Category: Africa

Source: The Conversation – Africa – By Fanny Georges, enseignant-chercheur, Université Sorbonne Nouvelle, Paris 3

His name is Khabane Lame, but he is known worldwide as Khaby Lame. Born in Dakar, Senegal, he is the most followed content creator on TikTok.

He became famous for video clips in which he reacts to absurd “life hack” videos with a blank, slightly annoyed face, showing the hack wasn’t needed.

At the time of writing he has over 160 million followers: a world record achieved without uttering a single word. In January he sold his brand rights for nearly US$1 billion.

But there’s another dimension to his story that the western media rarely mention: Khaby Lame is a practising Muslim and a hafiz, a Muslim devotee who has memorised the entire Quran. This after being sent to a Quranic school near Dakar at the age of 14.

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Read more: Nigerian TikTok star Charity Ekezie uses hilarious skits to dispel ignorance about Africa

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The tension between the sacred body of the hafiz and the commercialisation of the influencer’s digital life makes his journey a rich case study.

For me, as a researcher of digital identity, his online career also raises questions about turning personal data into digital assets.

From the suburbs of Turin to the top of the global stage

Khaby Lame’s story reads like a modern-day myth. Not because it’s hard to believe, but because it mirrors the core narratives of digital modernity. It starts with hardship, goes through a period of creative isolation and ends with global recognition.

This is what the French thinker Roland Barthes called “mythical speech”, a story that seems natural and simple, but is actually shaped by deeper forces and structures.

In 2020, at the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic, Khaby Lame lost his job as a factory worker. He was stuck at home and locked down in social housing in the suburbs of Turin, Italy, where his parents had moved when he was a baby.

Out of this hardship he made a simple decision: he started filming short videos. Just 17 months later, he reached more than 100 million followers on TikTok. He was the first content creator based in Europe to reach that milestone.

His story reflects the promise often promoted by TikTok that the platform can lift anyone up. All you need, it suggests, is a mobile phone, and talent will quickly be rewarded with global fame.

This should be celebrated. But the myth of instant success also needs a closer look. Behind every viral rise lie smart decisions, hard work, and the powerful, and often unpredictable, role of the platfom’s algorithm.

Comic tradition

What sets Khaby Lame apart from almost all the creators before him is the semiotic system (of signs and symbols) he invented – or rather reactivated. He brought back an old comic tradition.

Many compare him to British comedy actor Charlie Chaplin. Others see echoes of US comedian Buster Keaton. Both were masters of Hollywood’s silent slapstick comedy.

Khaby Lame revives the codes of 1930s Hollywood silent comedy cinema: mime, meaningful glances, no dialogue, and burlesque sketches (short theatrical scenes) that convey messages. But the Chaplin connection ends there, as the two men inhabit their bodies in radically different ways.

Chaplin’s films carry emotional weight, driven by social and political themes. His character, the tramp, is a poor wanderer pushing back against an unfair industrial world.

Khaby Lame’s style is closer to Keaton’s. He says nothing. He simply shows how unnecessary and complicated these internet quick fixes are. His absolute impassivity in the face of the absurd is what Keaton perfected with his famous “great stone face”.

But while the comic structure is similar, their relationship to their bodies is not. Throughout his life, Keaton remained completely indifferent to religion or metaphysics in any form. Khaby Lame is the opposite. He is a hafiz. The separation of his digital identity from his physical person is notable.

Wordless humour allowed him to build a global audience because there are no language barriers, just as silent film stars like Charlie Chaplin became global icons a century ago.

TikTok’s algorithm favours content that anyone can understand instantly. Chaplin needed a movie theatre, Khaby Lame needs only a phone and an algorithm. The mechanics are similar. The way it spreads has completely changed.

Digital identity

In January 2026, Khaby Lame’s carefully crafted expressive persona took on a new status. It became a financial asset. He sold his company, Step Distinctive Limited, for US$975 million to Rich Sparkle, a publicly traded company based in Hong Kong. The agreement includes the transfer of rights to use his image, voice and behavioural models to create an artificial intelligence-powered digital twin.

This digital twin will produce multilingual content, including material for advertising and promotions. Companies will be able to run commercials in several countries without Khaby being physically present. According to Rich Sparkle, this could help generate over US$4 billion in annual sales, especially through livestream e-commerce (a format already dominant in Asia), broadcast simultaneously around the world.

