REPATRIATION AND JUSTICE; AFRICAN PARENT'S EDITION

Reclaiming Africa’s Stolen Heritage: A Personal Call for Justice

The Silent Scars of Our Elders

Reflecting on our earlier conversation, I recall the profound silence that often enveloped our elders when topics of past traumas arose. Many bore the weight of experiences too painful to voice—children born of sexual violence, memories of torture under oppressive regimes, and the relentless anxiety of survival. This generational reticence has, in many ways, shaped our collective psyche, influencing how we confront present challenges.

The reluctance of previous generations to discuss their suffering has left gaps in our historical understanding. The Nigerian Civil War (1967-1970), for instance, resulted in profound national trauma, yet many who lived through it remain silent. Similarly, the oppressive regime of General Sani Abacha (1993-1998) instilled a pervasive fear, leading to a culture of silence and, over time, a sense of complacency among citizens.

It is quite funny and entertaining when we see Youtubers talk about empty mansions in Nigeria, but rarely understand its roots from the Biafra War. The mansions and huge structures as a reminder of always having a home "in case something happens". Great development for the states and increases value of the area, such as tourism and what not, but we tend to forget the pain that first fueled the 'development'. This is the perfect example from the perspective of the non-military front of the war effort and the lingering human costs of that conflict.

It is easy for us to look at today's voting patterns and shout 'tribalist' but forget to look at it from the historical and personal view of familiarity. Whatever feels familiar feels, safe.

Beyond Nigeria, countries like The Gambia, Gabon, and Chad have endured authoritarian regimes that suppressed dissent and fostered a culture of fear. In The Gambia, Yahya Jammeh’s 22-year rule was marked by human rights abuses, leading to national trauma. Gabon and Chad have similarly experienced prolonged autocratic leadership, resulting in societal apprehension toward activism and change.

It is easy to quote the constitutional reforms, need for change, right to justice and what not; but do we see the adult who realized that they were conceived out of sexual abuse? It may be easy to have a news segment stating that "African's are gatekeepers of injustice"; until you have to wake up every morning, reminded that someone has no home to go to, because you wiped their family clean, all for an acre of land. It is easy to be frustrated by the lack of evidence, until to understand, how humiliating sexual abuse is, not only to the victims, but the family members who were forced to watch and the children born out of it.

Traditional African leadership structures have historically played pivotal roles in shaping community responses to external influences. During colonial times, the stance of monarchs often dictated communal acceptance or resistance. For instance, leaders like Samori Toure of the Wassoulou Empire actively resisted colonial encroachment, while others, under duress or persuasion, acquiesced, leading their communities to do the same.

In contemporary times, these traditional structures can be instrumental in the repatriation of cultural artifacts. Traditional Art Keepers, such as griots, elders, and spiritual leaders, possess invaluable knowledge for verifying and reclaiming stolen heritage. Their involvement can lend authenticity and authority to repatriation efforts, ensuring that reclaimed artifacts are appropriately contextualized and honored within their communities.

I remember the first time I saw a Benin Bronze—not in Nigeria, where it was made, but in a European museum. We all know which one i am talking about. The intricate craftsmanship, the history etched into every curve, the spiritual essence it carried—it was breathtaking. But as I stood there, something felt deeply wrong. The plaque beneath it read: “Benin Bronzes, Nigeria (Acquired in 1897).”

Acquired? That word felt like a slap. The truth is, these artifacts weren’t acquired; they were stolen—ripped from palaces, temples, and communities during colonial raids. And yet, here they were, displayed behind glass, far away from the descendants of those who created them.

This isn’t just about art. It’s about identity. It’s about the power of history and who controls it. When we demand the return of our cultural artifacts, we are not asking for favors—we are demanding justice.

For centuries, African artifacts have been looted, auctioned, and locked away in European museums and private collections. The Benin Bronzes, Asante Gold, Ethiopian crosses, Congolese sculptures—each piece tells a story of violence and theft. These were not mere objects; they were symbols of power, spiritual artifacts, and historical records. Colonialism didn’t just steal resources; it stole memory. It took away the physical representations of who we were before our lands were carved into artificial borders. And now, when we ask for them back, we are met with resistance.

