Category: The Conversation – USA

Source: The Conversation – USA – By Richard Calland, Emeritus Associate Professor in Public Law, UCT. Visiting Adjunct Professor, WITS School of Governance; Director, Africa Programme, University of Cambridge Institute for Sustainability Leadership, University of Cambridge

With the Trump administration slashing US Agency for International Development budgets and European nations shifting overseas development aid budgets to bolster defence spending, the world has entered a “post-aid era”.

But there is an opportunity to recast development finance as strategic investment: “country platforms”.

Country platforms are government-led, nationally owned mechanisms that bring together a country’s climate priorities, investment needs and reform agenda, and align them with the interests of development partners, private investors and implementing agencies. They function as a strategic hub: convening actors, coordinating funding, and curating pipelines of projects for investment.

Think of them as the opposite of donor-driven fragmentation. Instead of dozens of disconnected projects driven by external priorities, a country platform enables governments to set the agenda and direct finance to where it is needed most. That could be renewable energy, climate-smart agriculture, resilient infrastructure, or nature-based solutions.

Country platforms are a current fad. They were the talk of the town at the 2025 Spring meetings of multilateral development banks in Washington DC. Will they quickly fade as the next big new idea comes into view? Or can they escape the limitations and failings of the finance and development aid ecosystem?

The Independent High Level Expert Group on Climate Finance, on which I serve, is striving to find new ways to ramp up finance – both public and private – in quality and quantity. I agree with those who argue that country platforms could be the innovation that unlocks the capital urgently needed to tackle climate overshoot and buttress economic development.

The model is already being tested. More than ten countries have launched their platforms, and more are in the pipeline.

For African countries, the opportunity could not be more timely. African governments are racing to deliver their Nationally Determined Contributions. These are the commitments they’ve made to reduce their greenhouse gas emissions as part of climate change mitigation targets set out in the Paris Agreement. Implementing these plans is often being done under severe fiscal constraints.

At the same time global capital is looking for investment opportunities. But it needs to be convinced that the rewards will outweigh the risks.

Where it’s being tested

In Africa, South Africa’s Just Energy Transition Partnership has demonstrated both the potential and the complexity of a country platform. Egypt and Senegal also have country platforms at different stages of implementation. Kenya and Nigeria are exploring similar mechanisms. The African Union’s Climate Change and Resilient Development Strategy calls for country platforms across the continent.

New entrants can learn from countries that started first.

But country platforms come in different shapes and sizes according to the context.

Another promising example is emerging through Mission 300, an initiative of the World Bank and African Development Bank, working with partners like The Rockefeller Foundation, Global Energy Alliance for People and Planet, and Sustainable Energy for All. It aims to connect 300 million people to clean electricity by 2030.

Central to this initiative are Compact Delivery and Monitoring Units. These are essentially country platforms anchored in electrification. They reflect how a well-structured country platform can make an impact. Twelve African countries are already moving in this direction. All announced their Mission 300 compacts at the Africa Heads of State Summit in Tanzania.

This growing cohort reflects a continental commitment to putting energy-driven country platforms at the heart of Africa’s development architecture.

Why now – and why Africa?

A well-functioning country platform can help in a number of ways.

Firstly, it can give the political and economic leadership a clear goal. The platform can survive elections and show stability, certainty and transparency to the investment world.

Secondly, national ownership and strategic alignment can reduce risk and build confidence. That would encourage investment.

Thirdly, it builds trust among development partners and investors through clear priorities, transparency, and national ownership.

Fourthly, it moves beyond isolated pilot projects to system-level transformation – meaning structural change. The transition in one sector, energy for example, creates new value chains that create more, better and safer jobs. Country platforms put African governments in charge of their own economic development, not as passive recipients of climate finance.

The country sets its investment priorities and then the match-making with international climate finance can begin.

Making it work: what’s needed

Developing the data on which a country bases its investment and development plans, and blending those with the fiscal, climate and nature data, is complex. For this reason country platforms require investment in institutional capacity, cross-ministerial collaboration, and strong coordination between finance ministries, environment agencies and economic planners. And especially, in leadership capability.

African countries must take charge of this capacity and capability acceleration.

Second, development partners can respond by providing money as well as supporting African leadership, aligning with national strategies, and being willing to co-design mechanisms that meet both investor expectations and local realities.

Capacity is especially crucial given the scale of Africa’s needs. According to the African Development Bank, Africa will require over US$200 billion annually by 2030 to meet its climate goals. Donor aid will provide only a fraction of this. It will require smart, coordinated investment and careful debt management. Country platforms provide the structure to govern the process.

Seizing the opportunity

Country platforms represent one of the most promising innovations in climate and development finance architecture. Properly designed and led, they offer African countries the opportunity to take ownership of their climate and development futures – on their own terms.

Country platforms could be the “buckle” that finally enables the supply and demand sides of climate finance to come together. It will require commitment, strategic and technical capability, and, above all, smart leadership.

Richard Calland works for the University of Cambridge Institute for Sustainability Leadership. He is also an Emeritus Associate Professor at the University of Cape Town and an Adjunct Visiting Professor at the University of Witwatersrand School of Governance. He serves on the Advisory Council of the Council for the Advancement of the South African Constitution, Chairs of the Board of Sustainability Education and is a member of the Board of Chapter Zero Southern Africa.

– ref. Development finance in a post-aid world: the case for country platforms – https://theconversation.com/development-finance-in-a-post-aid-world-the-case-for-country-platforms-257994

Source: The Conversation – USA – By Hamza Benattia, Prehistory, Universitat de Barcelona

When people think of ancient burials in North Africa, they often picture Egypt’s pyramids and monuments. But new discoveries show that north-western Africa also has a deep and fascinating prehistoric past.

Morocco’s Tangier Peninsula is particularly interesting. The peninsula sits at Africa’s north-western edge, where the Mediterranean Sea meets the Atlantic Ocean. At just 14 kilometres from Europe across the Strait of Gibraltar, this area has long been a natural crossroads between continents and cultures.

I’m an archaeologist and PhD student who specialises in north Africa’s later prehistoric periods, between 3800 BC and 500 BC. My research explores how ancient communities responded to environmental changes, and how they moved and connected with other communities across regions.

The assumption to date has been that the Tangier Peninsula was uninhabited and isolated in late prehistoric times. As part of my PhD research I wanted to explore whether this was true, or whether the area had simply been overlooked by previous archaeological work.

Through the Kach Kouch and Tahadart Archaeological Projects, we studied both the Atlantic and Mediterranean zones of the peninsula.

