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In recent years, conversations about African traditions have grown louder—many of them happening outside Africa itself. Western documentaries, academic journals and social media platforms regularly weigh in on what should or should not continue on the continent. 

From female initiation rites in Southern Africa to labia elongation (locally known as okusika) in Uganda, Rwanda and other countries, a common thread runs through these debates: the assumption that someone needs to decide what parts of African culture are worth preserving and what parts should be thrown into the flames of “modernity.”

But here is the question no one seems to pause and ask: who gets to decide?

Is it Africans—living the culture, navigating its contradictions and carrying its memory? Or is it the Western gaze, peering in with clinical distance, often armed with half-truths and “good intentions”?

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To understand this cultural crossroads, we must begin by acknowledging the long shadow of colonialism. For centuries, colonial administrators, missionaries and anthropologists acted as arbiters of what was “civilised” and what was not. They catalogued, judged and erased. They did not just take resources—they rewrote identity. From dress codes to languages to gender roles, Africa was not just conquered—it was rebranded.

Fast forward to today: the branding continues, albeit under a different guise. Now the conversation is cloaked in the language of human rights, feminism and development. 

And make no mistake, many of these concerns are legitimate. No tradition—African or otherwise—should be immune to scrutiny. Some practices do cause harm. Others were birthed in contexts that no longer exist.

But here is the danger: when critique comes from those outside the culture, especially those who benefit from centuries of cultural domination, it easily becomes a form of neo-colonial control. When Western media reduces okusika to “barbaric genital mutilation” without understanding its meaning, purpose or agency, it is not just analysis—it is erasure. It strips African women of voice, choice and context.

Practices like labia elongation sit in a grey zone. They are not universally enforced nor universally rejected. In Buganda and parts of Rwanda and Congo, okusika is passed on from aunties to nieces as part of Ssenga (auntie) education—a rite meant to prepare girls for adulthood, intimacy and marriage. 

From female initiation rites in Southern Africa to labia elongation (locally known as okusika) in Uganda, Rwanda and other countries, a common thread runs through these debates: the assumption that someone needs to decide what parts of African culture are worth preserving and what parts should be thrown into the flames of “modernity.”

It is often described by participants as empowering, intimate and voluntary. Yet others view it as unnecessary, invasive or a form of conditioning shaped by patriarchal expectations.

So where do we draw the line?

The truth is—there is no single line. Cultures are living, breathing organisms. They evolve. They clash. And sometimes they contradict themselves. What might feel oppressive to one African woman might feel empowering to another. And both are valid.

What is not valid is outsourcing this conversation to outsiders who neither speak our languages nor live our realities. Outsiders can critique. They can support. But they cannot dictate.

There is also a glaring double standard at play. Western societies continue to perform painful body modifications—from Botox injections and breast implants to labiaplasty and gender-affirming surgeries—often without criticism. These are framed as “choices,” “empowerment” or “modern medicine.” But when an African woman makes a choice rooted in tradition, it becomes “oppression.” Why?

The answer lies in power. Who controls the narrative? Who gets to be seen as enlightened? Who gets to be pitied?

Africans are rarely allowed complexity. Our traditions are either romanticised or demonised. Rarely are they allowed to simply be.

So, who decides?

Ultimately, the only honest answer is this: We do.

We—the women and men who live in these cultures. We—the generations that inherited both the glory and the guilt of our traditions. We—the youth who must decide which fires to keep burning and which ones to extinguish.

Cultural reform should not come from a place of shame. It should come from within. Through honest dialogue. Through education not condemnation. Through remembering that we are not just survivors of history—we are the authors of tomorrow.

Africa does not need to be rescued from its traditions. It needs room to breathe, reflect and choose. The decision to keep or discard must be ours—and ours alone.

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