Because while some were praising the continent, continent, which for some reason, was almost never referred to by its name, as the place to be, the future, the land of all opportunities, others were wondering why anybody was returning.

Frequenting cyber cafés – more cyber than cafés, I would observe as young men and women walked in to ask: “What country has +212 as country code?” The answer would elucidate a well-resounding tchroooouuuu sometimes followed by the comment:

Which countries were the better kind of countries, and what placed +212 country on the list of countries whose people bothered people in search of better kind of countries?

No smear on +212, after all, it is thanks to them that we could pursue our AfCon dream. I’m only reporting on what I heard 😊

Still I sat with the desire, because it had not quite taken shape inside my mind, because I was thinking about how to give it shape without perpetuating the male-centered literature I was seeing all around me, and especially because I was getting perturbed by the narrative around the 1949 Women’s March in the colony that was then Côte d’Ivoire (when the story was actually known).

That basically 2,000 women marched on the prison in Grand Bassam to liberate their husbands whose number didn’t even reach 10.

I wondered if that was the whole story. If layers were not missing. These women were beaten, sprayed with water cannons plunged directly into the sea, trampled upon with horses, thrown into jail. Who were these magnificent men? Did they leave us grandchildren? Or great-grandchildren? I asked for a friend.

What would be the point of setting up a literary venture that nobody was seemingly needing if it were to peddle the same discourses? That question got answered during the first week of my Mandela Washington fellowship when during our country presentations, one of the participants, a gender activist working with teenage girls, took us through the great exploits undertaken by the great men of his country.

Maybe he thought I was joking for he answered in jest, “the First Lady.”

And that was when I decided that this library I had been thinking about on and off for some three years now would be dedicated to the works of African and black women. Because this man replying to me today in jest, “the First Lady” will be the first to complain of femocracy when the First Lady starts playing the role he assigned to her. In the words of the song, On vous connait by Patience Dabany, we know how you operate.

That was in June 2019. I returned to Côte d’Ivoire in September 2019 and by March 2020, 1949 – for that was the only fitting name – opened its doors, and I was brutally confronted with the reality of turning a dream into reality, and maybe with my own naiveté.

Example 1: I announced on the platform that used to be known as Twitter on March 04^th, that I had been quiet because I was busy working on setting up a library, and ta-da, there it was.

(Looks like this is not the first time I have felt the need to take breaks, it would seem.)

Example 2: The next day, I got a couple of phone calls from journalists saying that they would have loved to come to the opening, but the president was making a big announcement in Yamoussoukro, and of course they couldn’t miss that, and for me to now be completely surprised because it would appear that not everyone took things literally the way I did. When I announced that 1949 would be opening its doors the following day, I meant it very literally; I didn’t mean that there would be any launch. And also, the photos were not lying; the spaces between the books had nothing to do with any aesthetics but everything to do with me opening the library with my own books.

The journalists came later, and great fun was had.

But that day, it was literally a case of opening the doors, posting a video on Facebook, putting a makeshift sign outside – because there remained no more money after all the light building work – and baking a cake. Some “mummies” in the neighbourhood and schoolgirls who were passing by saw the makeshift sign, and decided to pay us a visit, and we ate cakes and chatted, and we told them they could use the library as they saw fit.

That part wasn’t naiveté; I just chose not to rush into any programming because, well, how could there be any programming when I had never run a library before, nor the two other people I was working with then? So, we did storytelling when we had even just a child at the library, and from there, we had a storytelling club because that child brought friends, and parents paid subscription fees for their children, and a teenage book club got set up because the teenagers would stop by at the library even during recess or after classes, and then a feminist conversation club.

But of course, I couldn’t run all of these activities and maintain a somewhat active social media page – I later learned that 1949’s social media pages were not active at all, so I could do with dropping the ‘somewhat’. More on that later – and maintain my work as a literary translator, writer and feminist researcher – and maintain my family life. And also, I have always operated from my strengths – I’m not a storyteller; the other things I could do, but not if I wanted the venture to be sustainable. I also didn’t want a situation where we lost the playfulness of the storytelling club, nor have the feminist conversation club and the book club turn into, “Let’s educate these people.” I certainly also didn’t want the vocable of feminist talk peppering the different conversations taking place at the library. What does feminism look like in practice? How do we maintain our stance of deliberately positioning ourselves at the margins?