Our goal was to revisit the region using modern archaeological methods and technologies, including radiocarbon dating. To understand how this region may have been connected to the wider world in prehistoric times, we used Geographic Information System software to model possible ancient communication routes and surveyed the landscape through satellite and drone imagery. At a later stage, alongside a team of early career Moroccan archaeologists from the National Institute of Archaeology and Heritage, we carried out field surveys and excavations.

What we discovered exceeded all expectations. Far from being empty and isolated, the Tangier Peninsula is filled with evidence that people lived, died and held ceremonies there over thousands of years.

Our hope is that our findings will reframe north-western Africa as a cultural crossroads that has connected regions for thousands of years. This region could reshape our understanding of later prehistory across the Atlantic and Mediterranean worlds.

A prehistoric ritual and funerary landscape

Our study, published in African Archaeological Review, presents the discovery of dozens of new archaeological sites, including prehistoric burials, rock art sites and standing stones.

Until now, research on rock art and burials in north Africa focused on areas like the Nile Valley, the Sahara or the Atlas Mountains. Our discoveries reveal that Morocco’s north-western coast was a major cultural hub in the Bronze Age, over 4,000 years ago.

The diversity of burial practices, ritual sites, symbolic rock art and unique megalithic monuments reflect a rich prehistoric heritage that transcends modern geographic, political and cultural boundaries. It also highlights the longstanding exchanges and contacts of this region with the Mediterranean, the Atlantic and the Sahara.

One of the most remarkable sites we excavated is at Daroua Zaydan, near modern-day Tangier. There we uncovered a cist burial, a small stone chamber made from four upright stone slabs covered by a larger stone slab. A crescent-shaped arrangement of stones likely marked the access to the burial chamber.

Although the grave had been looted in the past, we recovered several human bones outside the cist. One of them was radiocarbon dated to 2118–1890 BC. This date aligns with similar burial traditions across the Strait of Gibraltar in Iberia, and with Early Bronze Age settlement activity at Kach Kouch, about 65km south-east of Daroua Zaydan.

Cist cemeteries had been documented in the region before, but most were excavated during the early to mid-20th century. At the time, archaeologists didn’t have the methods that can now shed light on important details such as how they were built and when they were used. Daroua Zaydan marks the first radiocarbon-dated cist burial in north-west Africa.

Monuments, ritual deposits and Atlantic connections

Our findings suggest the existence of a complex prehistoric ritual landscape at the Tangier Peninsula. This landscape was likely connected to other areas of the Atlantic and Mediterranean through a shared ritual and symbolic “language”.

One clue is a Bronze Age sword found in the 1920s in the Loukkos river. It was likely made in Britain or Ireland and may have arrived in Africa through Atlantic exchange networks. The sword was likely deliberately thrown to the river — a ritual practice documented along rivers in Atlantic Europe. This suggests that communities in northern Morocco were part of a broader cultural and symbolic world that connected the late prehistoric Atlantic.

Another example is the stone circle at Mzoura, made up of 176 standing stones. This site, excavated in the 1930s, is unique in north Africa. But it closely resembles other stone circles in Atlantic Europe like Stonehenge. During our fieldwork we also discovered new standing stones and rock art, located along prehistoric communication routes. This suggests they may have been used as territorial markers or ritual sites.

Before our research, a single painted rock shelter, that of Magara Sanar, was known in north-western Morocco. We have now documented 17 painted and 5 engraved rock shelters.

The variety of symbols and scenes includes dotted patterns, geometric lines and human-shaped figures. They suggest strong links to Iberian, Atlantic and Saharan prehistoric art.

Why this matters

Our research does more than just fill a blank spot on the archaeological map. It opens up new avenues for archaeological exploration in the region. The Tangier Peninsula is home to a rich and largely undocumented late prehistoric heritage. It deserves more attention from researchers, policymakers and the wider public.

Further protection measures are necessary as the region is undergoing rapid urban development. Tourism is growing and there’s been extensive looting. We hope our work will lead to more archaeological investigations, including new excavations and radiocarbon dating of key sites.

Hamza Benattia, director of the Tahadart Archaeological Project, received funding from the National Institute of Archaeology and Heritage of Morocco (INSAP), the Prehistoric Society Research Fund, the Stevan B. Dana Grant of the American Society of Overseas Research, the Mediterranean Archaeological Trust Grant, the Barakat Trust Early Career Award, the Centre Jacques Berque Research Grant, the Institute of Ceutan Studies Research Fund and the University of Castilla La Mancha.

– ref. Rock art and tomb discoveries in Morocco reveal ancient connections to the wider world – https://theconversation.com/rock-art-and-tomb-discoveries-in-morocco-reveal-ancient-connections-to-the-wider-world-256931

Source: The Conversation – USA – By Rick de Villiers, Associate professor, University of the Free State

At last, the most infamous latecomer in all of literature has arrived – not in the flesh, but in South Africa’s Afrikaans language. Irish playwright Samuel Beckett’s best-known drama, Waiting for Godot, now also lives as Ons Wag vir Godot.

Published and staged in 2024, the translation was inspired by the official centenary of Afrikaans in 2025.

As a Beckett scholar, I think it’s worth asking why Afrikaans is so late on the scene – and why it matters.

Godot in many tongues

First written in French, En attendant Godot was published in 1952 and debuted on stage the next year.

The action involves two tramps, Vladimir and Estragon, who have a series of absurd conversations and encounters as they wait for a man called Godot who never arrives. Beckett would self-translate the drama into English in 1954, calling it “a tragicomedy in two acts”.

Since then, translations of the play have exploded. By 1969 – the year of Beckett’s Nobel Prize for Literature – Waiting for Godot could already be read in dozens of languages, including Albanian, Marathi, and even Icelandic.

Samuel Beckett and South Africa

Beckett’s connections with South Africa are surprisingly varied. As a young man, he unsuccessfully applied for a lectureship at the University of Cape Town. His 1951 novel, Molloy, was translated from French into English with the help of a South African student, Patrick Bowles. And in 1968, Beckett made a donation to the then-banned resistance party, the African National Congress, in the form of a manuscript for auction.

This gesture was unprecedented for the Irish writer, who was wary of political causes. Yet not only did Beckett feel strongly enough about apartheid’s injustices to make this donation, he also refused to let anyone perform his plays before South Africa’s racially segregated audiences.

