The discussion around African cultural heritage extends beyond physical objects to include the equally vital matter of archives. As Kenya gained independence in the 1960s, Britain simultaneously engaged in “Operation Legacy,” a secret program mandating colonial officers to destroy “sensitive” files before they could be inherited by newly independent states. This created a profound paradox: independence opened new possibilities for the future while closing doors to the past.

The Mau Mau uprising, one of Africa’s bloodiest freedom struggles, remains inadequately represented in Kenya’s national memory. When Kenya gained independence in 1963, President Jomo Kenyatta famously declared: “We are going to forget the past and look forward to the future.” This policy of intentional forgetting was compounded by the systematic removal of archives documenting colonial atrocities.

As a third-generation Kenyan, I find myself awkwardly situated in “Kenyatta’s future”—a product of the state he designed while struggling to understand my grandfather’s memories of the colonial period against the narratives in my school history books. Almost 60 years after independence, knowledge of detention camps where thousands of Kenyans were held has been deliberately erased from our national consciousness.

Where do Kenyans begin to find answers—in London or Nairobi? To ask this question assumes a balanced relationship between colony and colonizer, yet the reality is starkly asymmetrical. While thousands of Kenyan files are now technically “available to the public” in the UK, who constitutes this public when most Kenyans face insurmountable visa requirements and financial barriers to accessing these archives?

The holding of Kenyan archives in the UK isn’t merely an inconvenience to researchers—it represents a fundamental denial of citizens’ rights. While we turn to oral histories and living testimonies, this is only half the story. The journey to unearth Kenya’s silences must take place in both London and Nairobi, but this is not a relationship based on mutual access. It is a relationship based on power—the power of narrative and the power of knowledge.

These excerpts offer just a glimpse into the in-depth discussions, research findings, and critical reflections contained in the full ‘Invisible Inventories’ zine. This limited-edition publication features additional articles, object biographies, visual documentation of the exhibitions, and further perspectives on museum politics and restitution debates.

The complete zine is available in both print and digital editions through Soma Nami Books (Kenya) and Iwalewa Books (Germany).
Support this groundbreaking work and deepen your understanding of these complex issues by exploring the complete publication.