Culture in focus: How African photographers are reclaiming the frame

In a continent constantly photographed but rarely seen on its own terms, a quiet revolution is unfolding through the lens. African photographers are moving beyond the image as artifact; they are using it as testimony, a layered record of memory, movement, and meaning.

A newly-released photography book, ‘Weaving Stories’, offers a glimpse into that shift. Compiled by a collective of Afrocentric visual storytellers, the book threads together scenes from across the continent and diaspora - not with grand declarations, but with deliberate intimacy.

No single narrative dominates. Instead, the collection reflects what life often is: textured, sometimes quiet, and filled with cultural nuance.

There’s a woman crouched under the mid-day light, her gaze steady. A boy on a motorbike with a plastic crown. A family gathered, not for spectacle, but for supper. These are not images crafted for Western palates or NGO reports, they are made for and by those who live inside them.

This shift away from documentation and toward self-definition marks a significant moment in African visual culture. Where the camera once acted as an outsider’s tool, it is now becoming a means of cultural memory, wielded by insiders who understand not just what is in the frame, but what it means to be seen.

Photography in African contexts has always been more than aesthetic. It has served as ritual, resistance, archive. Studio photography of the post-independence era from Malick Sidibé in Mali to James Barnor in Ghana was about more than posing. It was about presence, about saying: ‘We are here, and we know ourselves.’

Today’s image-makers inherit that legacy, but their medium has evolved. The rise of digital photography, social platforms, and community-driven exhibitions has allowed a younger generation to experiment with what the image can do and what it can carry.

In Kenya, a growing number of visual artists are using photography not just to capture beauty, but to ask questions. What does heritage look like when it’s lived, not performed? How do we hold onto disappearing traditions without freezing them in time? What does it mean to photograph a community from within?

The result is a visual language that’s emotionally grounded and politically aware, one that does not seek to convince, but to connect.

What stands out in the photographs featured in ‘Weaving Stories’ and beyond is their refusal to chase nostalgia. These are not romantic recreations of a distant past. They are reminders that culture is not a costume worn for tourists, it’s a living thing.

For Kenyan cultural worker and curator Nasimango Leilah, ‘Weaving Stories’ represents a powerful intersection of art forms and a deeply political act of self-expression.

“PICHA’s book project ‘Weaving Stories’ appealed to me because it’s a mix of photography, storytelling, and publishing,” she shares. “Three things that can be used to tell our own stories, as Kenyans and Africans.”

What stood out even more, she notes, was the all-women line-up of featured Kenyan photographers: Barbra Guya, Gloria Mwivanda, Martha Nzisa, and Rading Nyamwaya.

“The topics they chose were refreshing and defying,” she says, adding; “especially given the current times in Kenya, when it’s hard to celebrate being a woman due to the rising femicide and gender-based violence cases.”

This is where the camera becomes a cultural tool. It captures the rhythm of daily rituals: hair braiding, cooking, dancing, gathering. These are practices that carry memories passed down, repeated, adapted. They remind us that heritage is not always loud. Sometimes it’s the soft clink of utensils at a shared table. Or a garment passed between generations.

In that sense, photography becomes a form of quiet witnessing. A way to say: this matters! Even when the world looks away.

It’s no accident that this moment coincides with what many are calling the “New African Aesthetic.” It’s not defined by a single look, there’s no visual rulebook. Instead, it’s characterized by intentionality. Photographers are asking: who is this image for? Whose story is it telling? And what truth does it hold?

You can see this in the works of contemporary Kenyan photographers like Barbra Guya and Martha Nzisa, who explore femininity, land, and belonging through portraiture and landscape. Or in the street photography of rising artists in Lagos and Johannesburg, who frame the chaos of city life with affection rather than critique. Their work doesn’t explain Africa. It lives in it.

At a time when so much of African culture is being digitized, exported, and reinterpreted elsewhere, these photographs stand as anchors. They’re not just about what is seen, but what is remembered and what we choose to carry forward.

Photography, in this context, is no longer a luxury or side-art. It’s a form of cultural authorship. A way of preserving, questioning, and reshaping who we are and how we’re seen by others, yes, but more importantly, by ourselves.