“Africans have been starved of historical figures from their own lands that they can look up to”: Paula Akpan on female African leaders

Paula Akpan speaks to Danny Bird about powerful African woman leaders and the complexities of interrogating historical narratives, colonial biases and these women’s own flaws

A woman faces the camera, smiling and resting her head in one hand. She has the other hand resting on her crossed legs. She is wearing a floral jumpsuit

Published: June 13, 2025 at 9:00 AM

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Danny Bird: At the heart of your book are a dozen African women, many of whom held immense power and high social standing. Who were they, and when did they live?

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Paula Akpan: I’ve traced the lives of 12 formidable women over the past millennium. The earliest was Princess Mọrèmí of Offa, who rose to rule in Ilé-Ifẹ`, in what’s now Nigeria, in the 12th century. From there, we journey through time and across regions, weaving together stories of power, resistance and legacy.

Another key figure is the 17th-century Queen Njinga of Ndongo and Matamba – territories today in northern Angola. A master strategist and diplomatic force, they blurred gender conventions: they insisted on being addressed as both king and queen, asserting their sovereignty in a male-dominated world.

We also encounter Ranavalona I of the kingdom of Imerina, encompassing much of the island of Madagascar. History remembers her as a fearsome ruler vilified even by her own people, largely due to her aggressive stand against Christianity and European imperialism – policies that reportedly resulted in the population of her realm plummeting by half during her reign in the 19th century.

Yet the narrative is not solely about feared rulers. Other women are revered as icons of resistance: Nana Yaa Asantewaa of present-day Ghana, for example, who led the people of the ancient Asante town of Edweso in defiance of British colonisers. Her fight to protect the sacred Golden Stool, a symbol of Asante sovereignty, remains a powerful moment in the anti-colonial struggle.

These stories are as varied as the women themselves. Some are celebrated today as symbols of strength and inspiration; others have been pushed to the margins of collective memory, their legacies forgotten or deliberately erased. Ririkumutima of Burundi, for instance, played a pivotal role in shaping key treaties in the early 20th century, yet her childhood home was demolished last century and her story was largely scrubbed from ‘official’ history.

What drew you to these women?

I aimed to conduct in-depth research into specific rulers, ensuring geographical breadth across the continent, while also challenging some of the dominant narratives. Figures such as Nana Yaa Asantewaa are often portrayed as entirely selfless, while the Modjadjis – the Rain Queens of the Balobedu people in South Africa – are shrouded in mystery. I wanted to interrogate these portrayals alongside lesser-known rulers I discovered during my research.

It was also essential that the book not be written solely from London, drawing only on archives or institutions such as SOAS [School of Oriental and African Studies]. My historical work has always aimed to be community-centred. I believe that those whose lives and legacies I’m exploring should be part of the process. It should be a dialogue – a shared conversation.

This is especially important in African history, where there’s a long and harmful legacy of colonial anthropologists and explorers declaring expertise on places they had never visited. I was determined not to replicate that approach. If you’re writing a focused history of a place, it should be expected that you visit the sites you’re referencing.

For instance, in exploring Njinga – their gender expression as well as their political role – I visited a queer organisation in Angola. Speaking with its members gave me insights into how they connect with a historical figure who understood gender in plural terms, yet is often remembered simply as a queen.

I didn’t want to create a neat, linear history. I wanted it to reflect the complexity and richness of the narratives I encountered. That meant engaging with all kinds of voices – historians, storytellers, even taxi drivers – whose everyday recollections and interpretations added depth to the legacies of these rulers.

How are these women remembered by present-day Africans?

Their legacies are far-reaching. But it’s not just about individual rulers; as readers move through the book, I hope they also see it as a broader history of colonisation – western, certainly, but also involving the Ottoman empire. Africans on the continent and, to a lesser extent, those in the diaspora are still grappling with the consequences of colonisation and the decisions made in that Berlin conference room in 1884–85: the division of Africa, the scramble for territory, and the arbitrary borders drawn.

These borders created or reinforced ethnic divisions. Identity cards were introduced in places such as Rwanda and Burundi, and the genocides that followed were, in part, consequences of colonial hierarchies. That’s not to say that such divisions didn’t exist before, but they were exacerbated by colonial powers such as Belgium. You can trace hatred and violence – between Hutu and Tutsi, for example – back to colonisation and to what many rulers in the book were trying to resist through confrontation, diplomacy or strategic retreat.

Returning to the women themselves, as I mentioned earlier, many of these rulers have been forgotten or marginalised. Consider the Dahomey woman warriors: an all-woman force who fought seasoned armies. In recent years, they’ve gained renewed attention through films such as Black Panther (2018) and The Woman King (2022). Yet many historical documents are ambiguous about whether Queen Hangbé, who founded the Agoodojıˇè regiment, even existed.