Read more:
The case of the acclaimed South African novel that ‘borrows’ from Samuel Beckett

Already in 1963 Beckett had signed the petition Playwrights Against Apartheid. He would continue to refuse performance rights in South Africa until 1980, when the Baxter Theatre was allowed to stage Waiting for Godot with a racially integrated cast.

Nevertheless, unauthorised Godots materialised before this. Athol Fugard, the South African playwright whose own dramas were influenced by Beckett, directed one of the earliest South African productions in 1962. Featuring an all-black cast, it testified to the play’s political charge, which Fugard emphasised:

Vladimir and Estragon … were at Sharpeville or the first in at Auschwitz.

It’s reasonable to think that Beckett would have supported this protest performance. But he would probably have denounced the first and unofficial Afrikaans version, Afspraak met Godot, translated by Suseth Brits and performed in 1970 at the Potchefstroom University College (now North-West University) behind closed doors.

For different reasons, Beckett would also have frowned on the substantial “borrowings” in Afrikaans novelist Willem Anker’s 2014 novel, Buys.

Domesticating a European classic

Fully sanctioned by Beckett’s estate and beautifully translated (from the French and English) by now-retired professor of French at the University of the Free State Naòmi Morgan, Ons Wag vir Godot arrives at a different moment altogether.

The translation retains the gallows humour of the original while adding local flavour. For instance, where Vladimir originally names the Eiffel Tower as a picturesque site to commit suicide, his Afrikaans counterpart nominates Van Stadensbrug, a bridge over a ravine in the Eastern Cape. The slave-like Lucky once entertained his master with European dances: “the farandole, the fling, the brawl, the jig, the fandango”. These now become a South African mix: “volkspele, die riel, die pantsula, selfs die horrelpyp” (folk games, riel dance, pantsula dance, a hiding).

In translation-speak, Ons Wag vir Godot is therefore fully “domesticated”: the play’s universality comes through even though – and perhaps even more so because – it’s anchored in a particular place and time.

This struck me when I attended the play’s limited-run production, expertly directed by Dion van Niekerk, at the 2024 Vrystaat Kunstefees (Free State arts festival). Its set managed to thread together subtle South African roadside details: a toppled rubbish bin, pylons on the horizon, a (broken) picnic bench.

In the text itself, we encounter familiar place names, sayings and cultural clues. Consider how Beckett’s abstract phrase “the essential doesn’t change” is grounded in African mythology: “Jakkals verander van hare, maar nie van streke nie” (The leopard doesn’t change its spots). Then there’s the charming touch of the dog in Vladimir’s song snatching “’n stukkie wors” (a piece of sausage particular to South Africa) rather than a measly “bone”.

Godot and the Afrikaans canon

Ons Wag vir Godot achieves its most profound tribute to Beckett and Afrikaans through its intertextual richness. Both the French and English originals are highly allusive texts: they invoke other works of literature to increase their range of meaning and subtlety. Morgan is attuned to this subtlety and to the parallels to be found in Afrikaans literature. There are references to works by canonical Afrikaans writers like Eugène Marais, Totius and C.J. Langenhoven, each adding its own resonance.

Read more:
Koos Prinsloo: the cult Afrikaans writer has been translated to English – here’s a review

Yet the dilemma any translator faces is not so much in bringing in the new, but in striking a balance with the old. Consider the judicious swapping of a line from Percy Bysshe Shelley for a line from C. Louis Leipoldt.

In the English version, Estragon looks up forlornly at the moon and half-quotes the English Romantic poet: “Pale for weariness … Of climbing heaven and staring on the likes of us.” In the Afrikaans, he gives us a fragment from the wistful poem, Die Moormansgat: “ek kyk na die lig van die volle silwermaan” (I behold the light of the full silver moon). At face value, this lacks the detached, woeful quality of Shelley’s line. But read in the context of Leipoldt’s poem, it is every bit as poignant.

The virtue of waiting

“Vladimir would agree,” Morgan concludes in the preface to her translation, “that a century is a decent amount of time to hone a language for the translation of one of the best-known dramas in world literature”.

Read more:
Animal Farm has been translated into Shona – why a group of Zimbabwean writers undertook the task

And indeed, the riches of the Afrikaans language are on display in this sensitive, witty and allusive rendering of Beckett’s European classic. But it’s also true that a certain amount of political baggage had to be shaken off before such a feat could be realised – not just in the right words, but in the right spirit. Of course, if Beckett’s play teaches us anything, it’s the virtue of waiting.

Rick de Villiers 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. Waiting for Godot has been translated into Afrikaans: what took so long – https://theconversation.com/waiting-for-godot-has-been-translated-into-afrikaans-what-took-so-long-257345

Source: The Conversation – USA – By Andreana Prichard, Associate Professor of Honors and African History, University of Oklahoma

In the world of international child development and orphan care, it’s not uncommon for children with families to declare themselves orphans. In fact, this practice can be traced back to precolonial times in Kenya.

Andreana Prichard has done research on the practice in Kenya. We asked her to share her insights into it.

Why do some people in Kenya assume the identity of ‘orphan’?

We often think of “orphans” as children who have lost both parents and who lack kin networks. One might ask why someone would “opt in” to orphan status when they do not fall within the classical definition of the term.

In my paper I look at the issue of orphanhood over the last 160 years. Case studies from Kenya I examine illustrate that the practice I define as “opting in” to orphanhood has precolonial roots. I define “opting in” as choosing to take on the label of being an orphan. This can be done by parents, relatives or even, in some instances, the child. This is because the label “orphan” has come to confer unique opportunities.

The practice became increasingly popular in the mid-1990s, when parents in eastern and southern Africa who had contracted HIV began to die in large numbers. Activists feared many children would be left without caregivers.

In response, the number of orphanages proliferated as humanitarian actors, churches and states inundated east Africa with orphan-focused NGOs.

In 2020, officials in Kenya estimated that there were at least 910 residential institutions for children in the country (of which 581 were registered), housing between 26,198 and 85,733 Kenyan children.

The predicted “orphan crisis” never materialised, partly because families and communities stepped in to care for newly parentless children. But the idea of an “orphan crisis” remained, and so did the funding and infrastructure.

This phenomenon occurred across the continent, not just in Kenya. However, its effects were felt particularly acutely in eastern and southern Africa where HIV/Aids prevalence rates were higher and where there was more western tourism.

Today, many African families see orphan-focused NGOs as a path to access education and improve their lives. My research shows that children themselves sometimes affiliate with an institution that provides shelter, food and schooling. Children facing abuse from caregivers may also prefer the relative anonymity and safety of an institution.

