by-france-book-explores-a-racist-history-262999

Namibia celebrates independence heroes, but glosses over a painful history

Source: The Conversation – Africa (2) – By Henning Melber, Extraordinary Professor, Department of Political Sciences, University of Pretoria

Namibia celebrates 26 August as Heroes’ Day. It recalls the first military encounter between the South African army and members of the South West Africa People’s Organisation (Swapo), Namibia’s liberation movement, in 1966. Initially a German colony (1884-1915), the country was then administered by South Africa, which refused to give up the occupation.

Since independence in 1990, the heroic Swapo liberation narrative has also been inscribed in Heroes’ Acre, a monument built by North Korea.

The institutionalised public commemoration in Namibia today – rightly – recalls the sacrifices of those who were willing to fight for self determination. At the same time, it glosses over the toxic impact of the way warfare was conducted. Those involved in the struggle for independence were far from innocent in the execution of the military resistance. Yet their violations of human rights were never addressed.

This ambiguity was visible in 2025 in a public controversy when tribute poured out to the late Solomon Hawala, whose combat name was Jesus. He was a leading fighter in Swapo’s military wing, known as PLAN.

He also had a bloody track record of eliminating fellow Namibians in exile.

The celebration of Hawala finally moved me to resign as a member of Swapo, an organisation I joined when I was 24 years old. I set out my reasons in an interview accessible on YouTube.

Since the late 1970s I have specialised as an academic in Namibian history and politics. Since the early 1990s I have engaged with the traumatic side of so-called liberation. More recently I wrote a book chapter giving voice to the victims.

Patriotic history versus struggle realities

The history of liberation movements displays their authoritarian nature. Their camps in southern Africa forged bonds of comradeship. For Mozambique’s Frelimo, the African National Congress, Swapo, the People’s Movement for the Liberation of Angola and Zimbabwe African People’s Union, Tanzania’s Kongwa camp in the 1960s provided a first operational base in preparation for the armed struggle abroad.




Read more:
Tanzania’s independence leader Julius Nyerere built a new army fit for African liberation: how he did it


The movements then started to arrange for their own bases in host countries.

In the early to mid 1970s Swapo established the Old Farm outside Lusaka in Zambia. This was followed by Nyango. Finally, a Health and Education Centre was established in Angola’s Kwanza Zul.

The administration and management required strict discipline and reinforced repressive hierarchies.

There were several times in Swapo’s exile history when internal critics were silenced. Testimonies of the early stages in the late 1960s and early to mid 1970s offer insights by those persecuted. These included the former Swapo secretary for information Andreas Shipanga, the first generation Swapo member Hans Beukes, the former Swapo Youth League activist Keshii Nathanael and one of the first PLAN cadres, Samson Ndeikwila.

Speaking out and thereby disclosing the crimes, the Namibian chaplain in exile Salatiel Ailonga and his wife Anita were forced to seek refuge elsewhere.

Some scholars have drawn attention to the plight of the dissidents. The first waves of repression triggered two of those academics in solidarity with the liberation struggles to ask questions about liberation and democracy.

These earlier events were only a prelude to the “spy drama” in the 1980s. This was a chapter of horrendous crimes, mainly committed by a group of PLAN members at the camp in Lubango in southern Angola.




Read more:
Painted messages in Angola’s abandoned liberation army camps offer a rare historical record


Over 1,000 Swapo members were incarcerated in dungeons. Their fate was most likely triggered by setbacks in the border war in southern Angola between the South African army and PLAN units backed by Cuban forces. In 1978, the South African army had attacked a Swapo camp at Cassinga in Angola, killing hundreds of women and children.

Members of the higher ranking Swapo military, the so-called securocrats, blamed spies for the disaster and other military setbacks. They tortured the accused to extract confessions and to implicate others. With no proof of guilt, people were often executed, disappeared or died of neglect in the dungeons. Numbers of the missing with no traces were estimated by the surviving victims at around 2,000.

Victims were, in the main, rank and file Swapo members. That South African spies had most likely penetrated the higher echelons of the movement was ignored.

