DOES culture still matter as the world races into an age of algorithms, artificial intelligence, and global uniformity? In the rush to modernise, how fast are we losing the very essence that defines us, our languages, our values, our dances, our customs, our systems, our foods and our ancestral wisdom? As we observe Culture Month, what exactly are we observing? As the world hurtles forward with dizzying speed, and technology reshapes lives with every innovation, do our ways still matter? Too often, in development discourse, African culture is presented as something to be managed, transformed, or abandoned.
In boardrooms and policy papers, you will hear phrases like ‘modernization’, ‘integration into the global economy’, or ‘harmonising with international standards’. Rarely do those conversations acknowledge the tremendous intellectual, social, and ecological wealth embedded in African traditions. It is as if we are being asked to abandon the tree that shelters us, feeds us, and sustains us to chase after winds and clouds. Culture is not a relic of the past. It is the compass of the present and the guide into the future. Our ancestors did not live by accident; they crafted systems of survival, dignity, and wisdom that endured droughts, invasions, and empires.
Today, the question we must ask ourselves is: What does it mean to be African in a world that prizes uniformity over uniqueness? And how do we develop without becoming pale imitations of others? Our languages are more than tools of communication; they are vessels of identity. When we speak ChiShona, isiNdebele, ChiTonga, or any of the scores of languages spoken across our continent, we do more than transmit words. We transmit worldviews.
We invoke generations. A proverb in Yoruba or Zulu can carry more nuance and layered truth than an entire policy brief written in English. When our children grow up unable to speak their mother tongues, they lose a vital connection to self. They float in foreign waters without anchor. Development must begin by rooting people in their language. Language is not backward; it is a portal to the future. Let us teach our children coding and computer science but let them code in Yoruba, Swahili, or Xhosa if they so wish. Our dances, too, are not mere performances.
They are embodied memories. In every beat of the drum, in every sway of the waist, lies a story, of harvests celebrated, of warriors remembered, of ancestors honoured. Across Africa, ceremonies of initiation, healing, mourning, and celebration are all framed by movement and rhythm. Why then do we look at ballet as high art and at mhande or dinhe as mere folklore? In the corridors of cultural power, African expressions are often seen as embellishments, not pillars. We must change this narrative. Our art is not inferior; it is original. It speaks to a human experience unfiltered by industrialisation.
Consider our foods. Long before veganism became fashionable in the West, our diets were plant-based, rich in legumes, grains, and natural herbs. Before the wellness industry monetised mindfulness, our elders practised silence, prayer, and ancestral communion. Our traditional knowledge systems knew the medicinal properties of plants, the wisdom of rain cycles, the balance of ecosystems. What arrogance, then, to suggest that development must begin with the erasure of these practices. Let us integrate, yes. Let us adapt. But let us never discard. We must also preserve our norms and moral systems.
Ubuntu is not just a word; it is a worldview. It says: “I am because we are.” In a world being eaten alive by individualism, where mental health crises and isolation are reaching epidemic levels, Africa’s communal values offer a powerful counter-narrative. Our approach to elders, our rituals of naming, our taboos around respect, these are not antiquated notions; they are blueprints for strong societies. Colonisation did not just take our resources it took our sense of self. It told us that development could only look like a European city.
That progress must mean grey buildings and paved roads. But why must a smart city mean concrete jungles and Western aesthetics? Can we not design cities that echo the rondavel, that breathe with courtyards and circular designs, that use local materials and reflect the rhythm of our seasons? Development should not be a copy and paste exercise. It should be a dialogue between tradition and innovation.
I am not against technology or globalisation. No. I believe in progress. I believe in science. But I do not believe in amnesia. I do not believe that we must erase our memory to embrace the future. True development is not mimicry; it is transformation that begins with self-recognition. It is when a nation knows who it is, that it can become what it needs to be. Across the continent, there are signs of reawakening. Young African designers are blending Ankara with modern fashion.
Musicians are fusing afrobeat with jazz, creating new genres that defy categories. There are think-tanks reimagining African economies based on local values. There are chefs serving millet-based meals in five-star restaurants. This is not nostalgia. It is renaissance. But we must do more. Governments must invest in cultural industries not as side projects but as pillars of development. Ministries of education must decolonise curricula. Businesspeople must support local crafts.
Tourists must be shown not just wildlife but also the intellectual and artistic heritage of our communities. As development practitioners, we must stop apologising for who we are. We must enter rooms and say: Our systems are valid. Our ways have value. Our traditions are not barriers to development; they are bridges. We must also challenge the superiority complex that often accompanies Western development models. Not all that glitters is gold. The West is grappling with its own crises — climate change, loneliness, opioid epidemics, and political extremism.
Africa does not need to import problems. We must learn from others, yes. But we must not worship them. Let us not confuse imitation with inspiration. Our festivals, our songs, our rituals, they carry moral lessons. People who forget how to dance have forgotten how to live. A child who cannot name their totem is a child without roots. A meal without traditional food is a feast without soul. Let us bring back the sacred in the ordinary. Let us teach our children to love their names, their history, their skin.
The way forward is a return to ourselves. Let our policies reflect who we are. Let our buildings, our schools, our technologies wear African skins. Let us engage the world not as beggars seeking models, but as thinkers offering alternatives. As we move forward let us remember: no nation develops by abandoning its soul. We are not just statistics. We are stories. We are not just consumers. We are creators. And we are not just followers. We are ancestors in the making. In this whirlwind of change, let us anchor ourselves in what endures. Our languages. Our dances. Our food. Our values. These are not luxuries.
They are necessities. They are the roots from which all meaningful development must grow. I believe in an Africa that walks forward while looking inward. A continent that greets tomorrow with the wisdom of yesterday. That, to me, is true development.