And here we talk about money.

I was investing 20% of the money I was earning from my work as writer, literary translator and feminist researcher into the venture – and that is because I’m in a privileged position of having parents who never hesitated in giving me the house to pursue “what I love”, in their words – but everything else was adding up:

- The salary of a cleaner

- Cleaning products

- Toilet papers!!!!

- The salaries of the assistants

- The various subscription fees: Canva, baby 😊

- The fees of the storyteller, and of the various moderators for the conversations, even if it were just transport fees

- Colouring pencils, printing costs

- Books – we are a library after all

- Electricity bill

- Water bill

- Internet

I could go on. In the beginning, I naively thought that maybe after a year, I would be in a position to pay myself. What on earth was I drinking at that time? Because after a year, the thinking changed and turned to: Let’s be going! At least, with the little food kiosk we had operating and the subscription fees and some of the wonderful people supporting us with funds to run the clubs, I was now only investing 15% of my own funds into 1949. It was only in October 2024 that I had no personal funds going into 1949.

It doesn’t mean that 1949 is swimming in money; after all, if we reached the stage where operationally, the library could support itself, it meant deciding that some things were more important than others, that sometimes one needs to recenter on one’s mission, and most importantly to forget any notion of getting paid. But just because I cannot get paid from running 1949 doesn’t mean that I need to kill myself in the process, and not killing myself in the process meant maintaining my non-negotiable 8 hour-sleep, bringing depth when we did any engagement on social media or in the community, and putting on activities that we could comfortably sustain. Our guiding principle always being: we are not killing ourselves.

We also decided to ignore some well-meaning advice, advice such as needing to post at least 3 times a week so that the algorithm keeps us on top.

a) What bad thing is going to happen if the algorithm doesn’t keep us on top? As a very good friend always asks, “In which way is this going to help Africa?” That became my question too. It still is.

b) We couldn’t sustainably keep such rhythm up lest we fell into posting platitude. And as I have always said, nobody forced me to set up 1949.

And there was the advice that if we needed to reach more people, well, we had to boost the posts on social media and go around the community, and share flyers, and speak at schools.

Before we even get into the issue of money – because nobody has ever designed and printed flyers and boosted posts on goodwill – of course, we went into the community, and into schools, but let’s keep in mind the fact that some of the first things to go when the structural adjustment measures hit many African countries in the 80s were libraries, among other so-called non necessary things. As such, 1949 wasn’t going to bring to life a library culture that had laid dormant, so as not to say, been non-existent for some 40 years. We are great but not that great. And then, another example of my naiveté (there are many!).

Because of the success of the storytelling clubs – that is the only reason I can come up with – we had some self-appointed community leaders approaching us with the suggestion that they could bring us even more children, but, what would they be gaining from it?

“What do you want to gain from it?”

“How much will you give us?”

And that’s when I explained that the visit to each child at the storytelling clubs and at the library on the days we didn’t have the clubs running equated to 20 CFA Francs per visit. Out of those 20 CFA Francs, how much did they want? Since I had no response, well, that was that.

There is no pot of money somewhere. For instance, up to today, we do not have the complete agreement, the legal paperwork which would make it easier for us to compete for grants; we are only operating with the récépissé de dépôt, a document that confirms that you have submitted the paperwork needed to set up an association, a document that you cannot open a bank account with. As for obtaining the full agreement, well, as we say here in Côte d’Ivoire, il faut avoir le cardio, hein, for it is an endurance matter. Some associations/NGOs have been waiting for 3, 4, 5 years.

Others, to help you, have advised on funds that might be at the Ministry. But are you supposed to just get up and go to the Ministry of Culture on some rumours that funds might be circulating? And how much funds? And the time all that will take. And what happens to my work, of running the library, of being as writer, a literary translator, a feminist researcher? Work that is not relying on rumours.

