In The Wretched of the Earth, anticolonial theorist Frantz Fanon warned that Africa’s postcolonial bourgeoisie would co-opt the symbols of Black liberation to advance their own narrow agendas, ultimately failing to break both the psychological and material chains of colonialism. Fanon’s prophecy has proven true: African political leaders not only have seized power to replicate colonial structures of oppression through extractive capitalism and corruption, but also found willing collaborators among the African diasporic elite, distorting pan-Africanist ideals for personal gain.
There is a longstanding legacy of celebrity being used as soft power in cultural warfare to sanitize and exploit Africa, ultimately manipulating the postcolonial divide. As noted by author Frances Stonor Saunders, the US government recognized the role of music and the arts as a covert strategy to win hearts and minds, resulting in a “cultural Cold War.” This took place in1960, referred to as the “Year of Africa” against the backdrop of 16 African nations gaining independence, as African leaders such as Patrice Lumumba and Kwame Nkrumah became global icons of postcolonial freedom. Fearing a united African front, as well as the perceived growing threat of communism, the CIA deployed musicians like Louis Armstrong and Nina Simone as “jazz ambassadors” of goodwill and freedom to counter the Soviet’s message highlighting the racism in America.
This stirred an ethical dilemma for Black American artists, who were tasked with presenting a false image of racial harmony in the US which didn’t reflect their lived experience or moral standings under Jim Crow racism. Armstrong initially refused to participate in the state-sponsored musical tours of Africa until legal progress was made on civil rights. The jazz ambassadors’ contradictions between being civil rights activists while playing a role in continental Africans’ plight was shown brilliantly in the critically acclaimed documentary Soundtrack to Coup d’Etat. Though these events didn’t happen in succession, the film’s timeline brilliantly links events such as Armstrong’s visit to Congo just as Lumumba was placed under house arrest and the CIA invaded Congo. This provides both a striking and useful analysis of how these musicians potentially provided a smoke screen for the CIA’s foreign interference, leading to Lumumba’s assassination.
These celebrity-backed private-public partnerships have recently been reignited by Ghana’s Year of Return in 2019, a government-led initiative positioning Ghana as a premier destination for African Americans and the African diaspora to reconnect with their ancestral roots after four centuries of separation due to chattel slavery. In 2019, tourism in Ghana accounted for 10.3 percent of the GDP, a significant increase from 3 percent in 2016. Soon, the Ghanaian government began welcoming high-profile celebrities such as Chance the Rapper and Meek Mill as unofficial ambassadors, promoting “experience-based tourism” through festivals and restored historical sites.
Kenya does not have a documented dedicated tourism strategy targeting the diaspora in the same fashion as Ghana, who launched a dedicated diaspora affairs unit under the oversight of former President Nana Akufo-Addo. In 2021, however, Naomi Campbell—who has frequently associated with infamously corrupt members of the global elite such as Jeffrey Epstein and former Liberian president Charles Taylor—was controversially appointed Kenya’s tourism ambassador at a time when the sector was struggling due to COVID-19 restrictions.
Campbell is far from the exception in recent controversial investments from celebrities throughout Southern and East Africa: British actor Idris Elba, who has advocated for building Africa’s film industry, was allegedly awarded over 80 acres of land in Zanzibar by the Tanzanian government to construct modern film studios, during a political context where political freedom is critically absent for Tanzanians, especially those arrested on petty pretenses such as using “strong words” when simply criticizing President Suluhu Hassan. Moreover, John Legend also chose to perform at the Global Citizen festival in Kigali, despite the Rwandan government’s involvement in the M23 rebel takeover in Congo. By contrast, Tems canceled her headline show in Kigali around a similar time, as she recognized it would be insensitive to Congolese people.