This transaction marks a turning point. Digital identity no longer merely represents a person. It becomes an asset that can be separated from the individual who created it. Now, a creator is no longer a brand ambassador, but a brand in its own right. In theory, Khaby Lame’s digital being is now legally separate from Khaby Lame himself.

The digital twin is, in this sense, the Buster Keaton body that digital platform capitalism has always dreamed of – impassive, reproducible, available across all time zones.

Signature gesture

Khaby Lame’s signature gesture is to place both palms open and turned upward. This seems simple and easy to understand, a light and humorous sign of of disbelief. But the gesture carries deeper meanings.

In Islamic tradition, as in many African cultures, this same gesture is linked to dua, the act of raising one’s hand in supplication to God. What millions of viewers read as a comic signature is also a spiritual practice.

Yet Khaby Lame’s digital double is not simply an image. It can act in his name. It can speak with his voice. It can repeat his familiar gestures. This is no longer simple representation. It is a form of transferring his way of expressing himself onto a digital system.

The same open hands, the same expressive gaze, the same voice that once recited the suras of the Quran in a school in Dakar are now the attributes of a commercial transaction valued at nearly a billion dollars.

There is an ethical question in handing over his active identity to financial markets.

An ethical question

For many young Africans, especially in Senegal, Khaby Lame embodies the possibility that digital spaces are territories where Africans can succeed, where the hierarchies inherited from colonial history can, at least symbolically, be overturned.

But the deal raises a difficult question: what does it mean to sell your digital self in a world where Black and African bodies have been used and profited from for centuries without consent and fair compensation?

Is this a win or a new form of exploitation? Can the financial benefits balance the transfer of his identity?

More African creators are building global audiences every year. That means these questions will become harder to ignore. Who owns a creator’s digital twin once it’s sold? Who set the rules for its use?

Khaby Lame is not just a social media success story. He is a revelation of the future and, perhaps unwittingly, a pioneer.

– Khaby Lame is the world’s most followed TikToker: the story of a Senegalese-born star who sold his identity
– https://theconversation.com/khaby-lame-is-the-worlds-most-followed-tiktoker-the-story-of-a-senegalese-born-star-who-sold-his-identity-276910

Source: The Conversation – Africa – By Suleman Lazarus, Visiting Fellow, Mannheim Centre for Criminology, London School of Economics and Political Science

When former US secretary of state Colin Powell took to a London stage alongside Nigerian artist Olu Maintain in 2008 and danced to a song called Yahoozee, he almost certainly didn’t know that the track is widely understood in Nigeria as a celebration of internet fraud.

The moment became a striking illustration of something my research keeps returning to: how music can carry the moral codes of cybercrime far beyond their origins, laundering them in rhythm, recognition and prestige.

Over the last ten years I’ve studied cybercriminal pathways, romance fraud, victimisation of senior citizens, business email compromise, and the cultural politics of cybercrime.

My latest collaborative study examines 40 Afrobeats songs released between 2023 and 2025, looking for themes.

Afrobeats is the broad label often used for contemporary Nigerian and west African popular music that has come to dominate global streaming culture in the 2010s and 2020s. Driven by artists such as Burna Boy, Wizkid, Davido, Tems and Asake, it has grown from a regional sound into a global cultural force, filling arenas, winning major awards and shaping youth culture far beyond Africa.

Yet some of what travels with Afrobeats is more ambivalent. In the Nigerian context, the cybercrime most often referenced in music is linked to Yahoo Boys, a popular term for online fraudsters involved in scams such as romance fraud and advance fee fraud. In some lyrics, these figures are framed not simply as offenders but as resourceful hustlers or icons of success.

The songs in our study all contain explicit references to online fraud. All were performed by male artists. And all were globally available on platforms like Spotify, Apple Music and YouTube. What we found goes well beyond glorification. Afrobeats, we argue, is functioning as a moral text – one that actively rationalises, spiritualises and normalises cybercrime for millions of listeners worldwide.

In other words, some of this music is doing more than making crime sound cool. It is helping listeners make sense of online fraud as acceptable, even justified. It wraps criminal behaviour in the language of hustle, survival and divine favour, making it feel not just normal, but earned. And because Afrobeats is now heard everywhere, these ideas are travelling with it.

More than just ‘hustle culture’

It is tempting to dismiss fraud themed lyrics as bravado. They can seem like a form of performative edginess, not unlike gangsta rap. Gangsta rap is a branch of hip hop in which hustling, toughness and street survival became both narrative material and cultural style.