A black and white photo shows a group of warrior women wearing headdresses and carrying spears

Women warriors of Dahomey (now part of Benin), pictured at the turn of the 20th century. During the 18th and 19th centuries, these troops – dubbed ‘Amazons’ by Europeans – faced seasoned armies (Image by Alamy)

When I visited the Royal Palaces of Abomey in Benin and spoke to local historians, though, there was no doubt. Hangbé was erased from official history because she was a woman, and her reign from 1708 to 1711 was omitted for that reason. Had I relied solely on colonial sources, I’d have found scholars debating whether she was mythical. But I met the current reigning Queen Tassi Hangbé, a direct descendant who still represents her lineage. The gap between what is accepted in the west and what is known locally is striking.

As a member of the African diaspora, I cannot speak for continental Africans, nor would I presume to. But from what I’ve been told, there are deep silences around these histories. One Rwandan interviewee told me she struggled to find information about a pivotal woman ruler in her country. She also shared that the word ‘feminist’ doesn’t exist in her community as it does in the west. To identify as such is to be seen as ‘uppity’ or a man-hater, and she doesn’t feel safe using the term. For her and for others, it may be empowering to see stories of erased or overlooked women brought into focus. This book is an attempt to critically engage with historical sources while contributing to the growing canon around these rulers.

You state that your book is fundamentally about power. Can you elaborate on that point?

The power that African rulers wielded is often overlooked, and understandings of both pre-colonial and post-colonial Africa are frequently reductive. Within these narratives, there’s often insufficient analysis of how African elites treated other Africans – particularly the lower classes and those they enslaved. This lack of scrutiny is troubling.

I understand the desire to highlight wealth and heroism, especially because so much of African history focuses on suffering – colonisation, displacement and occupation. It makes sense that Africans, both on the continent and in the diaspora, seek to counterbalance that pain with stories of greatness. For example, Mansa Musa, 14th-century ruler of the Mali empire, is frequently cited as one of the wealthiest individuals in history. Emphasising such figures helps assert that Africans were also rulers, also kings. However, this focus can obscure the reality that many African rulers also caused harm. Like rulers elsewhere, they were often self-interested, consolidating power at the
expense of others.

When considering women and genderqueer figures, the narrative becomes even narrower. Women are often portrayed as selfless mothers, nurturers, life-givers – idealised in educational materials for children. But we must also confront the violence they oversaw. Under rulers including Ranavalona, Mәntәwwab of Ethiopia and others I examine in this book, violent structures were expanded. That, too, is part of African history.

We shouldn’t shy away from these truths. To understand these figures fully, we must take in the whole picture. Rather than turning them into paragons, we should look at their actions and how they presented themselves, and engage with them honestly.

Women are often portrayed as selfless mothers, nurturers, life-givers – idealised in educational materials. But we must also confront the violence they oversaw

Africa is vast, diverse and complex. Have certain regions dominated historical narratives over others?

Some regions are clearly dominant in popular narratives. Ghana – the former Gold Coast and Asante territories – features heavily. Many of my Ghanaian friends appreciated that I included Nana Yaa Asantewaa. Similarly, figures such as Shaka Zulu from South Africa are often highlighted. I believe this is partly shaped by our world view. The Gold Coast and much of South Africa were occupied by the British, who imposed English across these regions. This colonial lens has influenced which African regions are viewed as most prominent – often those where English was imposed.

There’s also significant emphasis on the pyramids and ancient Egyptian history. Over time, this positioned Egypt as the pinnacle of African civilisation, or at least its primary representative. Early explorers and anthropologists didn’t see similar structures elsewhere on the continent, reinforcing this perception.

Colourism plays a role, too. Physical features and skin tone influenced how palatable certain groups were to colonisers. In Rwanda and Burundi, for example, the Belgians favoured the Tutsis, describing them as having ‘Ethiopianoid’ features such as long fingers, narrow noses and a tall stature. The Hutus, by contrast, were perceived as shorter and broader. These arbitrary distinctions fed racist ideas about who was ‘fit to rule’. The Belgians reinforced a hierarchy that aligned physical features with intelligence, which was typical of pseudoscientific thinking of the time. This has influenced which African histories and leaders are spotlighted.

Colonial chroniclers also played a part. They dramatised accounts of figures including Shaka Zulu, filling them with gory details, and wrote fantastical tales about rulers such as Ranavalona, who was said to have tried to build enormous scissors to cut enemies in half. There was a thirst for sensational stories about distant, ‘uncivilised’ societies that captivated western audiences.

A woman in a long red dress and crown stands for a portrait, facing to the left

Western audiences were captivated by descriptions of Ranavalona I, sovereign of the Kingdom of Madagascar, cutting her enemies in half with enormous scissors (Image by TopFoto)

At the core of this issue is the question: what do people imagine that precolonial African societies looked like? That’s perhapsnwhere the conversation should begin. What do historians think that these peoples were doing before colonisation, or during the occupation by Europeans?