Some of the victims, like Oiva Angula, have published accounts of their suffering.

Those who pointed out the unfolding terror were dismissed by the international solidarity movement as anti-Swapo propaganda. This included the early revelations by Siegfried Groth, a pastor for the refugees in Zambia. He was blamed for besmirching the image of the freedom fighters.

Glorification of the perpetrators

With the passing on of the first generation of struggle stalwarts, the number of posthumously celebrated heroes increased. Many of the veterans were put to rest in full honour by state funerals.

Hawala passed away aged 89 on 11 August 2025. Until his retirement in 2006 he had been the chief of the defence force.

President Netumbo Nandi-Ndaitwah recognised his

distinguished military service, steadfast leadership and unwavering dedication to the cause of Namibia’s liberation and nation-building. His legacy remains a symbol of courage, patriotism, and commitment to the ideals of freedom and independence.

This triggered a public debate. It brought back memories of heinous crimes in which he played a crucial role. Named the “Butcher of Lubango” by those who survived the ordeal, he was the personification of a brutal and ruthless system targeting those accused of spying and those who dissented with the leadership.

In his defence, a former Swapo MP pointed out that he was merely acting on Swapo’s instructions. People, he argued, “were killed with the knowledge of senior Swapo leaders”, and some of these were already buried at Heroes’ Acre.

Unheroic heroism

The survivors of the dungeons who are still alive were in shock over celebrating Hawala. But as they also pointed out, he personified a system.

I argued along similar lines when I was interviewed about my resignation from Swapo after more than 50 years as a member. Before the announcement that Hawala would get a state funeral I had urged in an article that his death should be an opportunity to finally address the plight of his victims. Instead the blinkers remained.

This motivated my letter of resignation: I had joined Swapo for believing in its slogan “Solidarity, Freedom, Justice”. Out of loyalty to these values and as a matter of – albeit belated – restoration of moral integrity, I had no choice but to depart.

Praising the perpetrators as heroes adds insult to injury to their surviving victims. Such denialism and amnesia lies like a lead cloak over truth and reconciliation. It shows the limits to liberation when Heroes’ Day is celebrated.

The Conversation

Henning Melber was a member of SWAPO from 1974 until August 2025..

ref. Namibia celebrates independence heroes, but glosses over a painful history – https://theconversation.com/namibia-celebrates-independence-heroes-but-glosses-over-a-painful-history-263654

250,000 Ethiopians migrate every year: what drives them and what needs to change

Source: The Conversation – Africa – By Girmachew Adugna, Advisory Board Member, Research Center for Forced Displacement and Migration Studies, Addis Ababa University

Migration is increasingly replacing the traditional, education-focused life paths that shaped previous generations in Ethiopia. In the past, becoming a civil servant after completing secondary and tertiary education was seen as both socially respected and economically rewarding.

Although access to education at all levels has expanded in recent decades, its value has diminished as many graduates struggle to find employment and decent livelihood opportunities. In Ethiopia, individuals under the age of 30 comprise approximately 70% of the total population, and the urban youth unemployment rate stood at around 25.3% as of 2022.

The consequences are often tragic.

Irregular migration involving overcrowded and unseaworthy boats is responsible for a rising number of deaths at sea. In the first six months of 2025 alone, more than 350 migrants lost their lives while attempting the crossing over the Gulf of Aden and Red Sea from the Horn of Africa. A tragic incident on 3 August claimed the lives of around 102 migrants, most of whom were Ethiopian.

I have been studying Ethiopian migration for more than a decade. In this article, I explore why many people choose irregular migration over legal pathways. I also consider what the Ethiopian government should be doing to manage the increasing number of young people choosing to leave the country for work.

Ethiopia serves as a country of origin, transit and destination for migrants. About 250,000 Ethiopians migrate annually.

Given the human toll of irregular migration, more must be done to tackle its root causes.

Based on my research findings, creating decent job opportunities in the country is crucial, so that young people can see a future without the need to leave. At the same time, for those who do wish to migrate, legal pathways must be made more accessible, safer and more efficient.

