Part of the Artist in Residence programme at Nafasi Art Space, the artist has to give a workshop or presentation. On Friday, March 28, 2025, I walked onto a stage thinking I was going to give my usual khanga facts and history, then answer a few questions. The conversation went on for about two hours straight. Thus, I feel obliged to share some observations from how the audience engaged their memories of the khanga.
My initial plan had gone well. Earlier in the day, we had displayed a khanga around the venue. The display was organised into themes. Political khanga with prominent Tanzanians, khanga with punch words ideal for fueling than pacifying quarrelling parties; khanga of goodwill and best wishes; and varieties of the kisutu khanga.
To begin the programme, I took about ten to fifteen minutes frog-leaping through history to locate the khanga within the greater region of Southern and Eastern Africa, and the Indian Ocean. From records, textile products in this zone have been in circulation as far back as the 5th century CE.
When the Portuguese invaded Eastern Africa, they caused disruption without succeeding in completely wiping out the trade routes. European explorers in the 19th century found women wearing both the khanga and some designs akin to the khanga.
Therefore, khanga comes out of this legacy and was somehow able to remain a commodity item during and after colonialism. I also touched on the changes in the status of the khanga in society from being the garment women wore in public to the khanga being used mostly for domestic purposes and as a funeral garment.
I rounded up sharing stories about the most important khangas in my collection. The host of the programme, Lizana E. Kafwa, while inviting the audience to ask questions she invited them to share their khanga stories. This is how we ended up listening to each other’s stories for two hours. Below are some of my thoughts about what the khanga means in the life of a Tanzanian.
An integral cloth
A general comment that most of us made is that as children, we understood khanga was an integral part of our clothing. Whichever part of Tanzania one was born and raised, our mothers wore and shared their khanga with us. For the most part, we had no idea what hardships our parents were going through.
Sometimes our mothers were outright fighting our father’s other women with the words on their khanga. We would see babies wrapped in a khanga and would not know that mama went through labour to get the child, and she was lucky enough that her baby was born alive.
We have become of age, and now we have started to understand the sticky situations adults find themselves in. In turn, we have started gifting khanga to others and wrapping our newborn babies to claim whatever little dignity life still affords us.
Fond memories
Most people had fond memories of the khanga. Women especially spoke warmly about receiving khanga gifts from siblings, mothers, aunties and the kin networks. The khanga is our stock in trade for keeping social bonds.
A lady artist shared with us that when she was little, she felt there was hype around khanga. Things changed when she went through puberty and was gifted her own khanga. She recalled how happy she was that now she is no longer a child but a ‘mdada’.
Whenever she wrapped the khanga around her waist, she walked with confidence that she was becoming a woman. Before we start romanticising the khanga, sometimes it is an old khanga turned towel.
Some khanga stories were not rosy but important. Men who have gone through initiation remembered the khanga they wore during the initiation rituals. This is the time they literally come out of their mothers’ khangas to become men.
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Yet the initiation process itself is very excruciating. It may be many days and nights from the comforts of home. In some places, it includes circumcision and healing away from the nursing hands of their mothers. In the end, that khanga they brought to the wilderness becomes the symbol of their masculinity and endurance.
Troubling stories
I think we all have that troubling khanga story. The one we wish not to remember because it causes us pain. There were memories of caring for the sick who eventually died and reckoning with death itself.
Two khangas on display at our exhibition brought such memories for these two individuals about the loss of very close family members. A certain man arrived just when we had closed the session. He recalled that when he was younger, he found so much joy in looking at his mother fold and arrange her khanga in suitcases.
After the mother passed away, her belongings were distributed among her children. This for him invoked a physical memory of his childhood, and it felt like he was witnessing a second death of his mother. While he cannot probe his sisters who received these articles, he wonders if they take care of them the same way their mother did.
I must here tell the connection between men, masculinity and the khanga. From the discussion, most men could not visually, right away, differentiate between khanga and kitenge, an African wax print.
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You can tell some of the khanga stories were kitenge stories. For instance, their parents made them khanga garments for important moments and celebrations. Usually, because of the size, we use kitenge rather than khanga for making clothes. Maybe it is a generational difference because in our fathers’ time there they would say you beat a woman with a piece of khanga.
Apology khanga
I have seen two apology khanga. Both women confirmed that their husbands bought these khangas. Nonetheless, some things do not change, and men from their early adulthood understand that for a man to be seen walking around wrapped in his woman’s khanga is a sign of marking his territory.
So surely there would not be two men wearing that woman’s khanga walking in the same compound, going to brush their teeth outside.
We had one peculiar case of a woman who does not feel connected to a khanga. In her own words, she does not see what the big deal is with khanga. She has never bought a khanga. The khanga she has; she has received from female family members. I don’t expect other people to have a craze for khanga like I do. But what do you make of a Tanzanian woman who looks at a khanga almost with apathy?
I still receive khanga stories. The discussion from that day has affirmed my belief about using the khanga as a historical source. It is imperative for me as a Tanzanian woman artist to use the khanga as a developing language through which we tell our own stories and histories.
History is not just out there in the national archives or on podcasts. It is also in the khanga that your mother availed for you to soil. Tell me udugu wangu, what is your khanga story?
Diana Kamara identifies herself as the daughter of Adria Kokulengya. She can be reached at dianakkamara@gmail.com. The opinions expressed here are the writer’s own and do not necessarily reflect those of The Chanzo. If you are interested in publishing in this space, please contact our editors at editor@thechanzo.com.