In some cases, receiving orphan services actually raises the status of the “orphan” child above that of other children. They have access to more material resources than they might have had in their villages or at home. They might have more leisure time and less work. They may have access to better bedding, shoes and clothing. They are also likely able to attend school more consistently and have a real opportunity to attend university.

Does ‘opting in’ have a long history?

Yes, it does.

In the precolonial period, most parentless or vulnerable children were cared for through lasting community support systems. Orphanhood, as it exists today as a child lacking support, protection, or care from kin, was largely avoided.

However, the late 19th to mid-20th centuries brought new actors to the east African region. The practice of “opting in” became a strategic, temporary option used by families to access services from western humanitarians.

The earliest example of this shift I found in my research is from the 1890s. Fearing their children would be caught in the Indian Ocean slave trade, African parents sometimes chose to send their children to British missions until the region was safe. They knew the missionaries opposed the slave trade and knew they offered food and medical care.

African parents thought they were making temporary arrangements to keep their children safe. Missionaries, however, understood parents to have abandoned their children. When parents returned to repay the debt – with agricultural produce or trade goods – and to reclaim their children, missionaries refused them.

In another example from Kenya in the 1950s, the British colonial government opened “reform schools” for young men. The Wamumu Approved School was renowned for the relative quality of education it provided. But the state admitted only the “most vulnerable” for a free education. Feeling they had no way to access Wamumu, students claimed to be orphans.

What have been the negative effects of Kenya’s orphan system?

There are several problems with creating a situation in which people present themselves as vulnerable just to gain safety or improve their social and economic standing.

First, research has shown that building orphanages in poor communities incentivises parents to abandon their children if they’re not also given the help to remain together.

Second, research shows that children are often put at risk in these institutions. Institutionalisation exposes children to risks such as sexual abuse, gender-based violence and neglect.

Third, orphanages have become so lucrative that African orphanage owners will go to great lengths to fit African children into the categories westerners wish to fund. The phenomenon of “paper orphans” is a prime example. “Paper orphans” are children who are recruited from their homes by proprietors (or middlemen/brokers) of orphanages and residential-care facilities. Fraudulent documentation is created for them – often including false death certificates of parents and new identity registration documents – rendering them orphans on paper, and vulnerable in practice.

What should be done?

Governments in Europe, Central Asia, Latin America and the Caribbean are trying to phase out orphanages, as are some African countries.

Based on my research I believe that working with families to support vulnerable children in their homes of origin or with extended families is a better option. This can be done through assistance programmes for vulnerable families as well as child welfare programmes. These allow families to remain intact when experiencing hardship.

Kenya is taking steps to do this by replacing orphanages and other forms of residential children’s homes with family-based, foster and community-based care and other forms of assistance. Family strengthening approaches include positive parenting instruction, life skills training, and income-generating activities, as well as supportive supervision.

In addition to this, missionary and voluntourism trips to orphanages and residential care facilities should be banned or limited.

Andreana Prichard received funding from the Fulbright-Hays Doctoral Dissertation Research Abroad Grant.

– ref. Choosing to be an orphan: for some Kenyan families it’s a strategy for survival – https://theconversation.com/choosing-to-be-an-orphan-for-some-kenyan-families-its-a-strategy-for-survival-247371

Source: The Conversation – USA – By Tinashe Mushakavanhu, Research Associate, University of Oxford

In southern Africa townships were built as segregated urban zones for black people. They were created under colonial and white minority rule policies that controlled movement, confined opportunity, and kept people apart.

I grew up in a different historic black township in Zimbabwe, but Mbare was the first of its kind. It holds a unique place in the nation’s imagination.

Mbare was originally named Harare. But in 1982 that name was reassigned to the capital city that houses it. In its storied past, it was once the heartbeat of black urban life. At its centre is Rufaro Stadium, where Bob Marley and the Wailers famously performed at Zimbabwe’s independence celebrations.

The township was a hub of cultural energy, sports, and political activism, and the community beer hall served as a vital gathering point. Today, many of these beer halls stand derelict.

These once-thriving communal spaces reflect a broader neglect of civic infrastructure in post-independence Zimbabwe. Yet out of these ruins, new life is taking shape.

One of the most influential figures in Zimbabwe’s artist-run spaces movement, Moffat Takadiwa, has transformed one of these former beer halls into the Mbare Art Space. The dynamic arts hub reclaims the building’s original spirit of gathering, creativity and public engagement.

Operating under a long lease from the Harare City Council, this nonprofit initiative is part of a wider urban renewal and adaptive reuse project aimed at reimagining the city’s cultural infrastructure.

My ongoing work in archival research includes mapping and visiting historical and cultural spaces like this. Here Takadiwa saw the potential for not just studios and an exhibition venue, but also for dialogue and community regeneration.

Transforming spaces

Beer halls were established by British colonial authorities in Zimbabwe (then Rhodesia) as part of a strategy of social control over the African urban population. They were designed to regulate leisure, restrict political organising and generate revenue through the sale of alcohol. By centralising drinking in state-run facilities, colonial administrators aimed to monitor and contain African social life while profiting from it.

Situated in a repurposed colonial-era beer garden, Mbare Art Space turns a former site of segregation into a vibrant centre of artistic and communal revival. It redefines a legacy of constraint and control as one of creative freedom and empowerment. The place is now an artists’ haven with studios, office space, an exhibition hall and a digital hub.

Takadiwa’s vision is informed by global precedents, notably inspired by US artist Theaster Gates, whose work includes the transformation of a derelict bank on Chicago’s South Side. It became the Stony Island Arts Bank – a hybrid space for art, archives and community engagement.

Takadiwa opened Mbare Art Space in 2019 with a vision to support emerging artists through mentorship and access to resources. True to his artistic philosophy – resurrecting abandoned, often overlooked materials suffering the effects of urban decay – he revitalised a neglected site. Most of the artists working from this space follow his lead, upcycling and recycling found materials into compelling visual forms that speak to both history and possibility.

When I arrive, Takadiwa is on his way out, but offers me a quick tour of his studio, where works in progress for his upcoming participation in the São Paulo Biennale are taking shape.

Known for his lush, densely layered sculptures and tapestry-like works made from found objects – computer keyboards, bottle tops, toothbrushes, and toothpaste tubes – Takadiwa has garnered international acclaim. His works are collected by US rapper Jay-Z and major institutions like the Centre National d’Art Plastique in Paris, the European Parliament’s art collection in Brussels, and the National Gallery of Zimbabwe in Harare.

