The Legacy That Lingers
My understanding of colonialism, slavery, and empire has been shaped by my education, my experiences in Africa, and my upbringing in the church. My earliest awareness of slavery came through the story of the Exodus. Though my family isn’t Jewish, one year we celebrated Passover. My mom went all out—matzah, bitter herbs, salt water—everything prepared with care. As a child, I didn’t grasp the full meaning, but as we asked the questions—why this night is different, why the bread is unleavened, why the herbs are bitter—the story unfolded. In my limited child’s understanding, it was my first glimpse of God’s deliverance from bondage and the truth that slavery stands in opposition to the freedom and dignity God intends for His creation.
Now, living in a post-colonial African country—one that was the last to abolish slavery and where it is still practiced—I see every day how deeply colonialism has shaped society and how its influence lingers. There are moments when I’ve sat in a local home and wondered about the freedom and story of the person serving me tea. Because of these realities, much of my daily reflection circles back to questions such as: Where do I still notice echoes of colonial thinking in the world around me? How can I, shaped by both Western and African influences, resist repeating those patterns? And how do I live with the awareness that slavery is not only history but a present reality?
Living in Africa has confronted me with uncomfortable truths—the persistence of foreign paternalism, the ways local elites sometimes reinforce it for social or economic advantage, and the ethical tensions that allow such systems to endure. I have also witnessed a version of slavery that differs sharply from the transatlantic understanding I was taught in Western classrooms—less visible, but deeply rooted in a culture that permits its continuation.
Slavery, I have come to see, is not confined to one region or culture. Jeremy Black affirms this in A Brief History of Slavery: “It is scarcely surprising that slavery does not have a single meaning, nor a uniform context.”[1] He continues, “An important part of human history, slavery has no starting point, but it seems to have played a major role from early times.”[2] His observation reveals that slavery is not confined to any one civilization but is a recurring human reality—one that adapts, survives, and conceals itself in new forms. As Black further notes, “Slavery is not only a matter of the past but also has echoes to this day, not least with such practices as debt bondage, penal labour, sexual slavery, human trafficking, and girls sold by dowry into marriages that are little better than servitude.”[3]
Although colonial rule has ended, its influence still shapes much of Africa. Today, colonization takes new forms—economic and political. Western powers continue to exert control through global finance, trade policies, and development programs that often foster dependency rather than autonomy, leaving nations burdened with debt.
Even when intentions are good, our efforts to help can sometimes have consequences we do not fully see—sustaining the very systems that hold others back. Economist Dambisa Moyo argues that modern aid is often shaped by guilt more than partnership. She writes, “It was debt that was holding Africa back. And in that sense it was the West’s fault, as it was the West to whom Africa owed billions. Morality—Western, liberal, guilt-tripped morality—seeped into the development equation.”[4] Western nations often see aid as a moral duty, yet this sense of obligation can unintentionally reinforce dependency. Moyo notes, “The trouble with the aid-dependency model is, of course, that Africa is fundamentally kept in its perpetual childlike state.”[5] The ongoing cycle of loans, debt, and relief—what she calls a “merry-go-round”[6]—may ease the conscience of donors more than it strengthens the independence of those receiving the aid.
Nigel Biggar, in Colonialism: A Moral Reckoning, explores the moral complexity of empire, urging a more balanced evaluation. He argues that while imperial Britain often patronized those it ruled, there were also instances where officials made genuine efforts to understand and respect local cultures. “Did the imperial British patronise native people? Yes, they often did,”[7] Biggar concedes, “but… sometimes they paid them the respect of making a serious investment in getting to know them well, learning their languages and customs, spending time among them and learning from them.”[8] His reflection emphasizes a tension that still persists today—the fine line between engagement and condescension, between partnership and paternalism.
That same paradox appears in William Easterly’s The White Man’s Burden, where he recalls Edmund Burke’s critique of the British East India Company as “a few obscure young men… subverted and tore to pieces the most ancient and revered institutions of ages and nations.”[9] Easterly adds that Belgian administrators in the Congo were “too young and incompetent… isolated, powerless… they do not get to know the villages.”[10] Both authors highlight a recurring pattern: well-intentioned outsiders, convinced of their civilizing mission, misunderstand those they claim to serve. Their observations challenge me to consider how even contemporary development work can echo those same dynamics of pride and distance—especially when aid becomes a substitute for genuine relationship.