I just don’t have the time, nor the brain space. As for the fact that that is how things are, well, I need to keep pockets of time to write curatorial statements, to rest, to read. At one time, I instituted a rule at the library that nobody should bother me before 11am for instance.

“Even if it is the President, tell him that Edwige is reading. I must read otherwise there won’t be any 1949.”

And most importantly, keeping the pockets of time to do my work as a literary and feminist translator and researcher, and chase invoices (yes o!) and answer emails and spend time with friends and family. Even if some friends have felt that I do not spend enough time with them.

Hum! There is a saying in Côte d’Ivoire that says, “Not everything can be said.”

And most importantly sleep 8 hours. Because there’s a lot that lies behind running a literary venture. I’m the accountant, the content creator, the vision-holder, and sometimes the cleaner, the gardener, the person that gets called for everything: visits to the library, issues with the plumbing, issues with the writers in residence, etc.

And because not every mention of funds is preceded with “might”, I’m also the grant writer, and that means translating the vision of what I’m doing into tangible stuff, into how many people I’ll be reaching with that my knowledge production I’m doing. Because donors love shiny, measurable, neatly reportable projects, and most of them are certainly not here to fund operational costs. At least not those ones I have come across.

Then there is the double-edged visibility of feminism itself. It is a blessing that feminist discourse has made a resurgence into the public sphere, but eish, may the ancestors themselves help us. From those who pretend that they need an education into feminism, to those who regurgitate what they have heard through the sexist and misogynistic grapevines, to those who think that feminism is a trend and let’s jump on the trend and do some performative, convenient, box-ticking activities, to the defenders of “our mothers” who’ve never spoken to their mothers or to any mothers for that matter – you do know that the portrayal of Daman in The Black Child by Camara Laye is just that, a portrayal and not a fleshed-out three dimensional person, right?

As Mariama Bâ said, “nostalgic songs dedicated to the African mother are no longer enough for us.”

Every March, the invitations would roll in. Panels, keynotes, “conversations”, interviews, where while you’re not outrightly asked to provide soundbites, well, that is what you are asked to provide. Where feminism is equated to being a “strong” African woman, where the whole thing, if you stay long enough, descends into “I’m what I’m because my father raised me with no gender bias” performative talks. Basically, my father is not like the other savage (African) men keeping their daughters in bondage. Or “We would be a lot better off if half of all countries and companies were run by women and half of all homes were run by men and we shouldn’t be satisfied until we reach that goal.”

Those panels are not places where you go and speak about anti-capitalism feminism, Feminism for the 99 percent, or the destruction of the earth through neoliberalist practices. And because you still live in a capitalistic world, you think thus: “If at least I was getting paid to spout this bullshit, I could justify it, (and buy a book or two with the dirty proceeds).” But that is not the case – it is couched in language that spouting the bullshit is beneficial to YOU! After all, we are making you visible. And you wonder how invisible you really were if they could find you?

So, I stepped away. Not dramatically—just quietly. I logged off to breathe, to read, to think. Because the guiding principle of not killing myself remains. And as the roadworks still go on, although not as deafening as before but still very much present, we’ve decided to keep the doors closed a bit longer, and keep on reading, and work on our different projects. We’ll keep you posted, because stepping away doesn’t mean being idle.

The most interesting thing was last week when I posted here that I was back online, I was immediately contacted by two people for an interview. But I have nothing to say, so, I declined. And returning in a way that nourishes me, like turning my phone off at 6 p.m. and not switching it on until 9 a.m. the next day. I’m not an emergency doctor to say that because I’m saving this patient who is the world, I always need to be on the go, and on call. The world will survive, and if it doesn’t survive too, then, well.

Recently, I have been reading up on agroecology, stewardship of the commons, etc. I have started with Staying Alive: Women, Ecology, and Development by Vandana Shiva, and so many ideas are resonating with me. I’m learning that staying alive—creatively, spiritually, politically—isn’t about constant production. It’s about creating conditions for nourishment. Building quietly. Protecting the work that matters. Refusing extraction disguised as opportunity.

