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Showing You What’s Art and What’s Not in African Tech

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Some rooms don’t need to say “you don’t belong here” out loud. You feel it in the stares, in the fake smiles, in the way your name lands heavy on their tongues. And yet, you stay. Not because you love the performance, but because rent is always due.

This week, I’ve been thinking about what it takes to keep showing up in spaces that were never built with us in mind. The masks, the microaggressions, the quiet rebellions tucked between martinis.

So here it is: a field note on belonging, pretending, and the dangerous hope that maybe one day, these rooms will need us more than we need them

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Otherwise, they’ll think you’re too loud and too much.
And you don’t want that.

At any given time, your job—apart from the one you’re paid to do—is to express how grateful you are to even be considered.

They’ll tell you to sit down and act like you’ve been there before.

Who does this dark-skinned, “broke” girl think she is to tell us things?
Why is she in a room she clearly doesn’t belong to? Who invited her?

And you will learn to perform. To be exactly what each moment needs you to be.

They will think you’re funny until you challenge their ideas.
Then it’s: how dare you?

And you’ll remember the Obama podcast where he says a lot of the people in these “smart, powerful” rooms aren’t even that smart, actually.

You’ll look around the space you’re currently sitting in and see he was right.
Apart from buzzwords, these people truly are not saying anything.
And you will judge them for it.

And then you’ll find a quaint, uncelebrated corner. Mostly full of African founders with no noise. But more than their billion transactions per second, these people know your name.
They’ll say: “How fun to finally have a face to the hot takes. You are so brave! I wish I had half your balls.”

You will wonder if there is some shade in those backhanded compliments.

But you’ll smile and say thank you because you have home training.

And you’ll be very confused because this very bravery is what you are also disliked for.

You ask them how they are loving this event and they proceed to give you a PR answer. Whatever happened to human connection?

Luckily, the open bar is live, and a few drinks in, their masks fall.
They tell you how much they hate it here. How they’re pandering to the racist people who think they know Africa better than Africans—because they have to.

So when they are finally “somebody”, and their companies are funded, these racists will be begging to have a piece of them.

But when they go home, they are disgusted at themselves for how low they have to stoop. Still, the end justifies the means.

You say your goodbyes and decide to pace around. And you meet this white guy coming in the opposite direction who makes a face that can only be interpreted as a microaggression. You know racism when you see it. You’re just surprised it’s happening in your backyard.

If this were Jim Crow, he would have spat on you. But he walks by. And you laugh at his cowardice. He wants to call you a nigger with a hard “r” so bad. But that would not match the persona he has so carefully curated to be Pan-African. He even wore a dashiki today to show just how Pan-African he is.

But your hate is a long-term investment. And you will be there when his racist group chats finally leak. He can fool everyone, but not you.

You walk to the bar and meet your old friend. He has a habit of pandering too, but he also wins every time. Today he is especially emotional because somebody told him his startup has five years max before OpenAI releases a feature that does exactly what he does.

“I think these guys are losers back home and that’s why they come to Africa to tell us what to do. If they were that good, they’d be on Forbes—but they aren’t.” He is suddenly so Pan-African.

He goes on: “The Africa they speak about is the one that fits into the image they’ve curated in their heads, abi.”

His rant is Shakespearean, and you’re doing a good job of listening. You wish your boyfriend were here to see that you are, in fact, a good listener.

And your martini is ready, so you both walk to the parlour. He is still speaking and all you’ve said so far is, “Yeah.”

“Do you think we have a thing against foreign founders leading our companies?” You pause for a minute before you answer.
“No, we loved Bob Collymore. I think we just hate the assholes.”

He continues his rant, and your mind drifts. You wonder what life would have been like if you had followed your heart and became a chef. You’d probably be Java’s guest chef this month.

Tech is pretentious.

It’s full of know-it-alls. But this is the path you chose, out of a million you could have taken.

And somehow, you are becoming one of these people too. Because last week when your best friend’s house caught fire, your first thought was the KPI you have tomorrow—because this inconvenience may put your job at risk.

You’ve lost Ubuntu. Do you even have the moral authority to write about Pan-Africanism anymore? You ask yourself.

Then you say: Let me call Joe. We haven’t spoken in years.

And after a few awkward interactions, he’ll affirm that you aren’t truly happy if your happiness comes from a job, or from external sources, and especially from him (Ouch!).
He will remind you that no matter how good white people may seem, they are always opps.

And your grandmother would have hated them. And your maitu, who fought side by side with Kimathi, would have spat on you if she knew you were slowly turning into them.

He signs off by reminding you to fight the power and to listen to Bob Marley’s Africa Unite.

You don’t agree with him obviously. It’s why you are here too, pandering.

It’s close to midnight now and the open bar is almost closed. But not before another martini.

This might be a midlife crisis, but you say naah. You haven’t yet found the urge to play padel or run a marathon.

Still, you know there are a million other places you would rather have been.

But here you are. Because rent is always due.

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