I recently spent time in Togo, in its coastal capital, Lomé, where I had the privilege of speaking with/listening to 23 everyday women over 60 whose lives have been irrevocably impacted by the vicissitudes of the country’s postcolonial politics.

Since Togo’s independence from France in 1960 (it was previously colonised by Germany and then partitioned between Britain and France after World War I. Coincidentally, today marks the 140th anniversary of the Berlin West Africa Conference at which major European powers negotiated and formalised claims to territory in Africa), it has had just four presidents, two of whom, father and son, have held power consecutively since 1967, 38 years and 19 years respectively.

Consequently, most of the women I spoke with have only ever known two leaders of their country in the 60-plus years they’ve been alive. Think how many presidents neighbouring Ghana has had in that time (11), or since it transitioned to democracy in 2000 (5) (I’m not holding Ghana up as an exemplar; I’m merely using it for comparison).

The pain of this political ossification, which has affected the lives of all citizens, is particularly felt by women of a certain age whose hopes for freedom in all its forms have been repeatedly dashed. Nostalgia for a more hopeful time, a hope that lies firmly in the past, characterises much of their lives. And when the memory of what could have been at the macro level collides with the present-day reality of what is on the micro level, the feeling of loss is palpable, and personal.

In this still from a short video my colleague, Seth Avusuglo captured last month, *Madame Adjovi, 80, recalls where she was and what she was doing during Togo’s struggle for independence 64 years ago, when she was just 16. Already radiant as she sat surrounded by her extended family in the compound of her home in a suburb of Lomé, she lit up as she remembered the anticipation of the time. In the video, she asks if she can sing a song the people sang in the years of struggle, “Ablodé,” which in Mina or Éwé means “independence” or “freedom.” “Ablodé Gbadja,” another variation of the song meaning “full independence,” is a state it can be argued is yet to be achieved.

I’ve now spoken in depth with over 75 women over 60 in three West African countries about the story of their lives. It’s been everything! I’m forever grateful to the National Geographic Society for believing in this project and their patience in nurturing it.

The archive of West African women’s stories is taking shape in powerful ways. I’m looking forward to finally getting it out into the world in various formats in 2025. If you’d like to get involved, do let me know.

Image: Charles Olince, translator, *Madame Adjovi, and me in the compound of Madame Adjovi’s home in Lomé, Togo. October, 2024.
📷 Seth Avusuglo