And finally, as we say here, if everything has to be said, we won’t leave here today, and all things must come to an end. So, I leave you here.

***

This essay was written to the sounds of On vous connait by Patience Dabany, Kalgbeu by Luckson Padaud, Hommage à Guéi Robert by Candine Ancien, Bôlè by Mamadou Djoman.

The bio is not yet translated into English - we won’t that this will soon be remedied.

But let’s come back to the matter at hand, and me coming to the realisation that I knew nothing about Mariama Bâ.

What I knew about her...

• She was Senegalese. Born in Dakar on April 17, 1929, she died in the same city on August 17, 1981, at the age of 52.

• She was the author of two novels: Une si longue lettre (So Long a Letter), published in 1979 by Nouvelles Editions Africaines, for which she won the inaugural Noma Prize for Publishing in Africa. So Long a Letter was translated from the French by Modupé Bodé-Thomas and published in the African Writers Series in 1981.

• Her second novel, Un chant écarlate was published posthumously in 1981 by the same publishing house. Un chant écarlate was translated in English by Dorothy Blair under the title Scarlet Song. This second novel was out of print in French before the publishing house Les Prouesses reissued it in 2022.

• I also knew that she was orphaned at a very early age—her mother died when she was only 4—that her father was instrumental in ensuring that she received a Western education, that she was married three times, and that she was the mother of nine children.

Basically, I knew what a quick search on Mariama Bâ would reveal.

What I didn’t know about Mariama Bâ...

• That she was an excellent jewelry designer

• That she had given up wearing western-style clothes even before becoming the author of So Long a Letter

• That it took her two months to finish her first novel after the drafting phase

• That Birago Diop, to whom Annette Mbaye d’Erneville submitted Mariama Bâ’s manuscript, cried out: “Who is this literary beast? “

• Or that Un chant écarlate was almost titled Du tertre abandonné

***

What struck me, however, as I read this biography was the immeasurable love that Mame Coumba Ndiaye had for her mother—even though she knew how to balance that love with the perspective that a biographer must have. Who else but her daughter could have written, for example, Chapter 5: She was essentially a mother, with all the anecdotes that this chapter contains?

We move away from the image of the novelist, the activist, what we think we know about Mariama Bâ, to glimpse another Mariama Bâ, a more intimate portrait of the author who deprived her children of lunch “when their grades or behavior at school were disastrous,” who “was greatly feared for her famous tantrums and who knew how to make herself obeyed immediately,” who loved her children with a “passionate love.”

In the preface, Aminata Maiga Ka writes: “She (Mame Coumba Ndiaye) does not hesitate to bring the myth of Mariama Bâ, whose novel So Long a Letter has been translated into more than fifteen languages, back to her proportions as a woman, as a human being... with her passions and anxieties. “

I think it was the fear of having to read another account of the mythical Mariama Bâ that made me hold off for so long on reading this biography. And one reason for the development of this myth could be explained by what Tobias Warner, Professor of Francophone Literature and Culture outside France, states in an article published on the University of Berkeley website: “ The other thing that is tricky with Bâ is that in some ways the novels and the criticism stand in for her because she died so tragically soon after her first novel.”

Fortunately, with this biography published in 2021 by Nouvelles Editions Africaines du Sénégal, 21 years after the author’s death, Mame Coumba Ndiaye gives us a glimpse of the pugnacity of Mariama Bâ, who in some circles has been associated with the figure of Ramatoulaye, the main protagonist in So Long a Letter. Moreover, to those who suspect So Long a Letter of being autobiographical or semi-autobiographical, she responds thus: “I have neither the greatness of soul nor the qualities of Ramatoulaye, and my life is much more intense and dramatic than that of my heroine. “

Let’s hope that this clears things up.