Equally important is expanding these migration pathways beyond domestic work to include skilled and semi-skilled workers and sectors that typically employ male migrants in destination countries. Those sectors include construction, agriculture and driving.

The drivers

In the early and mid-2000s, young men could migrate legally to Gulf countries. Saudi Arabia was the preferred destination for jobs such as driving and security work. Ethiopia imposed a temporary ban on labour migration to the Gulf countries from late 2013 to early 2018 over reported abuses and deaths. During this period, many individuals migrated through irregular channels, and those patterns became entrenched over time.

The number of women migrants is increasing, however, now accounting for a third of migrants on these routes.

The driving causes of migration from Ethiopia have always been complex. Factors include limited job and livelihood opportunities, conflict and instability, high unemployment, pressure from family and peers, hopes for a better life abroad, and a sense of hopelessness about a decent future at home.

In some parts of the country, a culture of migration has taken root, with migration perceived as a quick and effective way to earn income and generate broader benefits for both migrants and their families. Within these communities, having a family member abroad is increasingly regarded as a symbol of social status.

Lack of opportunities is central. It is evidenced by high youth unemployment and scarcity of quality jobs. Rural poverty, slow industrial development, and obstacles to starting businesses intensify the push factors.




Read more:
Half a million Ethiopian migrants have been deported from Saudi Arabia in 5 years – what they go through


Secondly, the ongoing conflict in the Amhara region and parts of Oromia, and escalating tensions in Tigray have created insecurity and disrupted livelihoods. This makes public services inaccessible and prompts many young people to migrate in search of safety and stability. Young people in conflict-affected regions face a stark reality: either join armed conflicts that seem never-ending or struggle to make a living.

Thirdly, rules set by government that allow Ethiopians to migrate legally have tightened. Standard requirements for applicants involve numerous documents and pre-departure training. The documents include ID cards, passports, educational qualifications, health certificates and a certification of competence. Some of these are not readily accessible for many aspiring migrants. The cost of a passport, for instance, is prohibitive for most. So instead, people are driven to irregular and often perilous migration options.

Legal migration offers limited opportunities. Existing bilateral agreements with Middle Eastern countries primarily cover domestic work, which largely absorbs women.

The routes

The route that has become common over the past decade involves crossing the Red Sea to reach Saudi Arabia through war-torn Yemen. Known as the eastern route, this path is one of the most dangerous, claiming the lives of many young men and women.

Since 2014, the International Organisation for Migration has recorded 76,524 migrant deaths worldwide. Of these, over 1,098 occurred by drowning at sea off Yemen along the eastern route. In 2021, the Ethiopian Central Statistics Service reported that over 51,000 Ethiopian migrants had gone missing after leaving the country in the previous five years.

Ethiopian migration from southern regions to South Africa – known as the southern route – is the second largest irregular migration corridor. The last is the northern route, towards Europe via Sudan, Libya and the Mediterranean Sea.

The answers

Now more than ever, Ethiopia needs to create greater economic opportunities at home. This can be done by expanding opportunities in the agriculture, industrial and service sectors. The government should also support skills training and entrepreneurship together with access to basic services in the countryside.

Secondly, legal pathways must be expanded. This can be done by establishing more bilateral labour agreements. Currently, Ethiopia has agreements with Saudi Arabia, UAE, Jordan, Lebanon and Kuwait. It is close to finalising one with Oman. But these agreements mostly cover domestic work.




Read more:
Young middle-class Nigerians are desperate to leave the country: insights into why


In contrast, the Philippines has signed labour agreements with over 30 countries. These include several European countries and cover a broader range of opportunities.

Third, these agreements must expand the job opportunities that young people can apply for, for example, skilled and semi-skilled jobs in construction, retail and agriculture. This would offer young Ethiopians more diverse employment opportunities abroad.

Legal migration pathways should be streamlined, time-efficient, and accessible to the majority of aspiring migrants. Equally important is the need for targeted, tailored, and comprehensive awareness-raising initiatives at the household, school, and community levels to ensure informed decision-making around migration.