But that reading misses the depth of what’s happening. Our analysis shows that these songs use subtle rhetorical moves to present fraud as something other than wrongdoing.

One of the most pervasive techniques is what researchers call euphemistic labelling. Fraud is rarely called fraud in Afrobeats songs. It becomes “hustle”, “grind” or “blessing”. Lyrics frame scamming as honest work blessed by God, stripping away its moral weight. In one track, the phrase “work and pray for the payday” wraps a reference to cybercrime in the language of religious devotion and diligence.

Victims fare even worse. In these songs, they are rarely granted humanity. They become “maga” or “mgbada”, terms linked to the Igbo word for antelope, casting the fraudster as hunter and the victim as prey. In this language, victims are no longer people to be harmed, but targets to be chased: “clients”, “profiles”, even “cash cows”. We argue that this dehumanisation is not incidental. It makes exploitation feel rational, even honourable.

God, juju, and the spiritual economy of fraud

Perhaps the most striking finding in our research is the pervasiveness of what we call cyber-spiritualism. Across multiple tracks, success in online fraud is framed not as a product of skill or cunning but as a matter of divine favour and ritual protection.

This aligns with a broader phenomenon scholars have documented in Nigeria known as “Yahoo Plus” or cyber spiritualism, a variant of internet fraud in which digital scamming is combined with spiritual practices such as juju rituals, charms and incantations. The idea is that metaphysical forces can be mobilised to manipulate victims, attract luck and protect perpetrators.

What is striking is how openly some of these beliefs appear in music. One track includes lyrics invoking Aje – a Yoruba deity associated with wealth – while another frames a ritual object (“soap”) as essential spiritual insurance for a fraudster. Another song merges Islamic thanksgiving phrases with references to successful scam transactions, as if divine gratitude and financial crime can occupy the same moral space. Fraud, in this framing, is not a choice. It is destiny.

Why this matters beyond Nigeria

The genre now circulates across continents, through algorithms and playlists, reaching audiences who may know little about Nigeria’s specific struggles. These include a high unemployment rate, elite corruption, and the longer afterlives of British colonial rule. In some of these lyrical worlds, fraud is not framed simply as greed but as a way of taking back from a global order understood to have first taken from them. Similar justifications also appeared in interviews with active scammers in Ghana.

The fraud narratives in these songs emerge from real and painful structural conditions: blocked opportunities, absent institutions, the pressure on young men to provide for their families. Understanding those conditions is essential. But as these lyrics travel globally, they become detached from their context. For diasporic or international listeners, “maga don pay”, meaning “the senseless animal has paid”, stops being a commentary on poverty and starts sounding like a lifestyle aesthetic, a marker of ingenuity, cosmopolitan hustle and transgressive cool.

Our research also reveals a telling career dynamic. Emerging artists lean heavily on fraud references to establish credibility and street authenticity. More established artists tend to drop them as their careers develop. Fraud talk, in other words, is a currency for those still trying to break through. This makes it all the more concentrated among the youngest, most influential voices in the genre.

What should be done?

I want to be clear: this research is not a moral panic about Afrobeats. The genre is not responsible for cybercrime, and reducing it to a crime soundtrack would be both inaccurate and deeply unfair to its richness and complexity.

But music is never politically or morally neutral. When lyrics consistently dehumanise fraud victims, frame exploitation as a divine blessing and circulate these ideas to hundreds of millions of people, the cultural consequences are real. My previous study on scammers and their allies reports on that.

Streaming platforms must take seriously their role in amplifying these narratives. Policymakers, educators and the music industry itself need to understand the moral ecosystems in which cybercrime thrives.

– Afrobeats celebrates cybercrime and it’s becoming a global problem
– https://theconversation.com/afrobeats-celebrates-cybercrime-and-its-becoming-a-global-problem-277543

Source: The Conversation – Africa – By Nadia Zahoor, Associate Professor, Queen Mary University of London

The informal economy is the basis of everyday economic life across sub-Saharan Africa. In Ghana, as in many low- and middle-income contexts, a lot of retail trade, food distribution, artisanal production and service provision happens outside formal regulatory frameworks.

Women occupy a prominent position in this world. They trade in open-air markets, process and sell foodstuffs, produce garments, provide hairdressing services and manage micro-enterprises that sustain households and anchor local economies.

Many do this work because they haven’t been able to get an education, a formal job or formal finance.

The informal economy is easier to enter – but also less secure. Enterprises tend to work without firm tenure, enforceable contractual protections or social insurance mechanisms. Income streams are volatile, exposure to risk is routine and it’s difficult to expand the business.