It has also sometimes been said that Mariama Bâ started writing late in life but, perhaps a little context is needed. At the age of 18, she wrote an essay, Petite patrie (Little Homeland), in which she already gave shape to the free woman she was:

“They have bleached my reason; but my head has remained black, my unassailable blood has remained pure, like the sun, pure, untouched. My blood has remained pagan in my civilized veins, and it rebels and stamps to the sound of black tam-tams. “

Is it any wonder, then, that she later made the political decision to renounce western-style clothing?

In 1977, we were treated to another piece of writing by Mariama Bâ, a long poem entitled Souvenirs de Lagos (Memories of Lagos); Lagos, where she went to FESTAC on behalf of the magazine L’Ouest Africain, edited by her then-husband, Dr. Obèye Diop. Incidentally, this long poem was almost lost—Mame Coumba does not mention it in her book—because it was published under the name Mariama Diop.

As to what we might consider gaps in her writing career – 1947 to 1977, then 1977 to 1981 – well, Mariama Bâ was living. She became a teacher, got married, divorced, remarried, divorced again, remarried again, and divorced.

She became a mother, and a grandmother too, and became involved in women’s activism because, unfortunately, “The Suns of Independence were not hot enough to melt the chains of African women.” But she was thinking about writing, thinking about “fixing her thoughts.”

“After the humdrum of a life as a teacher, wife, and mother, nine children who have grown up. Time is freed up. Associations where we try to achieve something. The temptation to write...”

A temptation to which she obviously succumbed. In her essay entitled On the Political Function of Written African Literature, she mentions, among other things, the “important role of the writer as an awakener of consciousness and a guide,” writing in “a borrowed language,” but also the need for women to use “the peaceful but powerful weapon that is writing” for the simple reason that “nostalgic songs dedicated to the African mother are no longer enough for us.”

And so, she wrote So Long a Letter, showing us the lives of African women from their own perspectives, and then Scarlet Song.

Mame Coumba N’diaye, in the foreword to this biography, simply states that she wanted this book to have the following goals:

• For educational reasons for those students who wanted/want to write a thesis or dissertation with ease.

• Because no study of this kind had been undertaken until then.

• To “illustrate in vivid pages one of the most fascinating figures in the history of African feminism...”

It was about time. And we at 1949books thank you greatly, dear Mame Coumba N’diaye.

The biography is of course available from Nouvelles Editions Africaines, and also at 1949books—at the library. Read or reread it and reread the novels Mariama Bâ left us.

In Senegal, every grain of rice carries a memory. And that of Penda Mbaye (1904-1984), a legendary cook from Saint-Louis, continues to add its fragrance to stories and pots. She is credited with inventing the ceebu-jën - or thiéboudiène - a dish that has become the culinary emblem of the country.

A creation born of daring and intuition

It was in Saint-Louis, the former capital of Senegal during colonial times, that Penda Mbaye improvised this recipe, designed to marry land and sea, traditional knowledge and a touch of daring. In particular, she added blended cherry tomatoes to intensify the color and flavor of the preparation. The result is a nourishing, tasty and colorful dish that first conquered St. Louis households... before seducing the entire nation.

A codified preparation, a shared ritual

Ceebu-jën - literally “rice with fish” in Wolof - is much more than a dish. It follows precise rules, handed down from generation to generation. In traditional families, the meal is shared in a common dish. Eating is done with the right hand, the bowl is held with the left, and it is forbidden to sit with the knee raised. No grain of rice may fall while eating, a sign of respect and mastery.

On the cooking side, the dish consists of broken rice simmered for a long time in a tomato sauce, accompanied by stuffed fish - often thiof or capitaine - and a variety of vegetables such as carrots, cabbage, manioc, eggplants or okra. Sometimes the taste is enhanced with guéddj, a fermented dried fish that adds depth and intensity.

Ceebu-jën: more than a dish, a living heritage

Ceebu-jën, prepared in a large pot and served at the center of the family circle, embodies the Senegalese community spirit. It unites, nourishes and connects.

In 2021, this emblematic dish was inscribed on UNESCO's Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity list, in recognition of its role in transmitting Senegalese knowledge, gestures and identity.