Some might ask, why does it matter? Haven’t we moved on? But how can we move on when so much of our history is still held hostage?

These artifacts are more than relics—they are ancestors, storytellers, and keepers of wisdom. They belong in the lands where they were created, among the people who understand their significance. Imagine if the Vatican’s treasures were scattered across the world, or if European cathedrals had to borrow their relics from African museums. The outrage would be deafening.

Yet, when it comes to Africa, we are told we should be grateful that our history is being “preserved” elsewhere. This is the same narrative that justified colonial rule—that we were incapable of managing our own wealth, our own lands, our own futures.

Western institutions argue that they are better custodians of our heritage, that returning these artifacts would mean their destruction. But this is a lie.

If African artifacts have survived for centuries—crafted with skill, passed down through generations, protected in sacred spaces—why would they suddenly be at risk now? This argument is nothing more than an excuse to maintain control.

And let’s not forget the financial aspect. Museums profit from displaying stolen artifacts. They charge admission fees, conduct research, and claim prestige over histories that do not belong to them. Returning these objects would mean admitting a painful truth: that they have built entire institutions on theft.

So how do we reclaim what is rightfully ours when the institutions holding them refuse to let go?

1.????? Recognizing Our Own Experts

The West dismisses oral traditions and indigenous knowledge, yet our Traditional Art Keepers—griots, elders, spiritual leaders—have preserved history longer than any museum catalog ever could. We must formally recognize their expertise in verifying and reclaiming stolen artifacts.

2.????? Legal and Diplomatic Pressure

African nations need to take a stronger stand. We have the right to use international law, human rights arguments, and diplomatic negotiations to demand repatriation. Lawsuits against museums, cultural sanctions, and diplomatic boycotts should all be on the table.

3.????? Building Spaces for Our Heritage

One of the excuses given for not returning artifacts is that Africa lacks proper museums. While this is a weak argument, it highlights the need for community-based museums, rotational exhibitions, and mobile cultural archives to ensure that these artifacts belong to the people—not just the elites.

4.????? Public Pressure and Advocacy

African youth and the diaspora must continue pushing this movement forward. Social media, activism, and international awareness campaigns are powerful tools. If museums can profit from stolen art, we can use their own platforms to shame them into action.

VI.????????????? Reclaiming More Than Just Objects

Repatriation is not just about bringing artifacts home; it is about reclaiming our narratives, our dignity, and our place in history. It is about undoing the colonial mindset that tells us our past is only valuable when validated by Western institutions.

The hardest hurdle to overcome, is well, our families. How do we tackle, respect, shame, remorse and accountability? It is quite easy to call out, say the African Union for turning a blind eye to sexual abuse, but we're quite comfortable with the aunty who is sexually abusing little boys. even i felt fear writing that. It seems perfectly okay, to go to the streets, courtrooms to file complaints on Gender Based Violence, but laugh at the man who's being beaten up by his wife, for 'not taking it like a man', or our mothers, sisters and aunties, who defend their brothers, sons and husbands when they commit these same acts and label you as a 'destroyer of marriage'. We laugh at our colleague, who is proud of their hair and dresses in "native attire" (why do we call it that?); because we say, it looks, unprofessional. Or the new "this is work space, not fashion show". If this is how we learn about (non) accountability, have shame instilled in us and get labelled as the bad person by our own families, how then can we confidently, call out our governments and leaders?

When we talk about creating safe spaces for elders to share their experiences, allowing younger generations to learn and empathize; do we understand what that means? We can sit on the table and be ready to discuss, but what about our parent's generation? If we have never heard them come in peace and apologize to us, how do we expect them in the outside world, as Leaders, to apologize to the masses?

I refuse to accept that my history belongs in someone else’s museum. I refuse to accept that my ancestors’ creations should be explained to me by people who do not understand their meaning.

This fight is not over. And until every stolen artifact is returned, we must keep demanding, keep pushing, and keep reminding the world: Africa is not a museum for the West to curate. Our history belongs to us.

Thank you