The Conversation

Girmachew Adugna does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

ref. 250,000 Ethiopians migrate every year: what drives them and what needs to change – https://theconversation.com/250-000-ethiopians-migrate-every-year-what-drives-them-and-what-needs-to-change-263465

The Gambia’s new constitution has stalled again – 5 reasons why and what that means for democracy

Source: The Conversation – Africa (2) – By Satang Nabaneh, Director of Programs, Human Rights Center; Research Professor of Law, University of Dayton School of Law, University of Dayton

The Gambia’s post-dictatorship democratic transition recently suffered a setback. The Constitution of the Republic of The Gambia (Promulgation) Bill, 2024 failed to pass its second reading in the national assembly.

Passing the bill required the support of at least 75% of The Gambia’s 58-member parliament, including the speaker. Now, there’s uncertainty over the country’s democratic reforms.

This leaves The Gambia governed by the 1997 constitution drafted under Yahya Jammeh’s military junta. The 1997 constitution was widely seen as a tool for executive overreach. It didn’t have term limits, stalled key democratic reforms and lacked sufficient protection for human rights and democratic principles.

Failure to pass the new constitution is a setback to the “New Gambia” agenda, a campaign promise of the 2016 ruling coalition, which included the drafting of a new constitution and ensuring accountability for past human rights violations, and could lead to renewed political tension.

Proponents hailed the proposed new constitution as a step towards institutionalising checks and balances and strengthening civil liberties. Critics pointed to a lack of transparency, the absence of broad stakeholder consultation, and specific controversial clauses.

Those clauses included the removal of a retroactive presidential term limit, the weakening of checks and balances by reducing parliamentary oversight on appointments, and the potential erosion of judicial independence.

I am a Gambian legal scholar, researcher and human rights practitioner and I have been tracking The Gambia’s journey to solidify its democracy since the dictatorship of Jammeh. In this article, I present five of the most important things to know about this constitutional reform effort and why it failed to advance.

New constitution triggers and why it failed

1. Unfulfilled search for a new foundation:

A truly democratic constitution has been a central promise since the ousting of former president Jammeh in 2017.

An initial 2020 draft, the product of extensive nationwide consultations, also failed to pass. There were disagreements over provisions like retroactive presidential term limits. But the 2024 bill continues to face political and social hurdles.

The 1997 constitution presents a paradoxical approach to democratic governance, particularly in its mechanisms for political transition and constitutional amendment. For example, it has stringent requirements for constitutional change: a three-quarters majority vote from all national assembly members across two readings.

It also requires a national referendum, with 50% voter participation and 75% approval.

A high bar for constitution amendments can protect against impulsive alterations. But it also puts disproportionate power in the hands of a parliamentary super majority. This politicises constitutional reform, making it contingent on party allegiance and strategic manoeuvring rather than a broad national consensus.

An arrangement like the one in The Gambia could hinder the natural evolution of democratic governance and limit the nation’s capacity to adapt its basic law to the changing will of the people.

2. Unresolved concerns over presidential powers:

A key reason the 2024 draft faced such strong opposition related to presidential powers. The 2020 draft sought a two-term limit with a retroactive clause (meaning President Adama Barrow would not be able to run in the 2026 election). But the 2024 draft removed this retroactive counting.

This remained a point of contention, fuelling fears of potential term limit manipulation. More broadly, the bill proposed removing parliamentary oversight for all appointments, including ministers, the Independent Electoral Commission and independent institutions.

It also sought to grant the president more power over national assembly members. These proposals were viewed as undue centralisation of authority and a regression from the 1997 constitution.

3. Unaddressed threats to judicial independence:

The bill’s stated goal of judicial independence was undermined by certain provisions. The 2024 draft removed the requirement that the national assembly confirm the appointment of the chief justice and Supreme Court judges.

It also removed the citizenship requirement for the chief justice. Given The Gambia’s recent history where foreign judges on politically appointed, renewable contracts served as a tool of repression and eroded public trust, these changes therefore raised alarm about judicial impartiality and the erosion of oversight.

