There is a story Africa is told about itself. It goes like this: we do not invent. We do not create. We consume what others build, adopt what others design, import what others manufacture. Our role is to provide raw materials and wait for technology to arrive from elsewhere.
This story is convenient—for those who benefit from it.
Because the truth is the opposite. Africa does not lack innovation. What we lack is the will to keep it.
The machine Nigeria built and forgot
In 2021, Nigeria’s Raw Materials Research and Development Council (RMRDC) did something remarkable. They developed and patented an automated rapier weaving machine for commercial Aso‑oke production. This was not a small achievement. The machine worked. It produced large quantities of fabric with more consistent results than handwoven Aso‑oke. The technical breakthrough was significant: they modified the conventional rapier head from single weft insertion to multiple weft insertions in a single shed. The RMRDC stated the project would “catalyse the establishment of automated weaving loom manufacturing industries in Nigeria with attendant huge investment and employment opportunities.”
That was 2021.
Today, there is no evidence the machine was commercialized. No evidence it was licensed to manufacturers. No evidence it was scaled. The patent exists. The prototype exists. But where are the Nigerian-made automated looms? Where are the jobs? Where is the industry that was supposed to follow?
This is not a failure of invention. It is a failure of will.
The mycelium Ghana showed the world
In Ghana, Zarouk Imoro developed something that should have made headlines across the continent. An environmental technologist, he created “Myco-Substitutes”—a system that uses fungi to treat faecal waste and produce mycelial thread as an alternative to cotton or synthetic thread, and fungal mycelia leather as an alternative to animal hide. The process is elegant: bacteriophages remove bacteria from faecal sludge; fungi feed on the remaining waste; toilet paper in the sludge acts as a carbon source for mycelial growth. Ten litres of sludge produces 500 grams of mycelia.
Imoro won the “One to Watch” award at the Royal Academy of Engineering’s Africa Prize. International attention followed.
But here is the question that no award can answer: has the innovation been patented? Not in Ghana, as far as the public record shows. Not internationally. The technology is visible, recognized, celebrated—and legally exposed. Anyone, anywhere, can replicate it, refine it, and patent it elsewhere. The knowledge may leave Ghana not because it was stolen, but because it was never protected.
This is not a failure of creativity. It is a failure of protection.
The pattern we refuse to name
These two cases—Nigeria’s abandoned loom, Ghana’s exposed mycelium—are not isolated. They are symptoms of a continent-wide pattern.
We fund research without funding scale-up. We celebrate innovation without securing ownership. We send students abroad on scholarships with no IP agreements, watch them develop patents in foreign institutions, and tell ourselves this is simply how the world works.
But it is not how the world works. It is how the world works for us.
Because other nations do not behave this way. Brazil, where Dr. Abdulrazak Ibrahim helped develop and patent a whitefly control technology, retained that patent because Brazilian public funding and infrastructure made it possible. The technology was developed on Brazilian soil, with Brazilian money, under Brazilian law. That is how research becomes national security.
Where is the African EMBRAPA? Where are the African research institutions with the capacity to host PhD students so they do not have to leave to access other facilities? Where are the patent offices funded to help innovators file claims? Where are the industrial policies that take a proven prototype and turn it into a factory?
We have the talent. We have the ideas. We have the prototypes. What we do not have is the system that turns invention into wealth.
The real deficit
The deficit is not in African minds. It is in African institutions.
Research without ownership is extraction. Innovation without industrialization is loss. Knowledge without protection is vulnerability. We are not losing because we cannot create. We are losing because we do not demand retention.
This is not a technical problem. It is a political one.
Governments fund roads, armies, and ports as infrastructure of sovereignty. Research is the same. A nation that does not fund its own research cannot set its own agenda. It cannot protect its own resources. It cannot develop its own industries. It cannot retain its own talent.
When we celebrate innovation that leaves, when we fund research without scale-up, when we send students abroad with no IP agreements, we are not supporting development. We are subsidizing extraction.
