In Conversation: Africa’s queer arts residencies – “Building bridges for empathy and cultural innovation”

In this instalment of Beyond the Margins’ ‘In Conversation’ series, Carl Collison speaks to the founders of three queer-led – and largely queer-focussed – African arts residencies. Collison, one of the co-founders of South Africa’s Purple Mountain Arts Residency, spoke to Va-Bene Fiatsi, the multidisciplinary performance artist, who established Ghana’s perfocraZe International Artist Residency, and Tanlume Enyatseng, the founder of Botswana’s queer arts initiative, Banana Club. The three were joined by Matthew Blaise Nzwozaku, the Nigerian queer rights activist, and founder of Obodo. 

In this conversation, the four speak about their reasons for establishing their residencies, the challenges in running queer initiatives in their respective contexts, and why, despite these difficulties, they continue to forge ahead. 

Carl Collison: As a brief intro, could each of you maybe introduce your residency and why you started it? Let’s start with Va-Bene, because she has been running her residency the longest. She’s our grandmother (laughs). 

Va-Bene Fiatsi: (Laughs) Yes… So, I’ve been working in the arts and activism for more than a decade now. And I would say that, as much as I studied painting and sculpture [at] university, my call [toward] performance arts actually came as a protest and an activism in public spaces… After a couple of years, I decided to create a space that can actually radicalise the arts; that can bridge the gap between arts and the people, and also [between] queer families and so-called ‘ordinary’ Ghanaian families. 

The residency was launched in 2018 and has hosted over 200 participants. Artists are encouraged and empowered to develop their own language. Also, it’s a way for people to rediscover their own voices as either artists or queer persons. And I would say the space has since become a kind of refuge for a lot of queer people who are not even artists, [because] we also accommodate several people in the space who are looking for shelter and to continue their education. I am funding and sponsoring these young people. Some of them are in university; some are learning a trade. They live and eat in my house. So, I’ve become a mother of many during this residency programme and project.

Tanlume Enyatseng: I started Banana Club five years ago. At the time, [same-sex relations] hadn’t yet been decriminalised in Botswana, [so] a lot of people would come up to me and be like, ‘We need a space where we can discuss this, because we’re in the works of decriminalising’. So, I decided to start Banana Club, which initially was meant to be just for dialogues between the [LGBTIQA+] community and allies. 

Then, about two or three years ago, we formed the Banana Club Artists Fund, [because] for us, it was like, ‘How do we change the socioeconomic conditions of queer artists in Botswana?’ So, we identify an artist, we give them funding, we [pair] them with another queer professional who we feel would be best fitted for whatever industry they’re in.

So, the very first one was a fashion designer, Troy Gabolwelwe, and we teamed them up with Anwar Bougroug, a fashion designer from Morocco, who is based in Dubai. So, that was the first one. We’re in our third year now, which has probably been our most ambitious and biggest residency yet. And the proposal that the artist, Mbako Kago Moemise, brought forth was that they wanted the exhibition in their grandmother’s home, because a lot of times…we aren’t accepted at home. So, we did that. We had a great attendance. We put the flyer out and, within two hours, we were fully booked. 

With our residency, really, we have noticed in the last three years that there is a need for queer artists to get funding [for projects that are] specific to us sharing the narratives we need to see. And we are attracting more funders who are interested in seeing what we are doing. At first, I think they saw us and they thought, ‘Oh, this is a bunch of cool kids who just like to get dressed up for Instagram and host events, and stuff like that’. Now they’re seeing, ‘Okay, there’s a bit more significance to it’. So, already we’ve done a bit of work in France. A publication which is also run by a queer collective in France, who are Caribbean, reached out to us and we built a network and we put a project together last year. So yeah, I’m really interested to see what the rest of the continent is up to and how we can all connect. 

Matthew Blaise Nzwozaku: It’s super interesting, everything you’ve said, Tanlume, because it really ties into what we also do in Nigeria. For me, personally, I’ve been very invested in queer activism for a very long time. And there are various ways I’ve been approaching activism as a queer person. So, in 2020, I started an organisation which was centred on space-creation for queer people and providing gender-affirming care to trans people. We ran for about two years, and due to some issues, we had to shut down, and I started Obodo. 

Before that, I’ve always had this particular interest in art and, knowing that Lagos right now has a huge, booming art and fashion scene, I just had that interest. So, I thought about it strategically: like, if Lagos has this scene and queer people actually are creating art but their identity is invisible, what if we have an initiative that tries to visualise queer storytelling?

So, we started Obodo, and the aim of Obodo is to provide financial and non-financial support to queer artists here in Nigeria, and also to give them space to create. We were able to secure some funding and we got the space, which is a rented space, and for the next three years, we’ll be upgrading the space until we find new funding. So, since the inception of this space and our organisation, we’ve done the queer artists fund. The aim of the fund is to provide financial support of about $3 000 each to artists to work on a project.