Penda Mbaye, between myth and memory

Although few official archives document the life of Penda Mbaye, her name is firmly anchored in the collective memory. She embodies those invisible but essential women, guardians of culture through cooking, figures of ingenuity and transmission.

Even today, chefs and cooks from Senegal and other countries draw inspiration from her to reinvent ceebu-jën, in modern or fusion versions, without ever betraying its spirit: a tribute to the land, the sea and the community.

Paulette Nardal, an unsung but essential figure in French-speaking intellectual history, played a key role in the emergence of Négritude, the movement that would redefine black identity and the anti-colonial struggle. Born in 1896 in Martinique, she was one of the first black women to study at the Sorbonne. A journalist, writer, translator and activist, she is best known for her literary salon on Rue Clamart, a space that fostered the emergence of many ideas that would leave their mark on the 20th century.

A Trailblazing Journey

Paulette Nardal arrived in France in the 1920s and distinguished herself through her intellectual and militant commitment. Born into a middle-class Martinican family, she benefited from an education that opened the doors of the university to her, something rare for a black woman at the time. At the Sorbonne, she studied English and developed a passion for African and African-American literature.

Together with her sisters, notably Jeanne Nardal, she endeavored to create spaces for reflection for the black diaspora in France. Aware of the need to structure the thinking of black intellectuals in the face of colonialism and racial prejudice, in 1931 she and her sister Jeanne launched the magazine La Revue du Monde Noir, in which she gave a voice to writers and thinkers of African descent. But it was above all her literary salon in Clamart that became the beating heart of these exchanges.

The Salon Clamart: A Crossroads of Ideas and Resistance

Housed in her home in Clamart, in the Paris suburbs, this literary salon became a meeting place for black, Caribbean and African intellectuals. In an era marked by exclusion and institutionalized racism, the Salon Clamart was a refuge where major figures such as Aimé Césaire, Léopold Sédar Senghor, Léon-Gontran Damas, or the singer Marian Anderson could meet, debate and construct emancipatory political and cultural thought.

The discussions held there addressed a variety of topics: the black condition in France, colonial heritage, African and Caribbean culture, the quest for a common identity. Paulette Nardal and her guests also discussed the work of African-American thinkers such as W.E.B. Du Bois and Alain Locke, thus contributing to a transatlantic dialogue on the black question.

The Clamart salon played a key role in the emergence of Négritude, long before the term was popularized by Césaire. Although often overshadowed by the male figures of the movement, Paulette Nardal, as Maryse Condé said, laid the foundation for what would be called “Black internationalism”. She also wrote about black feminism.

An Underestimated Legacy

While posterity has retained the names of Césaire and Senghor as the figureheads of the Négritude movement, the role of Paulette Nardal is still too often minimized. However, her salon and her journalistic work paved the way for an awareness of identity that would influence subsequent generations. She was also active in the defense of black women's rights, notably by founding the Rassemblement Féminin, an organization that campaigned for the emancipation of women in the colonies.

A victim of an accident in 1944 that left her partially paralyzed, Paulette Nardal never stopped writing and campaigning. Her legacy remains today an essential link in the understanding of the intellectual and political dynamics that shaped French-speaking black thought.

Conclusion

The Salon Clamart was much more than just a meeting place: it was a laboratory of ideas, a place where the black diaspora of the interwar period could think about its own condition and develop strategies of cultural and political resistance. Paulette Nardal, and also her sisters Jeanne and Andrée, were the architects of this, and their influence went far beyond the intellectual circles of their time. By rediscovering the work of Paulette Nardal and its impact, we are paying tribute to a pioneer of black thought, whose legacy continues to inspire today.

If you would like to read more, the publishing house rot-bo-krik published a compilation of her writings in 2024 under the title: Ecrire le monde noir (Writing the black world – not yet translated into English).

