Why African Creatives Must Own Their Narratives

For decades, Africa has been described more than it has described itself and the reason is simple; we have constantly allowed outsiders tell our stories, dictate what is what and left control for the highest bidder.

For the longest run  in history, Africa’s creative output is being consumed by global audiences at scale. But in the middle of this celebration sits an uncomfortable truth: visibility doesn’t equal ownership.

When Afrobeats went global, the intent was exposure. We wanted the world to experience our sound, to dance with us, to see a piece of us. But global popularity came with global interests. Now, Afrobeats is a billion-dollar conversation, and the question of ownership hangs in the air. Is it the artists and communities who birthed the sound, or the international labels, platforms, and executives now shaping how it’s packaged and sold?

In 2020, the world applauded Beyoncé’s Black Is King. It was dazzling — a visual love letter to Africa, dripping with symbolism and beauty. But alongside the praise came questions. Why did it take an American superstar to sell “African” imagery to the world? Who profits when African culture is packaged for global consumption and who gets written out?

This is the heart of the matter: stories are not neutral. They are currencies. They shape perception, create value, and determine ownership. And in the global creative economy, whoever tells the story takes the wealth and power that comes with it. Yes,  creatives make the art, but who owns the narrative?

The importance of storytelling cannot be overlooked, and it begins with creatives learning to look homeward for validation. Global recognition is good — it feels sweet to see our music charting in New York, our films trending in Paris, our designers walking international runways. But if the loudest applause always comes from outside, we start creating for them instead of for us. And that’s where the danger lies. Stories lose their soul when they’re told only to impress outsiders. They become watered down, edited for export. Real validation should come first from our people, because they are the truest judges of whether the story still carries the weight, the nuance, the rhythm of who we are.

Nollywood is proof of what happens when you look inward first. In the beginning, the world dismissed it as cheap and chaotic — shaky cameras, rushed plots, low budgets. But Nigerians watched. Ghanaians watched. Africans across the continent bought the DVDs and passed them hand to hand. It was that local embrace, that homegrown validation, that kept Nollywood alive long enough for Netflix and Amazon to eventually come calling. Without our own people cheering it on first, the industry would never have had the roots to withstand global attention.

Fashion tells the same story, sometimes even more loudly. Take the recent wedding of Temi Otedola and Mr Eazi, an event that dominated headlines and Instagram feeds. It was a full cultural display: music, colour, Nigerian tradition woven into every moment. But days later, the conversation online shifted from celebration to critique. Why? Because one of Temi’s traditional outfits wasn’t made by a Nigerian, not even by an African, but by a foreign designer.

When this reveal was made, social media roared. Some attacked Nigerian designers, arguing they were being overlooked, others said they were doing too much and “elites” wanted simple. Others defended Temi’s right to choose whatever she wanted for her big day. But what the debate revealed is bigger than one bride’s decision: it showed how quickly we turn to outsiders, even for the most intimate expressions of our culture, and how easily that choice is taken as a verdict on our own creatives.

The truth? Nigerian designers have proven themselves time and again. Tubo’s bridal attires are breathtaking, Veekee James’s designs have become iconic, and Prudent’s craftsmanship is celebrated across continents. These names, and many more, continue to push Nigerian fashion onto the global stage with originality and excellence. Temi’s choice doesn’t erase that. 

And this is exactly why storytelling matters. If the loudest version of Nigerian fashion becomes “Temi chose a foreign designer,” then that becomes the story the world repeats. But the fuller, truer story is being told daily by the Nigerian designers setting trends from Lagos to London, redefining what it means to create with African hands.

It is important to note that African creatives are not saints in this story either. Our hunger for personal glorification and global validation often pushes us into situations where we overlook our own. Call it greed, call it ambition but it reveals a deeper truth: many of us don’t regard home as enough. We’re quick to pander outward, yet slow to nurture what is already here. Every year, Nigerians mock their own artists for not winning Grammys, as though global awards are the ultimate seal of worth. Yet, the same Africans who drag artists for missing out on Grammys barely pay attention to the Headies, our own award show. Yes, it needs an upgrade, but why does it only count when outsiders clap? And then, in 2022 and 2023, Headies organizers carried an African award show all the way to the United States. Think about it: an award show meant to celebrate African music, uprooted from its own soil?  It made no sense, and it said even less about faith in our own platforms. If we won’t respect them here, why should anyone else respect them anywhere?

And it’s not just music. Look at fashion, look at journalism, look at the broader creative space. There is an obsession with being seen abroad, even if it means being invisible at home. Our designers will fight tooth and nail for a line in Vogue or Business of Fashion but will turn their noses up when African publications come calling. It has gotten to the point where African publications, with their reach and history, are being dismissed as “not enough.” Meanwhile, those same publications have spent years building platforms that center African voices but we treat them like they don’t matter unless they’re cosigned by the West.

And that’s where the irony cuts deep. The same creatives who complain about appropriation and outsiders telling their stories are often the ones feeding that imbalance. Because if we don’t value our own media, our own critics, our own storytellers, why should anyone else? 

When we choose not to control the narrative, we hand over the pen and whoever holds it decides what the world remembers about us. This conversation isn’t about gatekeeping. It is about ownership, control, and being able to tell our stories how we want to.  

While it is important that we export our value in terms of creativity, it is more important that we remain in control because whoever tells the story owns the value.