Collaboration

What Takadiwa is building is not just an arts centre – it’s a new model space rooted in history and responsive to the present. The site itself becomes an ongoing installation, activated by the artists, curators and community members who inhabit it.

Tafadzwa Chimbumu, the operations manager, takes over the tour, guiding me through the rest of the precinct. The site retains the bones of its beer hall architecture, but it bursts with new life. Colourful murals adorn the walls. Tents draped over smaller buildings animate the exposed brickwork.

Plans are underway to establish a library here, a resource where researchers and artists can engage with Zimbabwe’s under-documented art history. Much of this history is scattered across archives and unpublished dissertations, rather than in widely available books. The aim is to bring these materials together and make them more accessible to the public.

Mbare Art Space is also becoming an exciting hub for collaboration and education. Community workshops, for example, are led by resident artists. Local schools take part in art education initiatives. Through community outreach and educational programming, the centre is extending its impact beyond its immediate geography.

As it looks to the future, Mbare Art Space is focused on expanding its artist-in-residence programme, inviting both local and international artists to immerse themselves in the context of Mbare and Zimbabwe.

Ultimately, what the space offers is something intangible – a feeling, a memory, a vision of what is possible when history and imagination meet in a shared place.

Tinashe Mushakavanhu 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. Mbare Art Space: a colonial beer hall in Zimbabwe has become a vibrant arts centre – https://theconversation.com/mbare-art-space-a-colonial-beer-hall-in-zimbabwe-has-become-a-vibrant-arts-centre-256528

Source: The Conversation – USA – By Anette Hoffmann, Senior Researcher at the Institute for African Studies and Egyptology, University of Cologne

During the first world war (1914-1918) thousands of African men enlisted to fight for France and Britain were captured and held as prisoners in Germany. Their stories and songs were recorded and archived by German linguists, who often didn’t understand a thing they were saying.

Now a recent book called Knowing by Ear listens to these recordings alongside written sources, photographs and artworks to reveal the lives and political views of these colonised Africans from present-day Senegal, Somalia, Togo and Congo.

Anette Hoffmann is a historian whose research and curatorial work engages with historical sound archives. We asked her about her book.

How did these men come to be recorded?

About 450 recordings with African speakers were made with linguists of the so-called Royal Prussian Phonographic Commission. Their project was opportunistic. They made use of the presence of prisoners of war to further their research.

In many cases these researchers didn’t understand what was being said. The recordings were archived as language samples, yet most were never used, translated, or even listened to for decades.

The many wonderful translators I have worked with over the years are often the first listeners who actually understood what was being said by these men a century before.

What did they talk about?

The European prisoners the linguists recorded were often asked to tell the same Bible story (the parable of the prodigal son). But because of language barriers, African prisoners were often simply asked to speak, tell a story or sing a song.

We can hear some men repeating monotonous word lists or counting, but mostly they spoke of the war, of imprisonment and of the families they hadn’t seen for years.

In the process we hear speakers offer commentary. Senegalese prisoner Abdoulaye Niang, for example, calls Europe’s battlefields an abattoir for the soldiers from Africa. Others sang of the war of the whites, or speak of other forms of colonial exploitation.

When I began working on colonial-era sound archives about 20 years ago, I was stunned by what I heard from African speakers, especially the critique and the alternative versions of colonial history. Often aired during times of duress, such accounts seldom surface in written sources.

Clearly, many speakers felt safe to say things because they knew that researchers couldn’t understand them. The words and songs have travelled decades through time yet still sound fresh and provocative.

Can you highlight some of their stories?

The book is arranged around the speakers. Many of them fought in the French army in Europe after being conscripted or recruited in former French colonies, like Abdoulaye Niang. Other African men got caught up in the war and were interned as civilian prisoners, like Mohamed Nur from Somalia, who had lived in Germany from 1911. Joseph Ntwanumbi from South Africa was a stoker on a ship that had docked in Hamburg soon after the war started.

In chapter one Niang sings a song about the French army’s recruitment campaign in Dakar and also informs the linguists that the inmates of the camp in Wünsdorf, near Berlin, do not wish to be deported to another camp.

An archive search reveals he was later deported and also that Austrian anthropologists measured his body for racial studies.

His recorded voice speaking in Wolof travelled back home in 2024, as a sound installation I created for the Théodore Monod African Art Museum in Dakar.

Chapter two listens to Mohamed Nur from Somalia. In 1910 he went to Germany to work as a teacher to the children of performers in a so-called Völkerschau (an ethnic show; sometimes called a human zoo, where “primitive” cultures were displayed).

After refusing to perform on stage, he found himself stranded in Germany without a passport or money. He worked as a model for a German artist and later as a teacher of Somali at the University of Hamburg. Nur left a rich audio-visual trace in Germany, which speaks of the exploitation of men of colour in German academia as well as by artists. One of his songs comments on the poor treatment of travellers and gives a plea for more hospitality to strangers.

Stephan Bischoff, who grew up in a German mission station in Togo and was working in a shoe shop in Berlin when the war began, appears in the third chapter. His recordings criticise the practices of the Christian colonial evangelising mission. He recalls the destruction of an indigenous shrine in Ghana by German military in 1913.

Also in chapter three is Albert Kudjabo, who fought in the Belgian army before he was imprisoned in Germany. He mainly recorded drum language, a drummed code based on a tonal language from the Democratic Republic of Congo that German linguists were keen to study. He speaks of the massive socio-cultural changes that mining brought to his home region, which may have caused him to migrate.

Together these songs, stories and accounts speak of a practice of extracting knowledge in prisoner of war camps. But they offer insights and commentary far beyond the “example sentences” that the recordings were meant to be.

Why do these sound archives matter?

As sources of colonial history, the majority of the collections in European sound archives are still untapped, despite the growing scholarly and artistic interest in them in the last decade. This interest is led by decolonial approaches to archives and knowledge production.

Sound collections diversify what’s available as historical texts, they increase the variety of languages and genres that speak of the histories of colonisation. They present alternative accounts and interpretations of history to offer a more balanced view of the past.

Anette Hoffmann 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. African prisoners made sound recordings in German camps in WW1: this is what they had to say – https://theconversation.com/african-prisoners-made-sound-recordings-in-german-camps-in-ww1-this-is-what-they-had-to-say-254127

Source: – By Relebohiseng Matubatuba, Lecturer in Marketing, University of the Witwatersrand

The shortage of blood for medical use is a global challenge. South Africa is not exempt. Blood collection organisations such as the South African National Blood Service struggle to meet the demand for blood products, because of insufficient blood donations and the scarcity of loyal blood donors.