The bill left out Chapter V on “Leadership and Integrity” which was in the 2020 draft. This chapter, which outlined a framework for public officer conduct and aimed at combating corruption, was seen as vital for accountability.

4. Contentious provisions on human rights and civil liberties:

While the 2024 draft generally aimed to modernise fundamental rights and introduce additional socio-economic protections, it also contained specific restrictions that human rights advocates criticised. These included an increase in police detention periods from 48 to 72 hours, and perceived limitations on the rights to education, to petition public officials, and to freedom of assembly.

Provisions affecting citizenship by marriage (doubling the waiting period for foreign spouses to gain citizenship) and limiting media ownership and operation to Gambian citizens sparked debates over inclusivity and media freedoms.

These clauses likely contributed to the insufficient votes for the bill to pass.

5. Public fatigue amid the bill’s failure:

The failure of the 2024 constitution draft bill to pass second reading reflects a complex and polarised public discourse. While the government championed the bill as essential for stability and a modern republic, the main opposition, the United Democratic Party, opposed it.

Numerous civil society organisations expressed concerns about the diluted democratic safeguards and expanded presidential powers. In the end, a perceived lack of genuine public participation prevented its advancement.

The way forward

This outcome shows a division among the public. Some are tired of the drawn-out constitutional reform process. They want stability now. Others want to keep pursuing a genuinely transformative constitution.

This division is made worse by widespread disillusionment due to economic hardships and slow progress with various reforms since the post-dictatorship transition began.

The failure of the 2024 bill leaves The Gambia in a state of uncertainty about its foundational legal framework.

As I have noted elsewhere, it’s time for all to commit to an inclusive reform process.

The Conversation

Satang Nabaneh does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

ref. The Gambia’s new constitution has stalled again – 5 reasons why and what that means for democracy – https://theconversation.com/the-gambias-new-constitution-has-stalled-again-5-reasons-why-and-what-that-means-for-democracy-261809

Data that is stored and not used has a carbon footprint. How companies can manage dark data better

Source: The Conversation – Africa (2) – By Hanlie Smuts, Professor and Head of Department, University of Pretoria

In today’s world, huge amounts of data are being created all the time, yet more than half of it is never used. It stays in silos, or isn’t managed, or can’t be accessed because systems change, or isn’t needed because business priorities change. This “dark data” accumulates in servers and storage devices, consuming electricity and inflating the digital carbon footprint.

It may appear harmless, but this growing mass of digital waste has consequences for the environment. Storing unused or obsolete digital data requires constant power for servers and cooling systems. This drives up electricity consumption and greenhouse gas emissions. Dark data alone is estimated to generate over 5.8 million tonnes of CO₂ annually. This is the equivalent of emissions from 1.2 million cars per annum.

Dark data also accelerates e-waste from hardware replacement and depletes resources through manufacturing, such as using recycled raw materials, and water-intensive cooling.

Organisations collect vast volumes of information during routine operations. But it might never be analysed or repurposed. System log files that track user activity, errors and transactions remain untouched after initial storage. We’re talking about every email, photo, video, or unused spreadsheet saved on a server. Think of it like forgotten boxes stored in a warehouse, except this warehouse uses energy all the time. Managing dark data is not only a matter of working efficiently; it is a pressing sustainability issue.

The solution lies partly in effective knowledge management practices.

This means making an effort to reduce the environmental impact of digital systems, particularly those related to data storage and usage. Organisations should collect, manage and retain data with energy consumption and carbon emissions in mind.

My research aimed to find ways to do this. I collected 539 quantitative and qualitative questionnaire responses representing North America at 31.9% (172), followed by Europe at 21.5% (116) and Asia at 19.9% (107). Africa (10.8%) and Australia (9.8%) were represented too, while South America (5.8%) and Antarctica (0.4%) had the smallest shares.

The findings highlighted the need for data governance, data security and continuous learning within organisations. It showed the value of energy efficient information technology practices, centralised knowledge repositories and working across disciplines to address dark data risks.

My research also provided organisations with guidelines to make digital decarbonisation part of the way they operate and make decisions. This would improve organisational efficiency, reduce carbon footprints and promote the reuse of valuable data insights.