We are also not just providing artists with financial support. We also have the mentorship element where we pair them with established artists to work with them in their practice to also advise them. One of the big guys we had this year was Wolfgang Tillmans, who was the mentor for one of them and was involved in the selection of the artists. And we also have this publication element of the work we do, where we partner with queer media and also create prints of our activities. Currently, we are working with a publishing house in Germany. We are publishing a critical piece on queerness and art in Nigeria. So, it’s been an interesting process for us. 

Every year, the aim is to have at least three artists in our space and have them for a period of six weeks. It’s a fully-funded residency, so they come here, we provide them with financial support, but also link them up with local queer people in the space for them to co-create and do amazing things together. Our first resident, Jessica “Aamowi” Longdon, [is] from Ghana [and] works between Ghana and London. They worked on how queer and trans people navigate nightlife in Lagos and they made a film out of that. We’re just in our first year, so it’s challenging. But somehow we are doing it. 

Carl Collison: Thanks for that. Yes, challenges are a real thing. I know that, for the residency we established, we’re not even one year in, but I can tell you now the biggest challenge is finances. Funding is a huge thing. Also, getting community buy-in and trying to overcome my fear of queerphobia. Those are two of the big challenges, I would say. 

Va-Bene Fiatsi: The challenges for residencies in general, regardless whether queer or non-queer, are very, very big on the African continent. In Ghana, we do not have any cultural funding for residencies. However, when it is a queer residency, then it becomes more challenging because it’s like an ‘animal farm’: some are more equal than others. Most queer spaces are not commercial agencies. We are more [about] providing spaces and a kind of refuge and a voice for people. So, we do not fit into that very conservative, conventional, cultural [world] that is commercially based. So, when I started running my residency…My first ever paid work as an artist was in 2016, and that was the money I used to rent the space that I’m running right now.

Ever since, I have been so busy running around the globe – I was [recently] in Venice and now I am in Berlin – every salary that I receive is what goes back into the space. And it’s so challenging…because I don’t make a salary in Ghana. Nobody pays me for what I do in Ghana. I’m only paid for my work that I do in Europe. So, I take the resources from my work here [in Europe] and then implement them into something physical in the space there [in Ghana]. 

In January 2023, one of the embassies in Ghana decided they wanted to support a specific workshop [we were conducting]. However, we [had to sign] agreements that they want to stay anonymous, because of the queerphobia that even the embassies are facing in Ghana. 

When I think about the future of the space, I get somehow scared. Not scared for my life, but scared of what happens after I am gone, [because] I am the mother and the financial resource of the space. If I am out, then what happens to the space? Even if the Bill is signed [into law] tomorrow, how would the space continue to survive? And I think this is my biggest fear. I’m not afraid of my death. I’m not afraid of being murdered, but [rather of] what happens to this space when I go…Yeah. So, I will say this challenge is quite big. 

Also, one of the biggest problems Africa is facing is that European funders do not understand the context in which we operate. So, funding is institutionally excluding African spaces because they will say, ‘This is a global funding [call]’, but [when they receive] applications from Nigeria, from Uganda, and from Ghana, [they are requesting] a legal registration document. This already is an exclusion, because in Ghana, you would not get a legal banking document as a queer space. European funding doesn’t understand that. 

On the other hand, some of the funding [calls] are also very intentional, looking for residencies or spaces that are hosting well-established people who have profiles. But our intention is not focusing on people who have profiles. Our intention is focusing on people who need to survive, who need to be radicalised, who need to be empowered. So, at the end of the day, [although] it is a residency in Ghana, it has more artists and activists coming from Europe than artists from the continent or from Ghana, because [people from] European countries – be they queer or non-queer – most of them are able to secure some funding to travel. But people who apply and are selected from [African countries] are unable to travel to Ghana. Because sometimes the flight from Cameroon to Ghana is higher than the price from Germany to Ghana. And the person traveling from Cameroon does not have the same privilege and funding as the person coming from Germany. 

So, with our residency, if you are a Ghanaian artist, I have allocated a little stipend for you. You are being fed in the residency for free. For free, totally free. You don’t pay anything. Your accommodation is totally free. All utilities that you use are free. This is just to motivate Ghanaians to be in the space. Otherwise, we will just become [a] European residency in Ghana. This is what I’m trying. This is one of the challenges to battle. 

Carl Collison: Matthew and Tanlume, let’s talk about your specific contexts. Nigeria is known to be a largely queerphobic country. It’s got that reputation, right? And Tanlume, your country’s context is completely different. Yes, there is a lot of conservatism, but you were at least fortunate to have same-sex relations decriminalised. There is some progressive movement there. So, how do you, in your respective country contexts, navigate being at the helm of a queer arts initiative? 

Matthew Blaise Nzwozaku: It’s a very scary venture. Security has been a big challenge for us, knowing that we live in a place where queerness is criminalised, and we can be put to jail for this work we are doing. So, we have to navigate this carefully. 