Despite these challenges, women’s informal enterprises play an important developmental role. They generate income where few alternatives exist, finance children’s education and contribute to local supply chains.

Public debates often portray them as vulnerable victims of poverty or as heroic symbols of resilience.

Both pictures oversimplify a far more complex reality.

We are researchers specialising in gendered entrepreneurship and informal economies. We conducted a study to explore how women in Ghana with low or no formal education sustain businesses where they are at a disadvantage, and how they deal with being portrayed as “weaker vessels”.

The research sheds light on what entrepreneurship looks like when resources are scarce, institutions are fragile and gender norms remain powerful. Our findings show resilience, as well as the hidden costs of survival in an economy where formal support systems are largely absent.

Our findings suggest that by supporting women in Ghana’s informal economy, policymakers can strengthen local markets, reduce economic precarity and enhance inclusive economic growth. Informal enterprises are deeply embedded in broader supply chains and community networks. Recognising and supporting them can increase productivity, stabilise livelihoods and create spillover benefits for the wider economy.

Life on the ground

We interviewed 21 women in southern Ghana and observed market spaces. The women were invited to share stories of actions they believed had enabled their businesses to survive despite limited resources.

These conversations highlighted the advantages associated with formal education, like access to networks, skilled labour and government programmes.

We also learned how informal women entrepreneurs kept ventures going without that kind of support. The findings pointed to informal-formal collaboration as an important, if often overlooked, linkage.

Participants described an environment marked by pervasive uncertainty:

• threats of eviction

• fluctuating input costs such as wholesale food prices, transport overheads and cooking fuel

• ad hoc levies imposed by local market associations, informal gatekeepers and neighbourhood officials

• harassment by municipal authorities.

This instability shaped how they operated.

As one trader explained:

Today you are selling peacefully. Tomorrow they can tell you to move.

The women also said they couldn’t get conventional bank finance because they didn’t have collateral, formal documentation or credit histories. Instead, they relied on rotating savings and credit associations (locally known as susu), kin-based financial support and reinvestment of modest profits.

The bank will ask for papers I don’t have. So we depend on our susu (rotating savings system).

Risk diversification was a key survival strategy. Some managed multiple activities. For example, they combined food vending with petty trading or seasonal commodity sales.

If one business is slow, the other one helps.

Equally critical were dense social networks. Fellow traders provided short-term loans, shared information about changes in prices and regulations, and offered psychosocial support.

Informal subcontracting relationships with formal enterprises sometimes provided extra income streams. This showed that informal entrepreneurship is embedded within broader economic circuits.

Participants also had to deal with people’s ideas about women as inherently fragile or dependent. Yet women’s survival depends on physical endurance, negotiation skills and financial acumen. One market trader put it this way:

If you are weak in this market, you cannot survive.

Rather than openly rejecting what people expected of women, some used those ideas to their advantage. They framed entrepreneurial activity as caregiving. This made income-generating work look more socially and morally acceptable.

I tell them I am doing this for my family. Then people accept it.

The women also spoke of the physical and psychological strains they worked under. They managed multiple income streams, absorbed market shocks and fulfilled unpaid care responsibilities.

Implications

Several recommendations emerge from our study.

First, informal women entrepreneurs should be formally recognised and supported. Simplified registration processes and flexible regulatory frameworks can help reduce barriers to formalisation. They can also give access to legal protection, institutional support and market opportunities.

With legitimised informal businesses, women would be able to operate more securely and plan for sustainable growth.

Second, access to context-sensitive finance is essential. This could include microfinance schemes, low-barrier credit products and support for community-based savings mechanisms.

Third, targeted capacity-building and social support programmes would help. This could include:

• literacy and context-sensitive training in business management, financial literacy and digital skills

• social protection measures like affordable childcare and healthcare access

• time-saving interventions such as improved water and energy infrastructure.

Finally, links between informal and formal sectors need to be strengthened. Policies that encourage collaboration through subcontracting, supply chains or networking platforms can improve income stability, access to resources, and long-term business sustainability.

These measures can create an enabling environment where women’s informal enterprises don’t just survive, they thrive, and contribute to economic development.

– How do women entrepreneurs survive in Ghana’s informal economy? We went to a local market to ask them
– https://theconversation.com/how-do-women-entrepreneurs-survive-in-ghanas-informal-economy-we-went-to-a-local-market-to-ask-them-277634