The digital dilemma: more data, more emissions

As digital technologies become more embedded in everyday operations, the demand for data storage and processing power surges. Globally, data centres already account for about 2% of greenhouse gas emissions, equal to the environmental impact of the aviation industry. The figure is expected to double by 2030 as digital adoption accelerates.

But dark data isn’t getting much attention. This is because it is mostly unstructured, hidden in legacy systems or backup servers. Information technology and sustainability teams tend to overlook it. It’s expensive to manage and easy to ignore. But it consumes costly storage space and drives up energy bills for powering and cooling servers. It also requires ongoing backup, security and compliance measures despite delivering no business value.

Knowledge management to tidy up dark data

Knowledge management strategies can address the dark data problem. Knowledge management acts like a smart organiser for all the information that organisations hold. It makes it possible to find hidden or forgotten files buried in systems, understand whether the data is useful or outdated, and decide on the best course of action. That can be by turning valuable data into insights or securely deleting what’s no longer needed.

This reduces wasted storage, cuts costs, lowers the environmental impact and ensures that the information kept actually supports better decision-making.

We recommend two things organisations can do: classification and streamlining.

1. Classification: organise, tag, and unlock value

Classification is the first step in bringing order to data chaos. It involves discovering, tagging, categorising and assessing data to determine its relevance and value. Artificial intelligence (AI) and machine learning can help with this.

This approach not only reduces waste, but also unlocks hidden opportunities. For example, previously unused customer feedback data can be analysed for product innovation, or old project documentation can inform new initiatives.

2. Streamlining: stop hoarding, start reducing

Streamlining is about developing leaner, cleaner data environments. It calls for robust data governance, including clear retention policies, regular audits and employee education on digital hygiene. Using AI tools, organisations can identify duplicated, outdated, or irrelevant files and automate their safe deletion.

It’s not just a technical process. It involves cultivating a culture that values purposeful data usage and discourages unnecessary hoarding. When employees understand the environmental cost of unmanaged data, they become more responsible stewards of digital information. The outcome is a more agile, cost-effective and sustainable data ecosystem.

One example of an organisation doing this is the car brand, BMW Group. It’s made digital decarbonisation part of its production processes.

Google has invested in sustainable IT practices, including energy-efficient data storage and processing. The data centres of the company have been carbon-neutral since 2007, and it is working towards running its operations on 100% renewable energy.

Let data work smarter, not harder

Digital sustainability does not demand that organisations do less; it encourages them to do better. Rethinking dark data management is a step towards reducing digital emissions and conserving resources.

Through knowledge management strategies like classification and streamlining, organisations can turn an overlooked liability into a strategic asset.

Data should serve us, not burden us.

The Conversation

Hanlie Smuts does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

ref. Data that is stored and not used has a carbon footprint. How companies can manage dark data better – https://theconversation.com/data-that-is-stored-and-not-used-has-a-carbon-footprint-how-companies-can-manage-dark-data-better-262966

How Nollywood films help Kenyan housemaids make sense of their lives

Source: The Conversation – Africa – By Solomon Waliaula, Associate Professor, Department of Languages, Linguistics and Culture, Maasai Mara University

Nollywood, Nigeria’s prolific video-film industry, has been popular in Kenya since it was introduced to east Africa at around the turn of the century.

These low-budget, high-output films and TV series immediately struck a chord with ordinary people in lower income brackets. Although new Nollywood productions can be slick, high budget affairs, the bulk are not about high production values. They’re about real-life stories and social issues that are easy to relate to.

At first Nollywood films were screened in informal video-halls in poorer Kenyan communities, offering a unique going-to-the-movies experience. But in the first decade of the new millennium, TV stations began screening them. In Kenya, Nollywood was most popularly known as “Afrocinema” on TV, and it was soon a daily affair.




Read more:
Why Nigerians living abroad love to watch Nollywood movies


One of the audiences that has emerged are young women, often in their teens, working in urban Kenyan homes. Known as housemaids, they come from humble and materially deprived backgrounds and occupy a precarious position in the homes they work in. Their daily routine is a blend of domestic chores including childcare, cooking, cleaning and running errands for the family.

