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This Nigerian British Photographer Traces the Evolution of the Head Wrap from ‘Moussour to Tignon’

Juliana Kasumu’s centers her latest cultural investigation from behind the camera on the head wrap, tracing its origins from Senegal to New Orleans.

Last month, 60 students showed up to school wearing head wraps and dashikis at Gibbs High School in Florida in response to an incident where students were allegedly told their African head wraps violated the school’s dress code policy. Now their protest has become a weekly occurrence, using hashtag #BlackGirlsWrapWednesday.


“They are stripping us of our culture just like they did in slavery,” Liu Kwayera, a student at the school, tells Mic.

This situation makes photographer Juliana Kasumu’s latest cultural investigation from behind the camera on head wraps especially timely.

Building on photo series Irun Kiko on hair statements within the Yoruba culture in West Africa that received international acclaim, the Nigerian-British photographer presents Moussour to Tignon: The Evolution of the Head-Tie.

“Moussor' is actually what they call the head tie in Senegal, and 'tignon' is the name for the head tie in New Orleans, or Louisiana,” Kasumu explains."Moussor’, became influenced by Islam during the 17th-18th centuries, and how you saw that transformation from the fashions of the Senegalese, and the influence of them wearing their head coverings, and their dressings, and it adapting into what you see today.”

Part of Kasumu’s Olaju international artist-in-residence program, her beautiful black-and-white photographs are currently on display at the McKenna Museum of African-American Art in New Orleans until October 11 in an effort to bring to the forefront the underrepresented narratives from women of color.

Okayafrica spoke with the 2015 Renaissance Photography Prize winner for best single image to learn more about her creative direction in her latest photo project and overarching goal of reaching a larger audience of women sharing similar stories.

Kasumu describes the research and shooting process in New Orleans as a “very interesting spiritual journey” where she says she could “genuinely feel the spirits in the air sometimes.”

Courtesy of Juliana Kasumu

She explains that her passion for documenting Afro-textured hair practices grew from her own natural hair journey, and the frustration she felt when she realized the dearth of research and accurate historical records on West African hair methods, its symbolism, and its origins.

“That British-Nigerian-ness of me, I'm watching my mother, every weekend since I can remember, tying her gele with her friends, and they'd all come, and they'd do each other's hair,” Kasumu says. “And it was just this thing where when I started to adapt, and wear hair ties myself, it just became second nature. It's like a familiar kind of ritual that I didn't understand it to be as significant as it was until the last couple or years.”

Three-months of research conducted this summer guided by New Orleans icon and tignon expert Madame Barbara Trevigne, led Kasumu to an edict, not a law like it’s reported on the internet, put forth by Esteban Rodríguez Miró, a Spanish army officer and governor of the Spanish American provinces of Louisiana and Florida, that mandated Black women, both freed and enslaved, had to wear a head wrap so there could be racial classification among them. Apparently this was prompted by the jealousies of white women because a number of white soldiers who traveled to Louisiana had sexual relationships with Black women, which violated the Code Noir that regulated relationships between colonists and Blacks.

Kasumu points out, the edict flopped because Black women women rarely serve anything short of magical.

“They looked even more beautiful, and more appealing, and they used to decorate these head wraps with jewels, and plumes.They became more attractive if anything. It just backfired,” Kasumu says.

“The connections between the Senegalese, and the Afro-Creoles is just undeniable,” she continues. “One thing I want to take away from this [is] that people often say, that ‘New Orleans is the most African city in the states,’ and if you look all the way back, you see why.”

Her research traces the tignon back from the mammy archetype, noting that Afro-Creoles and sometimes even white women although it was frowned upon, wore head ties for practical reasons to protect their hair from vermin and heat damage to the Black arts movement where there was a resurgence of the head wrap and braiding methods again.

“It's interesting how history repeats itself. And so women, again, you [have] the natural hair movement, and you had this resurgence, and re-appreciation, and more importantly the re-appropriation of these hair methods.,” Kasumu tells Okayafrica.

As for cultural appropriation of the head wrap, Kasumu offers that there will always be people who don’t care that certain hair methods and hairstyles have a significant place in African history— “some people just use Blackness as a commodity for the sake of aesthetics, and trend” like Marc Jacobs at NYFW.

But for Africans who like to argue that African-Americans or Nigerian-British like herself are culturally appropriating when donning a head wrap or tie, Kasumu says not so fast as the culture flows both ways and no one should be shamed for seeking to reconnect with their African ancestry.

“We're all African. How can you appropriate something that is yours, or that was yours, and was taken away from you?”

Courtesy of Juliana Kasumu

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Photo courtesy of Sam Soko.

Interview: Sam Soko is the Kenyan Director Behind Sundance Hit, 'Softie'

We meet filmmaker Sam Soko who has made a stirring documentary about the Kenyan protest leader Boniface Mwangi

Filmmaker Sam Soko didn't intend on making a documentary about Kenyan photojournalist-turned-politician Boniface Mwangi.