Blood collection organisations rely on the goodwill of a few individuals who voluntarily donate blood. To maintain a sustainable supply of blood, the World Health Organization (WHO) has recommended that at least 1% of a country’s population donate blood. In South Africa the donation rate is below this.

There are two blood collection organisations in South Africa – the Western Cape Blood Service operates exclusively in the Western Cape province while the South African National Blood Service, operates in the other eight provinces of the country.

To increase the numbers, the country’s blood donation organisations have focused on the recruitment of new donors and awareness initiatives, using research findings that look at what motivates, and what deters, people from donating blood. But little focus has been put on the behaviour of those who already donate.

Read more:
Blood donation saves lives but few South Africans are regular donors

I have conducted research in a bid to fill this gap. In a recent paper I examined factors influencing consumers’ intention to donate blood. In addition, in my recently completed PhD, I looked at the retention of existing blood donors and what drives their donation behaviour.

The research suggests that blood collection organisations need to shift focus from acquiring new blood donors to building relationships with existing blood donors. Existing donors are an important cohort because they are reliable, and have higher donation eligibility and lower recruitment costs.

The aim should be to drive loyalty.

I considered the use of technology to encourage people to donate blood regularly. I concluded from my findings that blood collection organisations should customise appeals to various types of donors. They need to appeal to people in a personalised way if they want to drive loyalty.

The drivers

To understand what drives donor loyalty, it was important to understand why people donate blood.

As part of my research, 658 blood donors completed the survey and I conducted interviews with 18 blood donors. The interviews revealed various reasons for donating blood. These included:

• Awareness of the importance of donating blood

As one participant in my research put it:

I’ve been in and out of hospital for my kids and for my wife when she was pregnant. If I don’t donate, where are they going to get that blood from?

• Contribution to society – saving or changing someone’s life

This was articulated by one person:

I’m past the point of only going for a reward, but I actually want to go, because I want to save someone’s life and do good in the community.

• Moral responsibility

As one participant put it:

When I don’t donate blood, I feel bad because, as a universal donor, I could potentially be saving lives as my blood is not limited, as opposed to other groups.

• Health-related benefits, like free health checks and the requirement to live a healthy lifestyle

• Incentives

The gifts make me feel appreciated. It makes me want to donate more and more.

Beyond just donating blood, some donors also expressed that they shared their blood donation experiences with their friends, family, co-workers and on their social media platforms to encourage others to donate.

The use of technology

Findings from my PhD show that donors would like personalised communication from the blood collection organisations. This should include:

• sharing information about blood donation achievements specific to them (the donor)

• checking up on the donors who are not donating as they used to or may have stopped donating

• following up on deferred donors to encourage them to return for a checkup and subsequent donation. Deferred donors are those who were unable to donate during a donation drive because they didn’t meet the donation requirements (for example they had low iron levels).

• reminding donors of their upcoming donations.

Others shared that they would like more interactive communication beyond being told that they have saved three lives after donating blood. This could include sharing specific information about the impact of the donors donation – “your donation helped a cancer patient recover” – and stories to make their contribution more tangible.

What needs to be done

Research has shown that digital technologies have been used successfully to foster customer engagement, enhance customer experiences and satisfaction, facilitate communication and information-sharing, and offer opportunities to shape and influence behaviour. To achieve this, donor organisations have large amounts of donor data and other data (big data) which they can use to gain insights that can be used in the following ways.

Firstly, they should analyse donor data to identify patterns and segment donors based on factors such as how long an individual has been donating, donation frequency, blood type, location, and preferred communication channels.

This information can be used to tailor communication and engagement strategies to specific donor groups. Donors follow different donor paths over time and cannot be viewed as a single segment.

Secondly, organisations should monitor donation trends over time. This will help to understand seasonal fluctuations, identify peak donation periods, and anticipate potential donor needs. These insights can be used to plan targeted recruitment campaigns and allocate resources.

Read more:
Explainer: what are blood groups and why do they matter?

Thirdly, organisations should consider personalised communication. This could include:

• Targeted nudging: timely and relevant communication, like reminders for upcoming donation appointments, personalised thank-you messages, information about the donation they have made or invitations to special donor events.

• Multi-channel engagement: reaching donors through their preferred communication channels, such as email, SMS, or social media.

• Loyalty programmes: rewarding frequent donors with exclusive merchandise, discounts or special recognition, based on individual donor preferences and donation history.

• Gamification: using game-like elements to make communication and the donation process more engaging and fun, using challenges, leaderboards and badges to motivate donors and foster a sense of community.

• Predictive analytics: using data history and past events to establish donor patterns and predicts future outcomes. This data can be used to identify donors who might lapse and reach out to them with personalised communication.

Relebohiseng Matubatuba 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. South Africans don’t donate enough blood – technology can help drive the numbers – https://theconversation.com/south-africans-dont-donate-enough-blood-technology-can-help-drive-the-numbers-251827

Source: – By Thompson Gyedu Kwarkye, Postdoctoral Researcher, University College Dublin

Artificial intelligence (AI) is increasing productivity and pushing the boundaries of what’s possible. It powers self-driving cars, social media feeds, fraud detection and medical diagnoses. Touted as a game changer, it is projected to add nearly US$15.7 trillion to the global economy by the end of the decade.

Africa is positioned to use this technology in several sectors. In Ghana, Kenya and South Africa, AI-led digital tools in use include drones for farm management, X-ray screening for tuberculosis diagnosis, and real-time tracking systems for packages and shipments. All these are helping to fill gaps in accessibility, efficiency and decision-making.

However, it also introduces risks. These include biased algorithms, resource and labour exploitation, and e-waste disposal. The lack of a robust regulatory framework in many parts of the continent increases these challenges, leaving vulnerable populations exposed to exploitation. Limited public awareness and infrastructure further complicate the continent’s ability to harness AI responsibly.

What are African countries doing about it?
To answer this, my research mapped out what Ghana and Rwanda had in place as AI policies and investigated how these policies were developed. I looked for shared principles and differences in approach to governance and implementation.

The research shows that AI policy development is not a neutral or technical process but a profoundly political one. Power dynamics, institutional interests and competing visions of technological futures shape AI regulation.

I conclude from my findings that AI’s potential to bring great change in Africa is undeniable. But its benefits are not automatic. Rwanda and Ghana show that effective policy-making requires balancing innovation with equity, global standards with local needs, and state oversight with public trust.