Employed through an informal system of social networking and patronage, housemaids don’t necessarily bring any training or experience to their jobs and generally aren’t offered employment contracts. The power is in the hands of the employer and there is little job security.

These young women were the subject of my recent study in the Kenyan city of Eldoret for the book Contemporary African Screen Worlds.

I explored the housemaid’s fandom of Nollywood films, as part of a decade-long study of electronic media audiences in the city.

It became clear that housemaids saw themselves as socially inferior to the families they worked for. Their identity as domestic labourers masked their identity as real people. Their social identity was defined by, and reducible to, their daily job card.

I found that they developed a special relationship with Nollywood cinema. This love of the movies (fandom) offered much more than leisure and companionship. Nollywood stories are a medium through which they could transcend the limits of their situations and aspire to other, more desirable worlds. Nollywood on TV helped them make sense of their lives.

The research

Twelve participants took part in the study, most of them housemaids, some former housemaids. All were drawn from similar neighbourhoods. Research mostly involved observing their working lives along with in-depth, unstructured interviews.

To establish some of the specific lessons the housemaids of Eldoret learnt from Nollywood, I asked each to discuss any two films that they considered as educational. I noted that there were some significant patterns.

The lessons raised were connected to the housemaids’ immediate life experiences, and many of the films mentioned seemed to explore the social impacts of poverty, and how it affects family relationships. The social costs of poverty on the family is a popular Nollywood theme.

Another kind of story that appealed to participants was the Cinderella tale. In these films, the orphaned girl living in abject poverty eventually becomes a princess.




Read more:
The Kenyan film director taking on the world — with positive stories of black life


Dina recalled a film that told the story of a poor woman whose father died and his extended family kicked her and her mother out. They moved to a slum. It so happened that she was actually destined to be a princess, but her father died before telling her the news. Her paternal grandmother eventually tracked her down, to link her up with her prince.

Most of the housemaids I’ve talked to over the years have clearly expressed their admiration for this Cinderella narrative in Nollywood stories. They can project themselves into her situation and use her experience as a source of hope for a better future.

Real life stories

But there were many other ways that housemaid fans of Nollywood said they saw their real lives in the films. One told me:

I used to watch films that presented young women who underwent life experiences that were like mine. But within the stories, their lives turned round, yet mine did not…

But then things changed:

I had reached the very end of my tether when God turned my life around. I met a man in church that proposed to me and we got married two months later. This is when I looked back and realised God had used Nollywood to prepare me for my portion.

She added:

The very first Nollywood film I watched was about a married couple who stayed with the wife’s mother, who ended up taking over her daughter’s husband. But the wife was a prayerful woman, and she consulted her pastor to intercede for their marriage as well. It worked.

True to Nollywood’s often melodramatic form, the mother became mentally deranged, drank a poisonous concoction and died.

I remember many other Nollywood stories that had been about the virtue of patience and waiting for God’s time.

In her case, Nollywood had helped her face her situation for what it was, and, in her view, it helped to keep her positive.

Why this matters

An exploration of the housemaids’ own understanding and use of Nollywood cinema becomes a medium through which to engage with the housemaids’ world – as well as their aspirational identities.

This is a social category of people that occupies a place of absolute subservience and has been forced by circumstances to live invisibly. Electronic media fandom is one of the few avenues where they can momentarily rise above their immediate circumstances.




Read more:
Netflix gives African film a platform – but the cultural price is high


The routine nature of the housemaids’ lives, coupled with limited social interaction and the pressures of long working hours, is a danger to mental health. For them Nollywood fandom served as a healthy antidote.

The Conversation

Solomon Waliaula received funding from the International European Research Council as a contributor to the book Contemporary African Screen Worlds: Decolonizing Film and Screen Studies (2019-2025).

ref. How Nollywood films help Kenyan housemaids make sense of their lives – https://theconversation.com/how-nollywood-films-help-kenyan-housemaids-make-sense-of-their-lives-262059