You can read it at 1949books, or purchase it from the publisher: ÉCRIRE LE MONDE NOIR, by Paulette Nardal | Éditions Ròt-Bò-Krik

The history of Côte d'Ivoire is full of outstanding female political figures, and among them, Marie Sery Koré occupies a key place. A woman of character and a committed activist, she established herself as one of the great figures in the struggle for the country's independence. She is a “woman of admirable bravery and intelligence, lacking only education,” the historian Henriette Diabaté explains in her book, La Marche des femmes sur Grand-Bassam (The Women's March on Grand-Bassam – not yet translated in English), published by Nouvelles Éditions Africaines in 1975.

An ordinary woman who became a leader

Born in the village of Gossa, in Daloa – some say she was born in 1910, others in 1912 – Marie Koré, née Zogbo Céza Galo Marie, grew up in a modest home. Like many women of her time, she did not have access to formal education. However, she developed a sharp mind, a strong ability to mobilize and an exceptional talent for political organization.

Her political engagement was shaped within the Democratic Party of Côte d'Ivoire (PDCI-RDA), a movement founded to demand an end to French colonial rule. She led the party's women's section in Treichville. Active in the RDA Women's Movement, she established herself as an influential figure in the struggle for political emancipation.

The 1949 marches: a historic turning point

The struggle of Marie Koré and the women of the PDCI reached its climax in 1949, in a context of intense colonial repression. It was following an adjanou – a traditional song of protest – that Marcelline Sibo, a palm wine seller and president of the Agni women, was arrested in the early hours of August 3rd for causing disturbance. This event provoked a swift reaction from the women who, without consulting the governing bodies of the PDCI, went to the court in Grand-Bassam the following morning and caused such a commotion that their comrade was released.

It was this victory that mobilized them to organize, in a context of public motherhood, the demand for the release of their husbands and brothers imprisoned since February 6, 1949 without trial.

Anne-Marie Raggi, President of the PDCI women’s section in Grand Bassam and one of the leaders of the march

On December 23, 1949, Marie Koré and several hundred Ivorian women went to Grand Bassam from Abidjan in groups of two or three to elude the vigilance of the colonial administration. Having noted the large number of women in Grand-Bassam, the administration had initially demanded that no car should transport more than two women. An hour later, at 1 pm, the decision was made that no car or other means of transport should take any woman going to Grand-Bassam.

“We weren't born with cars. We're used to walking. So, it costs us nothing to make the journey on foot,” Marie Koré and Lorougnon Zikaï, who lead the group of Bété women, retorted.

Their message is clear: they will not back down until their husbands, brothers and sons are released. In the early hours of December 24th, they decided to storm the prison, but the colonial administration reacted violently. The demonstrators were repressed, doused with water from hoses dipped directly into the sea, trampled by horses, beaten and dispersed. Marie Koré hurled insults, encouraging her comrades.

“My Bété, Baoulé, Dioula and sisters from everywhere, do not be afraid! Just because they throw water mixed with sand at us does not mean we should be discouraged, because a person who wants to come to the aid of her husband, her brother, her son should not stand down because of so little.”

She is arrested and thrown into prison with her daughter, Denise, whom she was carrying on her back, and sentenced to two months in prison.

A legacy not to be forgotten

Marie Koré died on February 12, 1953, at Treichville General Hospital, where she had gone to be treated for a purulent inflammation on her finger. Her face has appeared on a banknote and a postal stamp in Côte d'Ivoire. A statue in memory of the Women's March on Grand-Bassam depicts three women. One of them, carrying a child on her back, could be Marie Koré.

Her struggle and that of all the women who marched on Grand-Bassam and led the strike of Western products in 1950, helped to accelerate the independence process, although her role, like that of many women in African liberation movements, has often been underestimated.

Want to go further? We provide you with some resources

Henriette Diabaté, La Marche des femmes sur Grand-Bassam, Les Nouvelles Éditions Africaines, 1975. (French)

Genre et événement - Femmes et décolonisation en Afrique occidentale française - Presses universitaires de Rennes (French)

Militant Mothers: Gender and the Politics of Anticolonial Action in Côte d’Ivoire – Article – Elizabeth Jacob (English)

This article was written in collaboration with La Nich