Years ago in Nigeria, I heard a preacher scream: ”The way you dress determines how you will be addressed”. When I was making these portraits in Burkina Faso, I couldn’t get the recent demonstration of some Muslims in Ghana out of my mind. Many of them feel discriminated against because of their hijab, especially in professional circles. I had no idea such a problem existed, and I totally support their fight for respect and recognition. Their hashtag #hijabisanidentity was what intrigued me though. As I looked at this women throw on their hijabs before stepping in front of the camera, I wondered… What does it mean to say hijab is an identity? Can a woman who, on her own, chooses not to wear the hijab share that identity? Exactly what is the “hijab identity”? I’d appreciate some education here. As recently as the 1990s, it wasn’t uncommon to see young women walking around bare-chested in rural Ghana. Lots of old women still do. As feminists around the world fight for the right to bare their skin in public, I wonder if they’re aware we were called primitive for doing so, and if they know even though colonialism ended a while back, we actively enforce the “nudity is primitive” concept religiously across Africa? Colonial education and religious conversions have fundamentally taught the African to be ashamed of nudity. We take pride in, as part of our new identity, showing off our three-piece suits and long flowing gowns even in hot scorching weather. Why? How do clothes as identity even work? Does total cover-up mean more decent, more chaste, better manners, and does more skin mean more vulgar, more loose, more corrupted? Does your clothing define you? Should it? Shouldn’t it? Photos and words by Nana Kofi Acquah @africashowboy www.nkacquah.com #shotonassignment #lightfortheworld #portraits #africa #burkinafaso #manga https://www.instagram.com/p/B368ZCMFuxI/?igshid=1cjg4ywgynj2s