Where this leads
This series is not about why Africa lacks innovation. It is about why we allow our innovations to leave. It is about the systems—or absence of systems—that turn our knowledge into someone else’s asset.
In the next parts, we will ask harder questions: Who really owns what Africa creates? Why do we buy African expertise but not African technology? How did African textile knowledge build industries we do not own? And finally, what must governments do to build, protect, and retain what is ours.
But the first step is to stop telling ourselves the story that we do not invent. We do. We always have. The question is whether we will finally decide to keep what we make.
References
· Federal Ministry of Science and Technology, Nigeria. Raw Materials Research and Development Council (RMRDC) Automated Rapier Weaving Machine Project Report. Abuja: RMRDC, 2021. · Imoro, Zarouk. “Myco-Substitutes: Fungal-Based Textile Alternatives.” Royal Academy of Engineering Africa Prize for Engineering Innovation, 2024. · Ibrahim, Abdulrazak. “RNA Interference Technology for Whitefly Control.” EMBRAPA, Brazil. Patent filed 2018. · Science Granting Councils Initiative. Policy Brief: Strengthening Science Granting Councils in Sub-Saharan Africa. 2025. · African Union. Science, Technology and Innovation Strategy for Africa (STISA-2024). Addis Ababa: African Union, 2014
Modern technology tells a convenient story about itself. It begins in Europe. It advances through invention. It culminates in machines.
Everything else—everything before—is reduced to craft, culture, or tradition.
But this story depends on a fragile assumption: that technology only begins when knowledge becomes mechanical. If we reject that assumption, even briefly, the timeline collapses.
Long before machines, there were systems capable of encoding information, executing instructions, and generating complex, repeatable outputs. Those systems were textile systems. And textile production is not just craft—it is one of the foundational technological systems that shaped industrialization, automation, computing, and global capitalism (including slavery and colonial extraction).
Once we begin there, it becomes impossible to ignore a second truth: the intellectual foundations of modern technology were not only global—they were selectively recognized.
African Looms: Technology Without Recognition
Before mechanization, looms across Africa already functioned as precision technologies. In West Africa, strip‑weaving traditions—seen across regions including present‑day Ghana, Nigeria, and Mali—relied on narrow‑band looms, tension control systems, pattern memorization and execution, and modular construction (strip assembly into larger cloths).
These were not simple tools. They were controlled environments for executing patterned logic. The weaver configures the loom (setup phase), encodes pattern rules mentally or culturally, and executes sequences through repeated motion. This is not improvisation. It is structured.
As Mozambican mathematician Paulus Gerdes—who spent decades documenting African mathematical heritage—writes: “In many African crafts, mathematical ideas are not taught as abstract concepts but are embedded in the techniques themselves.” Gerdes’s work, particularly his studies of Mozambican and Angolan weaving, shows that African artisans used symmetry, repetition, translation, and rotation as fundamental operations in design.
This embedding is critical. Because it reveals something often ignored: the absence of written formulas does not mean the absence of mathematics. It means the mathematics is being performed.
Weaving as Algorithmic Execution: The Tellem Case Study
To understand weaving is to understand instruction. A textile is built through ordered sequences, repeated operations, and conditional variations. Each row depends on the previous one; each pattern depends on a rule.
The Tellem people, who lived in the Bandiagara cliffs of present‑day Mali, left behind textiles that continue to challenge assumptions about pre‑industrial design. These textiles display geometric repetition, symmetry across axes, and structured variation within constraint. What makes them significant is not just their visual complexity but their generative logic.
Tellem textile, Mali
Patterns are not isolated images. They are constructed through repeatable units, transformation rules, and extendable sequences. Gerdes’s work on African textiles broadly shows that such systems involve what he calls “systematic exploration of symmetry and pattern construction.” These are the same operations used in computer graphics, pattern generation algorithms, and digital modeling systems.
