by the We Will Lead Africa Founders
At We Will Lead Africa (WWLA), one of the question prompts we ask our contributors to respond to is the question: What inspired you to start or do the work you are doing? This month, our co-founders answered this question, sharing their journey with and their work beyond WWLA.
Illustration by Drop Labs on Unsplash.
Judith: The truths we carry
I’ve always lived with change—born into a life of travel, diplomacy, and culture across continents. Growing up, I didn’t just visit other countries; I lived in them, a life of contrasts. On postings attending top schools, immersed in different cultures, and absorbing the richness of being ‘global’; journeys that were always interspersed with a few years at home. With that privilege, there was always something tugging at me—a questioning of the dissonance: What does all of this mean for where I come from?
That question sat in the background until it evolved into something clearer: What am I meant to carry forward? It became a constant rhythm in my life—the urge to take the best of these global experiences and share, to both sides, as a genuine, intentional offering. I dreamed, half-seriously, of some alliance of diplomatic children, already default ambassadors of home in spaces and schools around the world—global thinkers also returning home to reinvest their insight into Africa’s future.
That dream became more urgent when I found myself working in business psychology in Europe. There, I came up against deeply entrenched ideas about leadership—ideas that ignored context, erased cultural depth, and clung tightly to Western stereotypes. I knew something was wrong when I saw Africans constantly measured against frameworks that were never made for them. It wasn’t just frustrating; it was dehumanising. So I went back to our roots. I immersed myself in African mythology, cosmology, and oral histories, building a leadership development model from those philosophies—a model rooted in who we are, not who we’ve been told to be.
The journey on from that work led me into new spaces—the African technology renaissance, venture capital, and emerging tech. For example, when I got involved in the early days of Andela, it wasn’t just about a start-up. It was about the story they were living and telling: that African brilliance, given the right opportunity, could and would shift the global tech narrative. And they did.
Eventually, I found myself captivated by the potential of immersive technologies like VR. I saw it not just as innovation, but as a tool of liberation: a way for us to define and shape our stories, to occupy emerging digital frontiers, to be the architects this time. That belief birthed Imisi 3D, and later, the volumes we created with WWLA. Because to me, our stories, our science, our futures—they’re not optional. They’re imperative.
Sarah: The future is made, not found
Ever since I was young, I’ve been fascinated by what comes next. I didn’t always know the word for it, but I remember having conversations with my mum and her casually mentioning, ‘I think you’re a futurist.’ And she was right. I’ve always believed that the future isn’t a place we stumble into—it’s one we build.
That belief has driven every major step in my career. I’ve never been content to just watch things unfold. I’ve wanted to be part of designing what’s to come. That’s why I found myself drawn to innovation, systems thinking, and human-centred design. These aren’t just tools; they’re keys. They allow us to unlock possibilities that are more inclusive, more just, more imaginative.
When I first started working across Africa—travelling to different countries—it was like stepping into a space of collective possibility. I met people building businesses, creating platforms, designing futures that didn’t just mimic Western models but redefined them. Whether it was in Ghana, Mozambique, or Nigeria, there was this palpable creative energy. And I wanted to be close to it.
At the time, I didn’t expect to move back. I thought I was a Londoner for life, maybe even a nomadic European. But the pull was strong. The more I engaged with the continent, the more I realised this is where meaningful change was bubbling. This was where narratives weren’t yet cemented, where things could still shift, where my work could truly matter.
That’s why I stayed in Mozambique and co-founded InkDot, a consultancy that’s making innovation practical and possible, and creating space for co-creation, for intentional design of the systems we live in. And that’s why WWLA exists for me—not just to spotlight leadership, but to widen the lens entirely. To say, look at what’s possible when we stop trying to lead like them and start leading like us.
We are not just reacting to change. We are driving it. And the rest of the world could learn a thing or two from the way we’re doing it—together, intentionally, and with imagination rooted in community.
Yabome: Love letters to us
For me, inspiration has never been a lightning bolt. It’s been slow and steady, like water carving its way through rock. A lot of it started without me even realising—through my parents’ choices, their integrity, and their quiet defiance of the norms around them.
I think about my father, whose birthday and memorial fall on the same day this week, and who always said: No matter where you are, home is home. And I think of my mother, walking into the University of Alberta’s library in the 1960s, wrapped proudly in African fabric, head held high. That image sticks with me—she was unapologetic before I even knew what the word meant.
I’ve carried that with me, even when I’ve been told I didn’t belong. At five years old, I stood on a playground in Freetown and defended my identity against another child who questioned it. I was literally not afraid to throw a punch because somebody told me I didn’t belong. That fire never left, it and found a home in my writing, in advocacy, and in leadership.
We Will Lead Africa, for me, came out of that frustration—sheer exhaustion with how African leadership was constantly portrayed in academic and policy spaces. I remember seeing a call for papers for the Kwame Nkrumah International Conference and feeling an almost physical irritation. Why are we still talking about ourselves through the same tired lens? I submitted a proposal late and bluntly challenged the organisers to rethink their approach. To my surprise, they accepted it. That experience became a catalyst for everything that followed.
Since then, I’ve spoken at conferences, published papers, and written short stories, all rooted in the same motivation: to be part of changing the narrative. And it’s not abstract. I’ve heard from young African women around the world who’ve read something I wrote and found their own story in it. One PhD student told me my article gave her the strength to keep going. Another young woman hugged me after a talk and said my words had ‘saved her life’.
Those moments remind me why I do this. It’s not about fame or recognition—it’s about creating space. For us. For our wholeness. For our futures. I write as an act of love. A love letter to myself, to our communities, to anyone who’s ever felt like they didn’t belong—because they deserve to see themselves not just surviving, but leading, thriving, shaping.