They say history is written by the victors, but what happens to the voices buried beneath the rubble of defeat? Those whose stories never made it past the smoke and the screams?
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I’ve often thought about how neatly history packages the messy chaos of human life. We’re told tales of heroism and progress, yet, behind many of these stories, lies blood, lies, and silence. One piece of history I’ve always questioned is how colonization is often painted as a “civilizing mission.” Growing up, we were taught that the British brought education, order, and development to Africa.
The victors called it “expansion,” but to the conquered, it was erasure. Our languages were labeled primitive, our spirituality called superstition, and our knowledge dismissed as folklore. It’s not that the truth is lost, it’s simply ignored because it doesn’t serve the narrative of power.
For too long, Africa’s story has been told through foreign ink, a narrative that paints the continent as a land waiting to be discovered, civilized, and taught. Yet, beneath that narrative lies a truth older than their ships and sharper than their pens.
But truth has a way of surviving, even when silenced. It lingers in the rhythm of the drum, in the patterns of kente and adire cloth, in the proverbs passed down from tongues that refused to forget. It echoes in the ruins and in the eyes of every child who dares to ask, “What really happened?”
Before colonization, Africa was not silent. She was singing, through stone, bronze, and intellect. The Great Zimbabwe stood tall, its walls woven without mortar, speaking of trade and power. The Benin Kingdom built earthworks so vast that even modern engineers still marvel. In Ethiopia, the rock-hewn churches of Lalibela rose from solid ground, carved by faith and brilliance. From the golden sands of Mali, the city of Timbuktu lit the world with knowledge, housing thousands of manuscripts on law, astronomy, and medicine while much of Europe was still in darkness.
To the north, the Nubian pyramids of Meroë crowned queens and kings long before others learned to build in stone. To the east, the coral-stone city of Gedi traded with Arabia and China, its streets whispering in Swahili and Sanskrit. The Yoruba city of Ife sculpted bronze faces so lifelike that those who later stumbled upon them refused to believe Africans could have crafted such beauty.
Africa was a continent of thinkers, traders, warriors, and artists, a living testament to human brilliance. Yet, when the victors came, they didn’t just seize land; they seized the right to define the past. They rewrote it in their image and called it history.
But history isn’t a single voice, it’s a chorus. And though centuries have tried to silence it, the echoes remain in stone ruins, ancient manuscripts, and the songs of griots who remember what books tried to forget.
One day, when enough of us listen, perhaps the world will finally hear the full melody, Real history doesn’t just live in textbooks; it breathes in the memories of grandmothers, in songs, in ruins, in the names that were changed. If enough of us start unearthing those buried truths, perhaps one day, the world will read a version of history that doesn’t just favor the victors, but also gives a voice to the forgotten.
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This is my entry to Week 187, Edition 02 of the Weekly Featured contest in Hive Learners Community