What the Tellem textiles demonstrate is that a finite rule system can produce an indefinitely extendable pattern. This is the essence of algorithmic generation—not in theory, but in material form.
The Benin Bronzes: African Metallurgy as Parallel Innovation
African technological sophistication was not limited to textiles. The Benin Kingdom (in modern‑day Nigeria) produced some of the world’s most technically advanced metal castings—the so‑called Benin Bronzes. Using the lost‑wax method, Benin artisans created lifelike heads, intricate plaques, and ritual objects from at least the 13th century onward. Their work displayed not only extraordinary artistry but also mastery of alloy composition, inlay techniques, and large‑scale casting.
Yet the raw material—brass—came from Europe. Portuguese traders brought brass manillas (bracelet‑shaped currency) from Germany’s Rhineland to West Africa as part of the same trade networks that carried enslaved people. African artisans melted these imported objects and transformed them into works of profound cultural and technical achievement. When British forces looted Benin City in 1897, they took thousands of these objects, sold them to museums, and erased the knowledge systems that produced them.
This pattern—African skill combined with raw materials extracted through colonial trade, followed by violent appropriation—mirrors what happened with textiles. In both cases, the colonial narrative reframed African innovation as mere “craft” while European institutions profited from the objects and the knowledge embedded in them.
Infinite Pattern, Recursion, and the Ifá Information System
Modern computing relies on the idea that simple instructions can generate complex outputs and that systems can scale without losing structure. This is the foundation of fractals, recursive algorithms, and procedural design.
The research of Ron Eglash, a scholar of African fractals, makes this connection explicit. He writes: “Many African designs use recursive scaling, where a pattern is repeated at different levels of size.” This is not symbolic; it is structural. “These are not just designs, but processes.” That distinction matters, because processes are what define computation.
African knowledge systems extend this logic beyond textiles. The Ifá system of the Yoruba people—documented extensively by the Nigerian scholar Wande Abimbola, who served as Vice Chancellor of Obafemi Awolowo University—is built on 256 odu (signs) generated through a combinatorial, binary‑like process. When a babalawo (priest) casts the sacred palm nuts or opele chain, they produce a specific odu based on established rules. Each odu is linked to a vast corpus of verses (ese) that encode history, philosophy, medicine, and ethics. The interpretation follows structured pathways, applying stored knowledge to the querent’s situation.
Western scholars labeled Ifá a “divination system.” The term carries assumptions of irrationality, mysticism, and guesswork. But Ifá is better understood as a knowledge system—a logical, rule‑based method of storing, retrieving, and applying information. The operations are not random; they follow predictable combinatorial logic. The years of training required to memorize the ese are no different from the training a computer scientist undergoes to master programming languages and algorithms.
In fact, Ifá and modern artificial intelligence share a fundamental structure. When you consult an AI, you ask a question; the system processes it through a vast dataset, retrieves relevant patterns, and generates a response based on encoded rules. A babalawo does the same: the querent’s concern is mapped to an odu; the odu retrieves the appropriate verses; the babalawo applies the wisdom to the situation. One practice is called “divination”; the other is called “artificial intelligence.” The difference in naming reflects not the nature of the practice, but the racial and colonial hierarchies that determine which knowledge counts as “science” and which is dismissed as “tradition.”
Long before the formalization of binary code in Europe, African knowledge systems such as Ifá developed complex combinatorial and binary‑like structures for storing and processing information. These systems, alongside textile pattern encoding, demonstrate that computational thinking was not invented in the West but has multiple global origins—many of which were later marginalized during colonialism.
The Industrial Revolution: Mechanization Without Acknowledgment
Textiles drove the Industrial Revolution. Mechanized spinning and weaving transformed production. But this transformation relied on raw materials extracted through colonial systems, labor extracted through slavery, and knowledge extracted through global contact.
