


JASS Southern Africa’s Kwezi Mbandaza shares her personal reflections on what it meant to be a part of the third African Social Movement Baraza — a space for radical possibilities and movement strategies — held April 14-16, in Accra, Ghana.
My eyes are dimmed by a turbulent present but fixed on a better future — a Pan-Africanist future. One where we move, and live and love, in peace and abundance. This dream is not new. It has been imagined, held, and fought for by our ancestors, rooted in the radical memory of warriors like Yaa Asantewaa of Ejisu, who stood to lead the last great war of resistance against British colonisation in what would become Ghana.
That same dream of liberation was later articulated, and extended and fought for, by the resistance movement that built heroes such as His Excellency President Kwame (Nkrumah) who, more than six decades ago, said:
The independence of Ghana is meaningless unless it is linked up with the total liberation of the African continent.
In the land of his birth, where his bones rest, the third African Social Movement Baraza, titled “The Power of Movements”, was held. The gathering brought together activists, organisers, movement leaders, and strategists to discuss power, solidarity, and strategic movement building, rooted in African histories and futures. It served as a radical space for sharing diverse perspectives, challenging reformist approaches, and imagining transformative pathways toward genuine liberation and social justice across Africa.
The Baraza was deliberately designed as a space for political education. The care taken around representation, the inclusion of open mic sessions that made space for participation, and the blend of pedagogies — from panel discussions to song, dance, prayer, and embodied listening — all pointed to a space intentionally made vibrant and inclusive. The programme’s thematic spread reflected the shifting, complex realities of our continent.
In this moment, as in every ordinary day on Earth, life continues: the sun rises and sets; some are born, while others die. Some discover art that transforms their senses, while others create it. Birds chirp. Lovers embrace. First kisses are exchanged, both sweet and exasperating. Life, in all its mundanity and beauty, unfolds. And yet, the devastatingly ugly lies beside this, often intertwined. Legislators criminalise bodies and restrict movements. Across a continent ravaged by war, hunger, and housing crises, many do not have access to water – the body’s basic human need. From Accra, the cradle of the Pan-African vision, we held these dichotomies as we dreamt of a transformed present and a better future.
Inspiration came alive not just in what was said, but in how we showed up in voice, in presence, in connection. We heard and felt the call for a liberation agenda. It echoed as we sang together to Sam Cooke’s “A Change is Gonna Come.” We were brought back to ground by the stark truths of philanthropy and its limits—a reminder of both constraint and possibility in resourcing change work.
Comrades and colleagues rose, one by one, to speak truths rooted in pain and resistance, from the drought-ravaged provinces to oil-poisoned lands, from the ongoing pandemic of femicide to the relentless wars. There were chants for freedom and invitations to art-making that held us all. Our minds were stretched and tickled as we wrestled with the intricacies of political party work, the entanglements with the state, and the ever-present threats from right-wing and non-state actors.
As in any gathering of this nature, the limitations and blind spots require some meditation too, particularly as we continue to experiment and learn from one another. Whilst one is able to marvel at the gifts of wildly diverse points of view, we had to navigate how to reach a shared analysis and reading of the problems of the continent. Even the dictionary definitions of “power” and “movements”invited complexity and discussion. At the Baraza, we asked what we mean by “the power of movements.” This need for conceptual clarity surfaced in the gathering beginning with debates on reparations and later in the sharp rupture caused by the presence of a former minister from Burkina Faso allegedly linked to the death of Thomas Sankara. It was clear from the various places we pitched offerings and our understanding of how we read the context and political moment. Discussions were, at times, connected and cohesive, and, in other moments, disconnected and surface-level.
I did not feel like I left the space with a feeling of a shared narrative of how power organises the reality of Africans, and how to name this power, nor the kinds of power necessary to mount transformative resistance. At JASS, we understand the dynamism of power in its multiple forms. Power, its forms and definitions, are at the centre of our movement building work. In our own gatherings, one cannot avoid the intricate ways in which oppressive and destructive forms of power play themselves out.
Our small JASS delegation came with the clarity regarding these terms that we have built over years of conceptual and practical work. We also came ready to face the contradictions and be a part of shaping collective thinking. We brought the conviction that feminist, cross-movement politics matter. That working in silos drains our collective power. That power lives in practice, not just in theory. We came with a clear intention: to contribute to a politic grounded in care, clarity, connection, and a refusal of fragmentation. We brought the big questions to the plenaries: What does it mean to win? What kind of infrastructure does movement work need? How do we shift from naming violence to ending it? We helped build consensus and quietly pushed for responsiveness.
As a group, we practiced caring, listening, and knowing when to lean in and when to hold back. While participants had access to differently classed parts of Accra, we stayed with comrades. Sharing space with comrades was its own kind of organising, with late-night reflections, shared chargers, and shared food. We walked together to midnight sessions, still processing what had passed. We held doubt and disagreement. We talked about money and mourning. About rage and rest. About what we carry in our bodies when our work is about survival. These conversations mattered because they didn’t demand performance. They allowed us to simply be. Movements are made here, too.
The Baraza was not a conclusion; it was a live process. It was a convergence of memory, strategy, and urgency. A space where we asked: what kind of world are we building, and what are we willing to let go of to get there?The organising team held this tension well: that convening is not the goal – the building is. The programme moved with responsiveness, the sessions invited depth, and the open mic spaces, though sometimes chaotic, revealed the rawness and plurality of this moment.
Many questions emerged that invited us to think beyond the Baraza. We talked about the dilemmas of movement building at this historical time and place.
How do we sustain movements that are constantly asked to show up, even when we’re tired, grieving, or stretched thin? How do we build movement homes that hold our whole lives, consistently? What is our role in this shifting terrain, and what must we risk to name what no longer serves us and build something new? For example, how do we move beyond the NGO model? How has the NGO-ised language co-opted care?
To expand the dialogue around campaigns that emerged strongly on the final day, we recognized a need for more time to map how issues and struggles link up in real time across contexts. What ideas bind and bring us together, across different geographies, languages, and issues? Could a Baraza-like space convene around shared themes, like feminist economies or queer resistance, with similar depth and scale? What would a convening that big, with a clearer ideological grounding and issue focus, look like? These questions are also related to building solidarity. For example, could a Baraza focus solely on the war in Sudan, on the criminalisation of queerness, or the extraction of land and labour? Would people come?
If we take these questions to heart, the Baraza becomes not just a memory but a mirror—one that helps us see and draw strength from the past, that grounds us in the present, and that enables us to imagine better futures.
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1 Power:
2 Movements: