When people think about African spirituality, a lot of them still picture “witchcraft,” dark rituals, or some scary movie scene.
But the truth is, that image didn’t come from us. It was built. On purpose.
Before colonization, Africans had complex spiritual systems that connected everything: Ancestors, land, nature, and Creator. Every tribe had its own version. Some called the Creator Olodumare, some called them Mwari, others Nyame, or Were Khakaba like my own people, the Luhya of Kenya.
Our spirituality was about balance. It was about relationship to our Ancestors, to the earth, to the divine. We didn’t need to go to a building to meet God. God was everywhere: in rivers, trees, fire, air.
Then came colonization and missionaries.
They brought a story where everything African was “dark,” “evil,” and “primitive.” They took our symbols and rituals and flipped their meanings. A calabash used in ceremony became “witchcraft.” Ancestor veneration became “idolatry.” Drumming became “devil music.”
Language played a big role too. In many African languages, there wasn’t even a word for “devil” or “hell” before missionaries came. The idea had to be imported. They translated our gods into “demons,” our healers into “witch doctors,” our sacred sites into “shrines of darkness.”
And little by little, people started believing it.
Because once you get a generation to fear its own gods, you don’t need chains anymore. They’ll police themselves. They’ll abandon their roots. They’ll start to see salvation as something foreign, something outside themselves.
It’s wild to think about.
They told Africans, “Your ways are wrong. Your gods are false.” Then turned around and replaced them with saints, holy water, and incense > things not so different from what we already had.
Hollywood later took that narrative and ran with it. Movies made African spirituality look like voodoo dolls, curses, and blood sacrifice. Never showing the wisdom, the discipline, the philosophy. Just fear.
But the truth never died. It went underground, into stories, proverbs, songs, and the way grandmothers still whisper prayers to their Ancestors before sunrise.
Reclaiming African spirituality isn’t about rejecting anyone’s religion. It’s about remembering that our connection to the divine didn’t begin with colonization. It’s about seeing that what was called “evil” was often just misunderstood or intentionally twisted.
So when people say “African spirituality,” I don’t think of darkness.
I think of light.
I think of drums echoing across time.
I think of Ancestors who refused to forget who they were, even when the world told them to.
Because African spirituality was never lost, just demonized. And we’re finally remembering what was ours all along.
