By Bobby Quarqoo
African Diasporan Freelance Journalist and Pan-Africanist
February 15, 2026
In the grand halls of European splendor, beneath chandeliers glittering like stolen diamonds, the distinguished gentlemen of empire gathered at the now-famous dinner party known as the Berlin Conference. Maps of Africa lay flat on polished oak tables, as if the continent were a pie awaiting polite slicing. “No need to invite the pie,” someone reportedly quipped. Laughter echoed. Ink met parchment. Borders were drawn with rulers—straight lines across ancient kingdoms, rivers, and civilizations that had never required European geometry to exist. Thus was born what we may call The Grand Plantation of 1884.
Act I: From Chains to Contracts
When the old slave ships became unfashionable and morally inconvenient, the empire’s accountants had a revelation: why transport the labor when one could simply own the land? The branding iron was replaced with flags; shackles with “treaties”; overseers with governors. And so the plantation expanded.
For decades—sometimes more than a century—the plantation was managed directly from distant capitals like Paris and London. The profits flowed outward; the raw materials flowed outward; the dignity flowed outward. What remained was the soil, tilled faithfully by those who had never been consulted about the menu at the Berlin dinner party, and unaccounted genocides.
Act II: The Era of “Independence”
Then came the wind of change. Flags were lowered. New flags were raised. Anthems were composed. Speeches were delivered. The plantation had been rebranded. The governors went home, but not before leaving behind a helpful guidebook titled:
“How to Manage Your Plantation in Our Interests: A Practical Manual.”
And so emerged a new role: the Plantation Manager-in-Chief, now elected, saluted, and photographed beneath portraits of former masters. The whip was retired; the handshake was introduced. The chains were melted into debt agreements. The word “colony” was quietly archived and replaced with “partner.”
Whenever a manager showed signs of independent thought—perhaps wondering why the plantation exported cocoa but imported chocolate at ten times the price—mysterious storms would gather. Loans would tighten. Sanctions would bloom like unseasonal weeds. Occasionally, a manager would suffer a sudden political “accident,” thereby reminding others of the importance of reading the manual carefully.
The lesson spread faster than plantation sugar: “YESA MASA”—Yes, Sir, Master—became the unofficial anthem of survival.
Act III: The Currency of Obedience
In West Africa, a particular curiosity endured: a currency arrangement so generous that former colonial landlords could still inspect the plantation’s cash box. Attempts to introduce a new regional currency, the ECO, were met with raised eyebrows in Paris—where it was gently explained that monetary independence could cause unfortunate economic “instability.”
The plantation managers nodded wisely. After all, stability is priceless—especially when priced elsewhere.
Meanwhile, the African Union convened summits in grand halls, issuing communiqués of “deep concern” and “strongly worded resolutions.” Regional blocs such as ECOWAS performed intricate diplomatic dances, often appearing more attentive to distant whispers than to nearby cries.
Act IV: The Unexpected Rebellion
Then, in the Sahelian heat, something unusual occurred. A trio of plantation managers glanced at the manual, shrugged, and tossed it aside. Mali. Burkina Faso. Niger. Together they announced a new arrangement: the Alliance of Sahel States.
They spoke of sovereignty not as a ceremonial word but as a working tool. They questioned long-standing “security partnerships.” They asked impolite questions about who profits from perpetual instability.
In plantation terms, this was highly improper behavior.
The former landlords expressed disappointment. Commentators warned of chaos. Sanctions fluttered down like disciplinary notes from a headmaster’s desk. But something irreversible had happened: a few managers had stopped saying “YESA MASA.”
Epilogue: The Future of the Plantation
The Grand Plantation of 1884 still stands—renovated, digitized, globalized. Its fences are less visible now, made of contracts, currencies, military accords, and development frameworks. Its overseers prefer suits to uniforms. Its profits travel at the speed of fiber optic cables.
But history has a stubborn habit of outgrowing its architects. The plantation’s original owners assumed the map drawn in 1884 would be permanent. They underestimated the soil. They underestimated the memory of those who tilled it. They underestimated the possibility that one day, the managers might gather—not in Berlin, but in Bamako, Ouagadougou, Niamey, Accra, Lomé—and redraw their own map.
And when that day comes, perhaps the anthem will change.
From “YESA MASA”
to
“NO MORE PLANTATION.”
