Dear Frantz Fanon,

I often wonder what you would say if you stood quietly today in Abuja, watching the glass buildings rise and the flags flutter in rehearsed dignity. You would see African leaders in fine suits, speaking the language of sovereignty, shaking hands with foreign powers, applauding projects handed to them in polished ceremonies. You would notice, as I did, the Chinese inscriptions engraved boldly on the ECOWAS Secretariat, a structure gifted, yet not entirely free.

You warned us that colonialism does not end with the lowering of a flag. It retreats, reorganises, and returns through subtler instruments. I see that now, not in chains or soldiers, but in contracts, loans, and dependencies dressed as partnerships. ECOWAS was meant to be a symbol of regional strength, yet it leans outward for validation and infrastructure. The African Union speaks of unity, yet its headquarters itself was built and funded by China. Even its digital systems once raised concerns of external surveillance. One begins to ask quietly, who truly owns the space where African decisions are made?

In some corners of our land, even the soil beneath our feet is quietly taken. Reports of illegal mining, sometimes involving foreign actors working hand in hand with local enablers, remind me that exploitation no longer announces itself. It happens in silence, protected not by force alone, but by compromise.

Our leaders celebrate development, and yes, there are roads, rail lines, and buildings where there were none. But I cannot ignore the uneasy truth that much of this progress is negotiated from a position of need, not strength. You wrote about the native elite, how they inherit power but not vision, how they replace the coloniser without dismantling the structure he left behind. It is difficult not to see reflections of that in how decisions are made today, often without transparency, often without long term strategy.

Trade flows outward in raw materials and returns as finished goods. Debts accumulate quietly. Agreements are signed in rooms the ordinary African will never enter. And yet, on the surface, there is applause. There is always applause.

Still, it would be dishonest to say nothing has changed. Africa is not colonised in the way you knew it. There are choices now, multiple global partners, shifting alliances. But I question whether these choices are being used wisely or merely exchanged for short term relief. Sovereignty exists, yes, but it feels negotiated, conditional, sometimes even performative.

You spoke of the colonised mind, and I think that battle is far from over. It is not only about who builds our institutions, but who defines our worth, who sets our standards, and who we believe holds the answers to our development.

If you were here, perhaps you would not be surprised. Perhaps you would simply say that the struggle has changed form. That the fight is no longer just for land, but for agency, for clarity, for the courage to say no when necessary.

I write not in despair, but in unease. Because beneath the ceremonies and inscriptions, there is a quiet question that refuses to go away. Are we truly free, or have we only learned to manage our dependence more elegantly?

Yours in thought,
Ndidi Nichola Okoro, Esq.