The original idea he had was to make a manual of sorts, a short video guide, on how to protest, the do's and don't's. Soko, himself an activist artist who cut his teeth convincing friends to let him create political music videos for their apolitical songs, knew Mwangi's experience on the streets both photographing protests and staging them meant he had a lot to share with others.

But then came the blood. A thousand litres of it, to be precise. And the pigs. Dozens of them, with words like MPigs written on them. Like the graphic photos Mwangi had become known for taking—it was a sight you couldn't look away from. It was a protest Mwangi organized, in 2013, to decry corrupt members of the Kenyan parliament who had decided to increase their salaries, 2 months after taking office. And at his side, through the thick red liquid of it all, was Mwangi's wife, Njere, ready to be arrested with him.

"Once I was witness to his relationship, I started seeing him as a family man," Soko tells OkayAfrica. "Because he's planning a protest and all, but when you look at the footage, you start seeing the kids and you start seeing Njere. That's when it started hitting me, in the sense, that she was with him in such a crazy space."

Soko formed a creative and activist hub, called PAWA 254, with Mwangi, as they became part of the groundswell demanding democratic reforms in a country still left scarred from the division sewed between Kikuyu and Luo people by British colonizers. "We had a new Constitution at the time, and there was this hope that we finally could picket without being tear-gassed or being beaten, Like, our civil liberties could be held up." Instead, the government strengthened its police force into a notorious organization condemned by human rights activists. "That's very salient in the film," says Soko. "If you see how the police dress, for instance, at the beginning, it's very different; they become more militant towards the end."

Soko's debut feature-length documentary, Softie, which became the first Kenyan film to ever premiere at the Sundance Film Festival, earlier this year, is at once a love story between Mwangi and his wife and their three children, but also between Mwangi and his beloved Kenya, under president Uhuru Kenyatta. Central to the film is the tussle between how these different loves bump up against each other: what comes first — love of country or love of family?

We spoke to the Nairobi-based director about making the film, which opens in virtual cinemas, starting this Friday, September 18th.

Boniface Mwangi with his wife Photo courtesy of Sam Soko


OA: Early on in the film, we learn how steadfast Boniface Mwangi is — he talks about being willing to die for the ideals he believes in, which made me think of Nelson Mandela and his Rivonia Treason Trial speech. Boniface is someone in the present day who still shares this belief?

When we were working on the edit, and kind of crafting and thinking about what the story was going to be, something that we found that was really, really interesting is, with a lot of the stories, like the story of Nelson Mandela, you'd never see the other side. That's something we see later, up ahead, as a retrospective. We'd hear about Martin Luther King and then we'd read about Coretta Scott in, I think, 1990, like, 'Oh, this his was her struggle.' That sort of thing. But for me, Boniface and Njere represented a present day reality struggle that showcases what Mandela was going through, what Martin Luther was going through. That was kind of like unravelling the curtain; when you see Martin Luther marching, Coretta's at home, trying to help their kids do their homework. And this is the reality.

OA: And the film poses that question of love for your country versus love for your family, and which one should come first?

Exactly. They see it in different ways. Boniface sees it that if you improve the country, you improve the lives of those who you love. Njere's like, you have to have your family's back first. And that means everything else comes second. And she's right; she's not wrong. And he's not wrong.

OA: The film really is privy to some really private moments in Mwangi's life — how did you gain his trust?

When we started filming the short video, he was really involved with the protests, and we started doing the protests with him. So we were—quote, unquote—in the trenches with him in the protests, and somehow that's how he kind of welcomed us to his home. When you've been with someone in the streets, and you're tear-gassed together more than once, you already have a common bond. But then I started developing a relationship with him that was beyond the streets. Just checking up on him and asking, what's going on, what's taking place? That sort of thing. I think it took a while. And I think even from Njere, we kind of developed a kind of camaraderie that was separate from my relationship with Boniface, because I would actually be like, 'Hey, he said that, how does that make you feel?' And not necessarily on camera. But over time, he kind of accepted us to be there with a camera. At some point, I kind of felt like they were talking to me, and not necessarily the camera; like, the camera is kind of this thing that's there, but not there. That kind of trust, again, was built on a respect that I have for them and their values and what they're doing. I think that's something they saw. It made them trust me with their story and trust me with their family.

You're the director of the film, but you're also producer, writer and cinematographer. Did Boniface's own style as a photojournalist influence you in any way?

The film has three cinematographers, and a lot of my cinematography is within the intimate moments, because that's when they would only engage with someone they trust. But him being a photographer actually, to a point, made the work a bit hard because he's constantly looking at how you're doing it. He's in your face about the angle. He's like, 'Hey, why are you standing there, you should be there.' But in some places he did help 'cause he's been filming in the streets and filming protests for a very long time. So when you're there filming, he'll easily tell you, 'Dude, don't stand there. They're about to start tear-gassing. Go to the other side.' And it's weird, when you're on the other side and you're filming, and all of a sudden you see tear gas, you wonder, 'How the hell did he know?' You do that 234 times and you start knowing yourself, 'Oh, this is how,' and he was really helpful in that sense.

I can imagine that filming during the protests must have been one of the big challenges of making this film but what else did you struggle with? There were death threats for Mwangi, did that happen to you as well?