The question is not whether Africa can harness AI, but how and on whose terms.

How they did it

Rwanda’s National AI Policy emerged from consultations with local and global actors. These included the Ministry of ICT and Innovation, the Rwandan Space Agency, and NGOs like the Future Society, and the GIZ FAIR Forward. The resulting policy framework is in line with Rwanda’s goals for digital transformation, economic diversification and social development. It includes international best practices such as ethical AI, data protection, and inclusive AI adoption.

Ghana’s Ministry of Communication, Digital Technology and Innovations conducted multi-stakeholder workshops to develop a national strategy for digital transformation and innovation. Start-ups, academics, telecom companies and public-sector institutions came together and the result is Ghana’s National Artificial Intelligence Strategy 2023–2033.

Both countries have set up or plan to set up Responsible AI offices. This aligns with global best practices for ethical AI. Rwanda focuses on local capacity building and data sovereignty. This reflects the country’s post-genocide emphasis on national control and social cohesion. Similarly, Ghana’s proposed office focuses on accountability, though its structure is still under legislative review.

Ghana and Rwanda have adopted globally recognised ethical principles like privacy protection, bias mitigation and human rights safeguards. Rwanda’s policy reflects Unesco’s AI ethics recommendations and Ghana emphasises “trustworthy AI”.

Both policies frame AI as a way to reach the UN’s Sustainable Development Goals. Rwanda’s policy targets applications in healthcare, agriculture, poverty reduction and rural service delivery. Similarly, Ghana’s strategy highlights the potential to advance economic growth, environmental sustainability and inclusive digital transformation.

Key policy differences

Rwanda’s policy ties data control to national security. This is rooted in its traumatic history of identity-based violence. Ghana, by contrast, frames AI as a tool for attracting foreign investment rather than a safeguard against state fragility.

The policies also differ in how they manage foreign influence. Rwanda has a “defensive” stance towards global tech powers; Ghana’s is “accommodative”. Rwanda works with partners that allow it to follow its own policy. Ghana, on the other hand, embraces partnerships, viewing them as the start of innovation.

While Rwanda’s approach is targeted and problem-solving, Ghana’s strategy is expansive, aiming for large-scale modernisation and private-sector growth. Through state-led efforts, Rwanda focuses on using AI to solve immediate challenges such as rural healthcare access and food security. In contrast, Ghana looks at using AI more widely – in finance, transport, education and governance – to become a regional tech hub.

Constraints and solutions

The effectiveness of these AI policies is held back by broader systemic challenges. The US and China dominate in setting global standards, so local priorities get sidelined. For example, while Rwanda and Ghana advocate for ethical AI, it’s hard for them to hold multinational corporations accountable for breaches.

Energy shortages further complicate large-scale AI adoption. Training models require reliable electricity – a scarce resource in many parts of the continent.

To address these gaps, I propose the following:

Investments in digital infrastructure, education and local start-ups to reduce dependency on foreign tech giants.

African countries must shape international AI governance forums. They must ensure policies reflect continental realities, not just western or Chinese ones. This will include using collective bargaining power through the African Union to bring Africa’s development needs to the fore. It could also help with digital sovereignty issues and equitable access to AI technologies.

Finally, AI policies must embed African ethical principles. These should include communal rights and post-colonial sensitivities.

Thompson Gyedu Kwarkye 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. AI policies in Africa: lessons from Ghana and Rwanda – https://theconversation.com/ai-policies-in-africa-lessons-from-ghana-and-rwanda-253642

Source: – By Charles Helm, Research Associate, African Centre for Coastal Palaeoscience, Nelson Mandela University

A team of scientists who study vertebrate fossil tracks and traces on South Africa’s southern Cape coast have identified the world’s first fossil pangolin trackway, with the help of Indigenous Master Trackers from Namibia. Ichnologists Charles Helm, Clive Thompson and Jan De Vynck tell the story.

What did you find?

A fossil trackway east of Still Bay in South Africa’s Western Cape province was found in 2018 by a colleague and was brought to our attention. It was found on the surface of a loose block of aeolianite rock (formed from hardened sand) that had come to rest near the high-tide mark in a private nature reserve.

We studied it but our cautious approach required that we could not confidently pin down what had made the track. It remained enigmatic.

How did you eventually identify it?

In 2023, we were working with two Ju/’hoansi San colleagues from north-eastern Namibia, #oma Daqm and /uce Nǂamce, who have been interpreting tracks in the Kalahari all their lives. They are certified as Indigenous Master Trackers and we consider them to be among the finest trackers in the world today. We’d called on their expertise to help us understand more about the fossil tracks on the Cape south coast. One example of the insights they provided was of hyena tracks, and we have published on this together.

Read more:
First fossil hyena tracks found in South Africa – how expert animal trackers helped

We showed them the intriguing trackway, which consisted of eight tracks and two scuff marks made, apparently, by the animal’s tail. They examined the track-bearing surface at length, conversed with one another for some time, and then made their pronouncement: the trackway had been registered by a pangolin.

This was an astonishing claim, as no fossilised pangolin tracks had previously been recorded anywhere in the world.

It also confirms that pangolins were once distributed across a larger range than they are now.

We then created three-dimensional digital models of the trackway, using a technique called photogrammetry.

We shared these images with other tracking and pangolin experts in southern Africa (like CyberTracker, Tracker Academy, the African Pangolin Working Group, wildlife guides and a pangolin researcher at the Tswalu Foundation). There were no dissenting voices: not surprisingly, it was agreed that our San colleagues were highly likely correct in their interpretation.

There is something really special about a fossil trackway, compared with fossil bones – it seems alive, as if the animal could have registered the tracks yesterday, rather than so long ago.

What are the characteristics of pangolin tracks?

Pangolins are mostly bipedal (walking on two legs), with a distinctive, relatively ponderous gait. Track size and shape, the distance between the tracks, and the width of the trackway all provide useful clues, as do the tail scuff marks and the absence of obvious digit impressions. A pangolin hindfoot track, in the words of our Master Tracker colleagues, looks as if “a round stick had been poked into the ground”. And being slightly wider at the front end, it has a slightly triangular shape.

Our Master Tracker colleagues are familiar with the tracks of Temminck’s pangolin (Smutsia temminckii) in the Kalahari, which was the probable species that registered the tracks that are now evident in stone on the Cape coast. Other trackmaker candidates, such as a serval with its slim straddle, were considered, but could be excluded or regarded as far less likely.

