The crime has now been named. The transatlantic slave trade is now officially recognised as a crime against humanity. But naming it is not the same as addressing it.
If anything, recognising the transatlantic slave trade as a crime against humanity forces a more urgent question into focus. What comes next, and who is responsible for making it happen? Because once the applause fades, the resolution reveals its core limitation: it is not legally binding.
General Assembly resolutions operate in the realm of moral persuasion, not legal enforcement. They merely recommend. So when the resolution calls for formal apologies, reparatory justice, and structural redress, it is essentially asking rather than requiring states to act.
In international politics, asking is rarely enough. Take the issue of formal apologies, which the resolution encourages. Who is obligated to apologise, and to whom?
Is it European states addressing African governments, or should apologies extend to African diaspora communities in the Caribbean, the Americas, and Europe? Crucially, what constitutes a meaningful apology in this context?
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Without a legal framework or enforcement mechanism, apologies risk becoming performative diplomacy statements issued without accountability, consequence, or follow-through.
The limits of apologies
We have seen this before. Historical apologies from colonial powers in various contexts often stop at rhetoric. They acknowledge harm but avoid liability.
The UN resolution, as it stands, does little to change that pattern. This sentiment echoes the limitations of recent gestures, such as German President Frank-Walter Steinmeier’s apology in Songea on November 1, 2023. There, he asked for forgiveness for the Maji Maji War atrocities committed between 1905 and 1907.
Compensation is the most contentious aspect of this conversation, and for good reason. It raises difficult, unresolved questions about how much is owed, who calculates it, who pays, and who exactly qualifies as a beneficiary. Some advocates argue for direct financial compensation to descendants of enslaved people, particularly in the diaspora.
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Others propose state-to-state transfers, where former colonial powers compensate African nations. A third camp suggests structural remedies such as debt cancellation, trade reforms, and long-term investment in education and infrastructure. Each model comes with political and practical complications.
Debt cancellation, for instance, has gained traction as a form of reparative justice. The logic is straightforward: if Africa’s underdevelopment is historically linked to slavery and colonial extraction, then relieving debt burdens could be a meaningful corrective.
Charity versus accountability
But even this raises questions. Would debt cancellation be framed as reparations or simply rebranded development assistance? Would creditor nations accept that framing?
There is already a narrative, particularly among some Western policymakers, that Africa has been “compensated” through decades of development aid. Institutions such as the UNDP, UNICEF, and the World Food Programme are often cited as evidence of ongoing global support. However, as Dambisa Moyo argues in Dead Aid, aid is not a substitute for structural justice.
In many cases, it has created dependency, distorted local economies, and reinforced unequal power relations rather than dismantling them. To frame aid as reparations is to confuse charity with accountability. Reparations, by definition, acknowledge wrongdoing and seek to repair it.
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Aid, on the other hand, is discretionary and can be increased, reduced, or withdrawn at will. The two are not interchangeable. Without clear definitions and enforcement mechanisms, reparations can be absorbed into existing development frameworks.
They risk being rebranded as “partnerships” or “capacity building” whilst avoiding the core issue of historical responsibility. In effect, justice becomes indistinguishable from business as usual. The alternative could be shifting the conversation from global mandates to regional leadership, particularly through the African Union.
Regional leadership approach
Rather than waiting for binding international agreements, African states could frame reparations as a structured, long-term dialogue between nations. This would involve three key steps. First, a comprehensive assessment of harm must be conducted.
This is not just about estimating economic loss, but understanding the full spectrum of demographic, cultural, institutional, and psychological damage. The legacy of slavery and colonialism is not only material; it is also systemic. Second, principles must be established rather than fixed formulas.
Instead of imposing a universal model of compensation, the AU could define guiding frameworks of recognition, restitution, and rehabilitation. This would allow individual countries to negotiate terms based on their specific historical relationships. Third, reparations must be linked to measurable outcomes.
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If compensation takes the form of investment—whether in education, healthcare, or infrastructure—then it must be tied to clear benchmarks. Otherwise, it risks becoming indistinguishable from conventional aid flows. But even this approach faces a fundamental obstacle: political will.
For many former colonial powers, reparations remain politically sensitive and even unpopular. Governments fear legal precedents, financial costs, and domestic backlash. For African states, the challenge is different but equally complex.
The gap in justice
They must ensure unity of position, avoid elite capture of benefits, and maintain pressure in a system where enforcement is weak. This is why the non-binding nature of the UN resolution matters so much. It allows states to support the idea of justice without committing to its implementation.
Symbolism in international relations is not meaningless. Recognition shapes discourse, creates legitimacy, and provides a platform for claims that were once dismissed. The fact that slavery is now formally recognised as a crime against humanity at the UN level is not trivial.
If anything, this moment exposes the gap between moral consensus and political action. The world can agree that slavery was a crime, but it is far less willing to agree on what justice looks like. Perhaps that is where Africa must reposition itself—not as a passive recipient of global decisions, but as an active architect of the next phase.
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If the UN resolution opens the door, it is up to African institutions, policymakers, and intellectuals to decide what walks through it. Will reparations become a serious, structured agenda or remain a diplomatic talking point? Will historical injustice be addressed through transformative policy or absorbed into the language of aid and development?
Ultimately, who defines justice in this process: the institutions that recognise the crime, or the societies that live its consequences? These are the questions I am leaving behind.
Mariam Gichan is an archaeologist and journalist based in Dar es Salaam. She can be reached at mariamgichan@gmail.com or on +255 754 215 690. 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.