It's so funny, when you're filming and when you're in the protests, it's adrenaline talking. So you're not really thinking about whether you're going to be okay. This one time, I got arrested because the cop said I was a spy for the protesters. [We had everything] from cameras breaking to sound equipment messing up, but when it became a more political story, with death threats, it became scary even for editing the film. Because you don't know who's watching you. This one time, I was with him in the car, filming, and we were being followed. So we kind of had to be very careful who we are telling about the story. It was a very deep secret that we were making this film and there are people who are watching it now asking, 'How could you keep this from us from all these years?' Because we had to do that. Especially when the family was in the US. We had to do that for the sake of safety for him, Boniface, for his family but also the film team. I remember doing the pitches with different names. But then we were also lucky that we had our co-producing partner in Canada, Eye Steel Film, so they were able to house the edit there. I went to Canada to edit and that kind of also gives you a kind of freedom to think and work and create. That was the reality, and now I think we have PTSD from the film. I can't film another protest. I'm sorry. I'm out. Like, it tapped me out.

There are similarities to the Black Lives Matter protests here in the US, against police brutality and violence but the slogan takes on a different resonance in places like Kenya, where the police force is particularly heavy-handed. How do you see these protests as being similar but also different?

There are two things that you learn with the film. One, our voices can never be silenced. They will try, but I think humanity is like a pressure cooker. The more you boil us, the more you put that heat, the more explosive we become. And through people like Boniface's life, you see that there are human beings who exist, who do extraordinary things.

The other thing is the idea of activism doesn't necessarily just speak to the person who's on the street. It doesn't necessarily speak to the person who's holding the placard. An activist is someone like Njere and her life, and her family. And Khadija [Mohamed, Mwangi's campaign manager]. She's such a strong and powerful activist in her own right. She was Boniface's campaign manager for free. The work they did was so powerful. And you have these other people in the background who are doing such incredible things. The sum total of what they've done is [to] instigate… We have an election next year, but I am so sure that we are going to have so many candidates who are going to be like, 'We want you to donate to our campaign. We have these values and beliefs; this is what we want to do.' That is how we need to go about change or add on to the conversations of change.

The same thing that's happening with the Black Lives Matters movement. Yes, there are people going to the street and we should keep going to the street. But we need to push people to engage in policy and make sure these policy changes are made.

We need to stand for what we believe in, as filmmakers in spaces where we feel oppression exists. Like the rules that have come out with the Academy Awards, these are rules that should be celebrated because they add on to that conversation of diversity and representation. All these things—that sum total—is what makes the difference. It's going beyond the streets and going beyond our Tweets, going beyond our Facebook messages, making films and sharing films. We just need to keep pumping up the volume, keeping the heat up, keep pushing. It's gonna take a while, but we'll get there.


Photojournalist-turned-politician Boniface Mwangi during a protest in Nairobi, Kenya Photo courtesy of Sam Soko


That's where you as a filmmaker come in—this film was the first Kenyan film to get into Sundance, where it won a special editing prize.

There's another film I'm producing and, and, yes, I had my film at Sundance, that's great. But there's this other filmmaker who's making another film, and it's so cool, and this is the thing—we need to keep bouncing off this energy and this light and this vibe, and just keep pushing and making sure that the wheels keep turning. That's what we're all about.

How do you renew your strength, as a filmmaker but also as a Kenyan and as an African?

Being a Kenyan is hard. I think being an African is hard. Like, it's hard. There's a line I heard Boniface say once: 'I love my country, but I am afraid of my government.' But the way in which, personally, I find energy is when I meet new filmmakers, or you know, people who are like starting out and they want to make films that sound totally crazy. And they believe that they can do it. And I'm like, 'yes, yes, keep going!' We are planning to do a premiere. We have not confirmed the date yet but we're thinking it's around going to be early October in Kenya, because Kenyans haven't watched it. The government gave us an adult rating. They're putting us on the same level as porn.

This is the same government that banned Wanuri Kahiu's Rafiki because of its homosexual theme…

Exactly, that's what we're getting but the lemonade that we've made out of all this is, 'Guess what? This is cinema!' We're going to take it to a cinema. People are going to come to watch it in a cinema or watch it at home or watch it in the best way possible. And the people who've watched it have appreciated it as a film and a story, and their story. They've seen a reflection of themselves. That gives me so much joy because the Kenyans who've watched it, when they give you feedback, they say, this is truth; this is our truth. And they don't see just an activist. They see a couple struggling with love. They see our history in the last 10 years. And they're like, 'What the hell, we lived this?' and they see the things that are unresolved — and many things are unresolved. Seeing that reaction gives me so much strength and hope. But it's hard. It's very hard. Because, you know, you have to wake up and see the policeman getting a bribe. And you're like, 'Homie??'


"SOFTIE" Movie Poster



Watch the trailer for Softie here.

Softie | Official Trailer | A film by Sam Soko www.youtube.com

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Whoisakin Channels His Love For Anime In the New Video For ‘Magic’

The single, featuring Olayinka Ehi, comes off his latest EP Full Moon Weekends.