European mechanization did not arise from a vacuum. The first successful power loom, patented by Edmund Cartwright in 1785, was developed in a context where British factories processed cotton grown by enslaved Africans in the Americas and sold finished cloth to West African consumers whose preferences shaped global production. The logic of weaving—sequencing, repetition, pattern encoding—had existed for centuries in African and other non‑European textile systems. Industrialization scaled that logic, but it did not invent it.
Why, then, did Africa not develop its own mechanical looms? Some scholars point to divergent technological trajectories: African ironworkers used bloomery furnaces, which produced malleable iron perfect for forging tools and weapons but not molten iron for casting large machine components; European blast furnaces, developed partly for cannon production, enabled cast‑iron looms. From this perspective, the difference reflects material constraints and choices, not a hierarchy of “advancement.” Yet this framing, while common in academic literature, risks deflecting attention from the more fundamental issue: African textile industries were actively undermined by colonial policies that flooded markets with cheap European machine‑made goods, redirected raw materials, and dismantled local production. Whether African ironworkers could have eventually developed cast‑iron looms under different conditions is a question that remains open—and one that colonial violence foreclosed.
As Walter Rodney, the Guyanese historian, wrote in How Europe Underdeveloped Africa: “The only positive development in Europe was at the expense of Africa and other parts of the world.” This applies not only to resources—but to systems of knowledge.
The Politics of Recognition: Why Knowledge Was Categorized by Race
The problem is not that African systems lacked sophistication. The problem is that they were not recognized as such.
Cedric J. Robinson, author of Black Marxism, argues that “the development, organization, and expansion of capitalist society pursued essentially racial directions.” This includes how knowledge is categorized. Under this system, African systems became “craft” or “tradition,” while European systems became “science” and “technology”—even when both operated through pattern, logic, repetition, and transformation.
This erasure was not passive. Colonial collecting was systematic. Take the Hina textile from northern Cameroon: a cotton fabric taken during a German “punitive expedition” in 1908, when villages were burned and people killed or taken hostage. The cloth was sold to a museum, inscribed with the catalog number of the officer who led the assault, and its original name, maker, and meaning were lost. Such looted textiles joined Benin Bronzes and other objects in European collections, where they were reclassified as “ethnographic artifacts” rather than evidence of technological sophistication. Colonial regulations often required that objects acquired during state‑sponsored expeditions go to museums, ensuring that African knowledge was physically removed and reframed.
The connection between textiles and computing is not speculative; it is historical. Punch cards from the Jacquard loom influenced early computing. Pattern encoding maps directly onto binary logic. Mechanical repetition prefigured automation. But beneath this history is a deeper continuity: the logic of computing did not originate with machines. Machines inherited it. And that logic was already present in textile systems, pattern traditions, and knowledge practices across Africa and its diaspora.
Conclusion: The Technology That Was Always There
The question is no longer whether textiles contributed to modern technology. The question is: why were they never fully recognized as technology in the first place?
If we redefine technology as systems of structured knowledge and processes that encode and reproduce information, then textiles—especially African textile systems—are not peripheral. They are foundational.
And the history of technology, as it is currently told, is not incomplete by accident. It is incomplete by design.
References
· Abimbola, Wande. Ifá: An Exposition of Ifá Literary Corpus. Oxford University Press, 1976. · Eglash, Ron. African Fractals: Modern Computing and Indigenous Design. Rutgers University Press, 1999. · Gerdes, Paulus. Geometry from Africa: Mathematical and Educational Explorations. Mathematical Association of America, 1999. · Gerdes, Paulus. African Mathematics: From Bones to Computers. University Press of America, 2008. · Robinson, Cedric J. Black Marxism: The Making of the Black Radical Tradition. University of North Carolina Press, 1983. · Rodney, Walter. How Europe Underdeveloped Africa. Bogle‑L’Ouverture Publications, 1972. · Soloum, Salomé. “The Hina Textile: Colonial Looting and Museum Collections.” TRAFO Blog, 2025. · Skowronek, Tobias, et al. “German Brass for Benin Bronzes.” Journal of Archaeological Science, 2023.