Colonisers often painted Africa as empty or undeveloped. They claimed that the land wasn’t being used, that its people weren’t harnessing resources, and that colonial intervention was necessary to bring civilisation, introducing concepts such as tenancy, property rights and the nuclear family. Missionaries often arrived with wives and children as models for what they believed African people should aspire to.

Something you also ponder in the book is the ‘what if’ aspect of Africa’s history, engaging with a concept called ‘critical fabulation’. What is that?

Critical fabulation originates from the work of Saidiya Hartman, a distinguished scholar who doesn’t strictly describe herself as a historian. Her work bridges history and narrative, examining source materials, often archival, and challenging them to imagine alternative possibilities. This isn’t about inventing freely, but a radical act of interpretation.

Think about the fact that many African enslaved people were documented merely as cargo, listed alongside gold or mahogany yet considered of lesser value. The presence of enslaved Africans is often traceable only faintly through ship logs or fragments, highlighting their systematic erasure.

Critical fabulation begins with the premise that the archive itself is a site of violence. This approach acknowledges that archivists and historians bring their own biases to the material they curate. It offers counter-histories produced using the same or similar sources – not necessarily to ‘humanise’ or ‘give voice’, but to challenge what is already accepted as fact, what is already deemed unquestionable.

In my introduction, I reference the Cape Coast incident of 1721 [in which enslaved Africans overpowered the crew on a slave ship en route to the Americas]. Colonial officials chose to present a version of those events that would be more palatable to their audience, because the idea that 17 enslaved African men and boys could escape and overpower seven white men was inconceivable – it disrupted the assumed order of their society.

Recognising that colonial sources often serve specific agendas, critical fabulation and the pursuit of counter-histories confront the violence in these records and offer both alternatives and correctives.

If you could have a conversation with one of these historical figures, who would it be, and why?

I think I’d really like to speak to Ranavalona I. I’m fascinated by her as a ruler of Imerina who was so determined to preserve her island and its way of life against French and British colonisers that she was willing to purge any trace of foreign influence, including Christianity.

That kind of single-mindedness – ultimately to her own detriment – is something I struggle to fully comprehend. And yet, despite her fierce commitment to self-sufficiency and resistance, Madagascar was colonised anyway. I’d be curious to know how she would perceive her legacy today.

When I visited Madagascar’s capital, Antananarivo, I spoke to local Malagasy people about Ranavalona. Many either disliked her, were indifferent to her or hadn’t heard of her. Some genuinely hated what she represented. One interviewee described her as a feminist. I’m not sure I’d use that term myself, but I understand the sentiment, seeing her as a powerful woman figure.

But that’s where things gets complicated with woman African rulers. Being a woman – and an African woman – doesn’t automatically make someone a positive figure. We also have to acknowledge the harm some of them caused. At the same time, many Africans have been starved of historical figures from their own lands that they can look up to. In the ongoing context of colonisation and neo-colonialism, someone like Ranavalona, who stood firm, can be a galvanising symbol, especially as a woman. It’s complex.

I’d be deeply curious to know if she had any regrets. Would she have done things differently, knowing that Madagascar would be colonised regardless? Would she still have gone to such extremes, knowing that her son would quickly undo all she built after her death? How would that have affected her? She’d definitely be high on my list.

What are some of the biggest misconceptions about African leadership, especially by women, that you aim to challenge in your book?

I didn’t undertake the project with a deliberate approach, but being a black African lesbian woman brings a particular lens to how I engage with history. For example, I was especially interested in exploring Njinga’s gender, the sexualities of the Agoodojıˇè and how they engaged with women in the palace – be they sex workers, companions, or each other.

This perspective allows me to highlight aspects that might be overlooked by other historians. Many scholars have dismissed the possibility that the Agoodojıˇè engaged sexually with one another, which reflects a broader resistance to recognising queerness in historical narratives.

That connects to how I read Njinga, and my aim to honour the plurality of their identity. It wasn’t about setting out to challenge the dominant narrative; I naturally gravitate towards certain critical approaches, and that inevitably shapes my work.

A key part of the book involved examining colonial scholars who are often quoted uncritically. Too often, we fail to interrogate the vested interests behind colonial source material. I found that many of these commentators – those critical of figures including Ranavalona and other African rulers – often held colonial administrative positions in places such as Senegal or Madagascar. Their perspectives weren’t neutral; they were shaped by colonial power and bias.

All of this ties in with the lens through which I view history. Every historian brings subjectivity to their work, whether they admit it or not. The idea of objectivity is a myth. Embracing that subjectivity has allowed me to sharpen my critiques and deepen my research.

Paula Akpan is a journalist, historian and public speaker whose work focuses on blackness, queerness, social politics and our relationship with technology

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This article was first published in the June 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine

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