Also, after these three years, how are we going to secure funding for this work? Do we have to give up the space? Do we have to leave? There’s that anxiety, right? It feels isolating, somehow. Feeling like you’re alone on this journey. For us, starting this initiative…I don’t think there’s a fund that is just dedicated to queer art in Africa. I don’t know of any that’s dedicated to queer artist funding. It’s isolating. Sometimes you want to be in community with other people, strategise, talk about ways you can further expand your reach, build this network with other African queer galleries or residencies. 

I think for us, in terms of getting funding…Va-Bene, you made a very strong point. What we did is register as a generic human rights organisation, [so that] when funding [calls open], we’re able to tie it to human rights [work] and try to get the money [in that way]. The truth is, especially in West Africa, our leaders are corrupt. They are so, so, so corrupt. They are not going to fund [us], when they have not funded their stomachs. They are not funding art and culture. They will keep funding their stomachs. So, we have to rely on European funding…because I know the money would not come from Nigeria at all. 

Tanlume Enyatseng: Similarly for me, I just took the approach of, if you’re not going to fund me, if you’re not gonna look at me, I’m going to go somewhere else and look for the money. Because in Botswana, as much as we like to say, you know, things have worked out, they [still] don’t want to fund queer work. So, we just decided, ‘Okay, you don’t wanna fund us? We’re gonna do it either way, without you.’ Sometimes when I talk about how I find funding, I feel like a scammer. But this year, I was in a conversation with an organisation in the UK, and I just told them, ‘Hey, we’re doing this exhibition, we need XYZ.’ And I was fortunate enough that they were interested in doing a collaboration. We then put together a proposal and got a grant. It wasn’t the biggest grant, but in the context of it being pounds, it was a lot of money that [allowed] us to host a five-day exhibition, plus a VIP reception, and so many things that the queer community in Botswana never get an opportunity to experience.

So, I’m all for collaborating with other people, figuring out if there’s an opportunity for us to find a few coins to take an artist to Nigeria, if Matthew is willing to host them. Or for an artist from Ghana to come to Botswana, and we host them. I feel like that’s the only way. 

Carl Collison: Everyone is talking about collaboration. Matthew spoke about often feeling like they work in isolation. And, I must say, with our residency in our rural little town, isolation is definitely a big thing for me. Tanlume said it would be amazing to get artists from different parts of the continent to come, to travel to other parts of the continent to participate in a residency. But how does one do this if one doesn’t have the funding to get that artist there? Are there ways in which there can be greater cross-border collaboration that doesn’t require in-person attendance? I’m thinking maybe online? Matthew, I see you shaking your head (laughs). You’re not happy with my question?

Matthew Blaise Nzwozaku: I mean, I do get that idea of maybe facilitating online residencies or programmes that enable people to come together. But I think there is still that need for a physical meeting of people. It’s something we can’t take away. As queer African artists, we do not have these opportunities. As queer African anything, we actually do not have this opportunity to come together within the continent. Mostly, when we meet each other [it’s] in Europe, doing conferences or such things. So, I think for us, we could do things online – workshops, talks, trainings – but the physical part is a very important component. And I would say we honestly should challenge ourselves to find money to do this work. I think it’s very important work. We just need to be more visible out there, which comes with a lot of risks; security risks. But it’s not something that is impossible. 

Carl Collison: Agreed… Final question, I guess: if someone were to ask you why there is a need for queer-centered arts initiatives – or queer arts residencies, specifically – on the African continent, what would you say to them? 

Matthew Blaise Nzwozaku: Historically, queer people in Africa have been erased, which leads to this socio-cultural problem, where people think we are not in history; we are not present in society. It makes us invisible in a way, which is a big issue that leads to this homophobia [and the] many other issues that we face in society. Art plays a huge role in cultural production [and] also changing the minds of people. And queer art and culture plays a huge role [which is] not just beneficial for queer people, but also for non-queer people, because it offers us other ways in which we can see society or imagine society. Ways that we might not have thought of. 

Va-Bene Fiatsi: For me, these queer spaces are a refuge for alternative voices. You know, they are like a sanctuary for us to recharge and for us to connect and tell our own stories. Because it’s one thing reading from mainstream media about queer people, but it is another thing meeting fellow queer persons. Because there are so many disgusting messages about the queer community. And so, meeting other queer people makes us re-embrace ourselves…because it’s a nightmare. It’s a nightmare when you hear what people say about the queer community.

Tanlume Enyatseng: I’d say it’s important because visibility and intentional inclusion aren’t just buzzwords. They’re lifelines. The art world, like much of society, has glaring gaps: pay disparities based on gender and race, limited opportunities for queer creatives, and a lack of platforms that truly embrace diverse narratives.  

Queer-centered residencies aren’t about exclusion; they’re about creating a space where queer artists can exist and create without compromise. Studies consistently show that representation fosters understanding and shifts societal perceptions. By empowering queer voices in the arts, we’re not just addressing historical erasure, we’re also building bridges for empathy and cultural innovation.  

Giving someone power in this context means providing them with the resources, mentorship, and visibility to tell their stories authentically. For me, queer-centered residencies aren’t just necessary – they’re also transformative for the artist…and the communities they represent.