The African continent has a rich and wide textile practice spanning since the beginning of times. Hook based textile practices was also part of this rich heritage. It is therefore no mystery, that the craft of Crochet has become very popular in contemporary African nations. This popularity, however, exists within a paradox: many contemporary African practitioners understand crochet as a European import, severed from knowledge that their own continent possesses millennia-deep traditions of hook-based fiber manipulation.
Early ancient hooks were found, possible a crochet hook in ancient excavated site of Karanis in Egypt.
"Karanis; Crochet Hook (?); Bone (Unidentified)." In the digital collection Kelsey Museum of Archaeology Art & Artifact Collection. https://quod.lib.umich.edu/k/kelsey/x-0000.02.1769/7_2527p02. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed February 19, 2026.
This bone implement, housed at the University of Michigan, is one of several such tools recovered from Egyptian excavations. Implements from Karanis confirm that the technological principle of manipulating fiber with a hook was understood and practiced in ancient Africa. The tools are fashioned from materials that would have been readily available—bone, wood, ivory—suggesting that the technology was neither rare nor imported, but indigenous and established. While Eurocentric scholarship often defaults to cautious language ("possible crochet hook"), the evidence speaks for itself.
The Ancient Chebka Lace, needle-knotted stitch is a close relative to the filet crochet. Initially practiced in Tunisia, it was used to create geometric bands, while the filet crochet techniques allows you to create complete projects including vests or table wear.
Chebka was first practiced by individual women in Tunisia to adorn their traditional garments. The technique later spread to Algeria and Morocco, where it remained in use. Its geometric patterns reflect design languages common across North Africa, developed entirely independently of European influence. The structure is identical in principle to filet crochet's netted grounds, but Chebka predates the European systematization of filet crochet by centuries. It represents an African solution to creating decorative net-like grids.
Under the disguise of atrocities committed in the name of benevolent missionary works, Nuns used textile practices to gain access to vulnerable communities, where they taught practices that were stolen from African nations and re-packaged and re-introduced as another way to further penetrate our communities.
The white nuns teaching "Western European embroidery and lace techniques to local girls. A practice continued under NGO's
The photograph shows White Sisters in what is now Burkina Faso, circa 1930, instructing local girls in techniques presented as "Western European embroidery and lace." Yet Chebka lace, which these same nuns would have taught in North African missions, was not European at all. It was North African. The pattern is consistent: African techniques were extracted, stripped of their origin, and then taught back to Africans as European knowledge. This was not cultural exchange. It was cultural erasure. Nuns gained access to vulnerable communities by offering textile instruction, while simultaneously dismantling the very traditions that had produced those techniques. The goal was not education but domination—spiritual, cultural, and economic.
The knotless Netting is a material example of another African nations, Cameroon, Indigenous hook based textile technique. This netting sack called Nkekelewe, comes from the Mafa people in Cameroon. It is made using a knotless netting technique.
The Mafa sack was collected in 1965 by Paul Hinderling and donated to the Phoebe A. Hearst Museum at Berkeley. It is made from bean fiber cordage, materials that would have been locally available. The object is catalogued with the technique explicitly identified: knotless netting. This is not a guess. It is documentation.
The knotless netting technique is being made using bean fiber cordage. It is not a colonial-era introduction, it is an indigenous Cameroonian object that was collected in 1965, representing a longstanding local practice that survived despite colonial violence.
The Mafa knotless Netting technique predates knitting and crochet, with the oldest known fragments dating to c. 6500 BCE from the Judean Desert. Knotless netting, technically termed nålbinding, is an ancient technique whereby a single needle creates fabric through a series of loops and passes. The same technique appears in Egypt in the form of Coptic socks from the 4th to 7th centuries CE. The Royal Ontario Museum holds multiple examples (910.130.143, G1281). The National Museums Scotland holds a divided-toe sock from Akhmim (A.1911.315). The Petrie Museum houses a pair excavated from Hawara (UC16766). All are made using nålbinding—knotless netting—the same technique the Mafa people used to make their sack. European crochet, as codified in the nineteenth century, is a latecomer to a technological family Africa had already mastered.