Faith, too, is not immune to these complexities. Throughout history, it has both challenged and cooperated with empire—sometimes serving as its conscience, and other times as its instrument. Christian missionary movements reflected this strain. They arose from sincere conviction and compassion, yet often operated within systems that reinforced dependency and control. The same gospel that proclaimed freedom for the oppressed could, when entangled with worldly power, become a tool of subjugation.
Lamin Sanneh, in West African Christianity: The Religious Impact, reflects on this paradox, noting that missionary ideals of self-reliance and indigenous leadership often faltered when Africans began to claim real authority within the church. The very independence missionaries once prayed for was reinterpreted as defiance.[11] Sanneh’s insight exposes the deep moral and theological contradiction at the heart of the missionary project: a faith intended to liberate became bound up in the very systems it sought to redeem.
After engaging with these readings and reflecting on my own experience, I have come to see the legacy of colonialism, slavery, and empire not as a single, coherent story but as a complex web of motives, fears, and moral contradictions. Biggar reminds us that “the British Empire was not from its inception a coherent project… nor animated by a single aim.”[12] Early expansions were driven by a desire for safety and stability—“the desire of a state for security against enemies who threatened its autonomy.”[13] Later, that instinct for protection transformed into domination. As Biggar notes, “A minority that feels itself beleaguered naturally becomes defensive, and if it is a ruling minority, one way of defending itself is to impress its own natural superiority upon the ruled majority… keeping one’s distance, avoiding the equality of intimacy.”[14]
Those words struck a chord. Living as a foreigner in an African country, I’ve felt that same human impulse—to protect myself through distance. Over time, distance becomes a posture, not of dominance but of withdrawal, shaping how we navigate difference and justify our caution. In that sense, colonialism’s legacy is not only structural but relational. It lingers in how we manage discomfort and how fear can disguise itself as prudence.
Empire, then, is not merely the pursuit of power; it is a failure of trust—a belief that control ensures safety. As a Christian, I find this realization both convicting and clarifying. The same faith that gave moral vocabulary to abolition also lent justification to conquest. Yet God’s deliverance—from Egypt to Calvary—exposes the illusion of control that fuels every empire and reminds me that true leadership begins not with superiority but with humility.
I still wrestle with what it means to live ethically as a foreigner, aware of both the history that shaped this place and the privilege it grants me. I cannot change the past, but I can choose how I inhabit the present—whether to maintain guarded distance or risk genuine relationship. For Christian leaders, this is the call: not to mastery, but to presence. To face history with discernment rather than defensiveness, to name sin without despair, and to lead with humility rooted in grace.
[1] Jeremy Black, A Brief History of Slavery: A New Global History (London: Robinson, 2020), preface, PDF eBook.
[2] Black, A Brief History of Slavery, 21.
[3] Black, A Brief History of Slavery, preface.
[4] Dambisa Moyo, Dead Aid: Why Aid Is Not Working and How There Is a Better Way for Africa (London: Penguin Press, 2010), 25, Kindle edition.
[5] Dambisa Moyo, Dead Aid (London: Penguin Press, 2010), 31, Kindle edition.
[6] Dambisa Moyo, Dead Aid (London: Penguin Press, 2010), 55, Kindle edition.
[7] Nigel Biggar, Colonialism: A Moral Reckoning (London: HarperCollins, 2023), 99, Kindle edition.
[8] Biggar, Colonialism, 99, Kindle edition.
[9] William Easterly, The White Man’s Burden: Why the West’s Efforts to Aid the Rest Have Done So Much Ill and So Little Good (New York: Penguin Books, 2006), 273, Kindle edition.
[10] Easterly, The White Man’s Burden, 274, Kindle edition.
[11] Lamin Sanneh, West African Christianity: The Religious Impact (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1983), 55.
[12] Biggar, Colonialism, 34, Kindle edition.
[13] Biggar, Colonialism, 35, Kindle edition.
[14] Biggar, Colonialism, 101, Kindle edition.
About the Author
Elysse Burns
2 responses to “The Legacy That Lingers”
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Elysse, I know you have spent several years researching this topic. What is one change you want to make in your own interactions with Africans to minimize these patriarchal behaviors seen in Western influences?
Elyse,
Nicely written reflection. You brought some great outside resources into this discussion. As an American Christian in a Muslim country, what steps do you take to ensure the native citizens see your expertise yet not seeing you as exhibiting an America knows best attitude?