In defence of his decision, Legend said the following, “I don’t believe that we should punish the people of Rwanda and punish the people of other countries when we disagree with their leaders.” While it is certainly true that not all Rwandans support their government’s political choices, cultural boycotts have proven to be highly significant in holding oppressive regimes accountable, such as the boycott that led to the apartheid South African government’s exclusion from the Olympics. Congolese people’s need for solidarity at a time when Rwanda’s role in the conflict is still invisibilized is markedly more urgent than the Rwandese people’s desire for a glamorous multimillion-dollar concert. Given the context, these high-profile moves reinforce the perception that their governments prioritize wealthy outsiders over their own citizens, an all-too-familiar pattern reminiscent of gentrification.
American singer and farmer Kelis is the latest celebrity to venture into East Africa, purportedly under the guise of sustainability. She often markets her videos on her instagram account through short-form reels wearing no makeup and casual clothing, coupled by hashtags like #SupportBlackFarmers and #FarmLife, presenting herself as a relatable “girl next door” type of favorite lifestyle influencer. The artist and businesswoman recently expanded her entrepreneurial efforts after purchasing land in Kenya with the stated intention to establish a large-scale commercial farm surrounded by wildlife. To honor this announcement, she took to social media once again, branding herself a “pioneer,” and wearing a T-shirt labeled “Original Farm Owner” to emphasize this persona. On cue, this provoked mixed reactions, particularly among Kenyans concerned about farming close to endangered wildlife and disrupting natural ecosystems. While a minority of people welcomed Kelis using her platform to showcase Kenya in a positive light—arguing that she should be crowned as the new tourism ambassador for the country—amongst detractors, Kelis was quickly labeled a neocolonizer. Speculation began to spread that the land she acquired was reservation land, given its proximity to wildlife, and that she likely leveraged government connections to secure the purchase.
Though the exact whereabouts of Kelis’s farm are unknown, it’s most likely situated around Naivasha, a town named after its freshwater lake, originally inhabited by the Maasai tribe until it became a significant area for colonial development in the late 19th century. At present, the remnants of settler colonialism persist, as the area is now characterized by vast floriculture farms owned by white settlers. In response to these criticisms, Kelis clarified that the land was privately owned and purchased from a previous landowner, not from a wildlife reserve.
This defense misses the fundamental issue. Regardless of whether the land was legally available, the concern remains that these celebrity acquisitions reinforce existing patterns of wealth accumulation and land concentration. Kelis’s actions are perceived as emblematic of a broader lack of solidarity from diasporic Africans and the greater Black diaspora, who, in their pursuit of economic opportunity and connection to the African continent, risk becoming the “new wave of gentrifiers.” As Kelis continues to promote her farming enterprise, large-scale farming in Kenya remains largely reserved for white settlers and the Kenyan elite, while indigenous farmers in Kenya are disproportionately impacted by droughts and flooding, resulting in the loss of arable land for livestock and family. Moreover, Lake Naivasha’s water levels have been declining, with floriculture being the major contributor. How sustainable is Kelis’s new business venture when this land and resources could be maximized to achieve food security in a nation where more than 13 million lack secure access to food?
Beyond the material consequences, these celebrities also aid African governments to craft a progressive, aspirational image that conceals deep-seated class inequalities and the dire material conditions of ordinary Africans. In this distinctively diasporic African imagination, Kenya and other African nations become idyllic homelands, fertile lands of possibility, sanctuaries from the racial injustices of the West, and places where lost ancestral connections can be miraculously restored. “Rwanda! It feels a Utopia like #wakanda truly stunning! So lush and Beautiful! The people here <3,” said Kelis in the caption of one of her other Instagram reels, captured on a hill overlooking vast farmlands. She expresses fascination with the young children “helping and carrying stuff”—not taking into account the implication of young children carrying firewood passing by who were unknowingly featured in the video like props.
The reel feels reminiscent of a scene from a modern Out of Africa remake, bringing to mind Black feminist historian Jade Bentil’s coinage “Wakandification” to capture this “process through which Africa *as a product* is reimagined to serve the interests of representation, nation, and capital.” This romanticized Africa is depicted as pure and unspoiled, populated more by wildlife than by people, perpetuating a colonial-era narrative that erases the lived realities of African citizens. It is the Africa of book covers—the Africa of bold colors and baobab trees, devoid of the…