This is not coincidence. It is continuity. The technology existed in Africa for thousands of years before European crochet was systematized. When Europeans claim crochet as their invention, they erase this history.
The future of African Hook textile practices
You don't have to go too far on TikTok to find a large community of Africans practicing the craft of Crochet. They hail from all the African nations. They create amazing looking designs, largely inspired by European aesthetics. It could be that these young and older practitioners were introduced to this technique from a European perspective, not knowing that their continent has a long established legacy with hook based textile practices.
That is why, it is important that Timbuktu research and design emphasise the rich textile heritage and practices in pre-colonial Africa.
The colonial project did not just steal land and resources. It stole knowledge and then sold it back. It taught us to look to Europe for validation, to value European techniques over our own. The result is a generation of African creators who can produce stunning crochet work but have never seen a Mafa netting sack or a Coptic sock or a piece of Chebka lace. They do not know that their ancestors were doing this work. Practitioners are introduced to crochet through patterns and tutorials presenting it as a Western craft. They are not shown the evidence. They inherit a severed history.
While the contemporary practice of Crochet and Hand knitting might differ from ancient practices, we uphold the fact that practices, like cultures, evolved. The African hook textile practices with practice changes and includes new techniques making it not far fetched to claim also crochet as emerging from African practices.
We do not need to prove that ancient Africans did exactly what European crocheters do today. That is not how culture works. We need to show that the technology—manipulating fiber with a hook to create fabric—was present in Africa for millennia. We need to show that African women were creating openwork textiles with needles and hooks before European contact. We need to show that when colonial nuns arrived to "teach" lacemaking, they were often teaching techniques that originated in Africa. The claim that crochet emerges legitimately from African technological traditions is not sentimental—it is factual.
An academic study by Vivian Korankye at the Takoradi Technical University, demonstrate that we seek to investigate how our heritage practices can inform our future contemporary practices. Vivian investigates techniques for innovating indigenous vegetable-tanned leather into yarn.
Manipulating Indigenous Vegetable-Tanned Leather for Use in Crocheting Art
The study explores techniques and methods used in converting indigenous vegetable-tanned leather into yarns that can serve as an alternative material and convert the locally made yarns into crocheted ladies containers and footwear using different stitches.
The study employed a qualitative methodology combining descriptive and studio-based approaches, sampling crochet artisans, leatherwork teachers, and leather technologists. The study concludes that indigenous vegetable-tanned leather is suitable for use in making crocheting yarns due to its strength, flexibility, and suitability for hook construction. Spiral cutting techniques emerged as the most appropriate method for cutting leather into yarns, with recommended processing steps including cutting, softening through wet pounding, and dyeing using vat or mixed dye methods.
This research matters because it starts from African material and African technique. It does not ask permission from European tradition. It does not seek validation from European institutions. It simply works with what is here—leather tanned using indigenous methods, yarns produced by African hands, crochet hooks held by African fingers. It takes an African material and applies African research to develop contemporary applications. It is a continuation of the same technological tradition that produced the Mafa sack and the Coptic socks and Chebka lace.
Conclusion
The evidence is not ambiguous. Bone tools from Karanis. Chebka lace from Tunisia. Knotless netting from Cameroon. Coptic socks from Egypt. Hook-based textile practices constitute an authentic and enduring dimension of Africa's material culture, dating back millennia. Colonialism disrupted this heritage, stole credit for it, and repackaged it as European charity. But the techniques survived, and the knowledge persists.
The work now is to remember. To recover. To refuse the colonial narrative that taught us to forget.