How old is the fossil track and how do you know?

The surface would have consisted of loose dune sand when the pangolin walked on it. Now it’s cemented into rock. We work with a colleague, Andrew Carr, at the University of Leicester in the UK. He uses a technique known as optically stimulated luminescence to obtain the age of rocks in the area.

The results he provided for the region suggest that these tracks were made between 90,000 and 140,000 years ago, during the “Ice Ages”. For much of this time the coastline might have been as much as 100km south of its present location.

What’s important about this find?

Firstly, this demonstrates what you can uncover when you bring together different kinds of knowledge: our western scientific approach combined with the remarkable skill sets of the Master Trackers, which have been inculcated in them from a very young age.

Without them, the trackway would have remained enigmatic, and would have deteriorated in quality due to erosion without the trackmaker ever being identified.

Read more:
Fossil treasure chest: how to preserve the geoheritage of South Africa’s Cape coast

Secondly, we hope it brings attention to the plight of the pangolin in modern times. There are eight extant pangolin species in the world today, and all are considered to be threatened with extinction. Pangolin meat is regarded as a delicacy, pangolin scales are used in traditional medicines, and pangolins are among the most trafficked wild animals on earth. Large numbers in Africa are hunted for their meat every year.

What does the future hold?

Our San Indigenous Master Tracker colleagues have just completed their third visit to the southern Cape coast, thanks to funding from the Discovery Wilderness Trust.

The results have once again been both unexpected and stupendous, and their tracking skills have again been demonstrated to be unparalleled. Many more publications will undoubtedly ensue, bringing their expertise to the attention of the wider scientific community and anyone interested in our fossil heritage or in ancient hunter-gatherer traditions.

We hope that our partnership continues to lead to our mutual benefit as we probe the secrets of the Pleistocene epoch by following the spoor of ancient animals.

Clive Thompson is a trustee of the Discovery Wilderness Trust, a non-profit organization that supports environmental conservation and the fostering of tracking skills.

Charles Helm and Jan Carlo De Vynck do not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and have disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

– ref. First fossil pangolin tracks discovered in South Africa – https://theconversation.com/first-fossil-pangolin-tracks-discovered-in-south-africa-253383

Source: – By Gaston Adoyo, Lecturer and researcher, Jomo Kenyatta University of Agriculture and Technology

Coconut trees are iconic plants found across the world’s tropical regions. They’re called “nature’s supermarket” or the “tree of life” in several cultures because every part of the coconut tree is used. Its leaves can be used to thatch homes, its heart can be eaten and its roots have medicinal uses.

The refreshing liquid found within a young green coconut is a highly prized component of the coconut palm. Coconuts are unique in the world of fruits because they have a large internal cavity filled with water. Other fruits typically store water within individual cells or pulp.

I’m a food scientist who has carried out research on the properties of coconuts.

All coconut palms produce water, though some, like tall varieties, will produce more than others, like dwarf varieties. The water is sourced from the trees’ immature, green coconuts. As the coconut matures, the developing white flesh absorbs the water, resulting in less liquid in a fully ripe brown coconut.

So, how is this water reservoir created, and what factors influence it?

A coconut’s structure

To better understand how coconut water is formed, it is essential to grasp its anatomical structure. The coconut fruit is classified as a drupe, meaning it has three layers: the exocarp (the smooth, green outer layer seen in unripe coconuts), the mesocarp (a fibrous husk beneath the exocarp), and the endocarp (the hard, woody inner shell that protects the white flesh inside).

Within the endocarp, there are two components: the flesh (endosperm, a soft, jelly-like material in immature coconut that hardens as it matures) and the clear coconut water that fills the cavity. This water is a nutritive fluid nourishing the developing seed and is formed naturally during the development of the coconut fruit.

The water is a filtered sap that’s drawn up from the roots and transported through the tree’s vascular system (its water and nutrient transport system), specifically the xylem tissue.

The coconut tree’s extensive root system, ranging from 1 to 5 metres deep, absorbs groundwater – with dissolved nutrients – from the surrounding soil. The absorbed water is then transported upwards through the trunk and branches and finally to the fruit.

The fruit retains this water, stored in the cavity of the coconut. The accumulated water, with its rich nutrients, provides food to the developing endosperm (white flesh).

Therefore, coconut water is neither rainwater nor seawater stored inside, but carefully filtered and nutrient-rich clear liquid formed by the tree itself.

What is coconut water made of?

About 95% of coconut water is simply water, making it an excellent hydrating fluid.

The rest of the water is made up of various components, which are useful for us too.

Minerals (like sodium, potassium, magnesium and calcium) nourish human nerves and muscles; proteins (amino acids and enzymes) can help in metabolism in both the tree and humans; sugars (fructose and glucose) are responsible for the light sweetness and there are trace amounts of vitamins (vitamin C and B vitamins).

Read more:
Is coconut water good for you? We asked five experts

Coconut water levels

Many factors can influence the amount and quality of water in a coconut.

The age of the coconut is a critical determining factor. Immature, green coconuts (six to eight months) are usually full of water: between 300 millilitres and 1 litre. Mature coconuts (12 months and older) have low water levels as the liquid is partially absorbed by the endosperm.

High rainfall encourages greater accumulation of water, while drought conditions reduce the amount of water that can be transported to the fruit.

Healthy soils packed with minerals lead to high-quality and nutrient-rich coconut water. Poor or salty soils, lacking in minerals that can travel up the coconut tree to the fruit, will lead to low quality water.

Finally, unhealthy or diseased trees produce smaller-sized coconuts with little water.

Protecting coconuts

Coconut trees and coconut water are important to tropical economies across south-east Asia, the Pacific, and the Caribbean Sea territories, as well as the coastlines of central America and Africa.

Conserving the trees and their environment is therefore essential.

Sustainable farming practices, like soil management – including soil testing and organic composting – should be implemented to maintain the proper nutrient profile, which results in high-quality coconut water.

Read more:
The end of coconut water? The world’s trendiest nut is under threat of species collapse

Additionally, protecting freshwater aquifers from saltwater intrusion along coastlines where coconuts grow is crucial for preserving the quality of this refreshing fluid. Drip irrigation and mulching can help maintain soil moisture for the required coconut water production.

Pest and disease management techniques (like intercropping coconuts with bananas or legumes), as well as integrated pest management, can contribute to healthy trees that produce large coconuts with ample water.

Gaston Adoyo 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. How do coconuts get their water? – https://theconversation.com/how-do-coconuts-get-their-water-252673