We are not building a global village. We are witnessing a second, silent scramble. This time, the territory is not land, but mindshare; the resource is not rubber or gold, but data and attention. The cartographers are in Menlo Park and Mountain View, not Berlin. And the map they are drawing, with the benevolent ink of "connectivity" and "philanthropy," outlines a new form of dominion: the digital colony. The question is not whether Africa is being integrated into the digital world. The question is on whose terms, and to whose benefit. We have been asking about access. We should be asking about architecture. We have been celebrating connection. We should be interrogating control.
The architecture of dependence is already built, its foundations poured in the concrete of undersea cables and server farms located elsewhere. A significant portion of Africa's data traffic is reportedly routed through servers in Europe or North America, which would create a costly dependency and surveillance vulnerability. This is not a technical footnote; it is an ontological condition. It means the very substance of African digital life—our communications, our transactions, our cultural production—must passport itself through foreign jurisdictions before reaching a neighbor. It introduces latency, not just in milliseconds, but in sovereignty. It creates what I call a *condition of perpetual intermediation*, where every digital gesture is witnessed, logged, and potentially governed by a power that did not emanate from the people making it. The cost is not only financial, though the tolls extracted are immense. The cost is political and existential. It is a re-inscription of the colonial coastline, where all value must flow out to be processed, refined, and sold back to us at a premium.
This infrastructural subjugation is then normalized through what is presented as pure gift: the walled garden of "free" access. Services like Meta's Free Basics and other 'zero-rated' offerings are often cited as creating walled gardens that can define 'the internet' for millions, arguably violating net neutrality principles. This is the digital equivalent of the colonial trading post. It says: Here is your world. Here is your marketplace. Here are your approved forms of communication and knowledge. Stay within these fences, and you shall not pay with money. You will pay with your autonomy, your imagination, and your data. When a generation's first conception of the internet is a curated suite of services owned by a single foreign corporation, that is not connectivity. That is cognitive capture. It defines the horizon of the possible before a user even knows other horizons exist. It makes the platform the province, and the user the subject. This is not development. It is digital enclosure.
The bitter irony is that this neo-colonial scramble accelerates even as Africa constructs its own bold frameworks for collective economic liberation. While continental agreements like the African Continental Free Trade Area (AfCFTA) aim to create unified frameworks, my view is that their implementation often lags behind the bilateral deals struck between individual nations and foreign tech giants. Here lies the tragic disconnect. While our continental bodies painstakingly negotiate protocols for a unified digital market—a vision of breathtaking potential—individual nations, often desperate for investment and quick-win "tech hubs," are signing bilateral agreements that cede the very sovereignty a collective bloc seeks to pool. This is the old colonial playbook: divide and conquer, updated for the digital age. A continent negotiating as a bloc of 1.3 billion people is a formidable rule-maker. A single nation, negotiating from a position of infrastructural need, is a rule-taker. Silicon Valley understands this power geometry perfectly. It is easier to shape the digital law of one nation than of many. So they offer bespoke deals, data center investments, and promises of jobs, fragmenting the collective front and hardwiring incompatible digital standards before a pan-African standard can even be born.
The response, so far, has been fragmented, reactive, and often limited to recapturing lost revenue rather than reclaiming foundational sovereignty. Measures such as digital services taxes, like those reportedly considered or implemented in some nations, seem to represent early, fragmented attempts to reclaim fiscal sovereignty from extractive digital platforms. Taxes are important. They are a recognition that value is being created within a territory and that a social contract demands a share for the commons. But a tax on digital extraction is still a concession to the extractive model itself. It is an admission that the platform is here, it is mining, and the best we can do is levy a royalty. It does not challenge the underlying ownership of the mine, the design of the tools, or the destination of the refined product. It is a 21st-century version of the colonial resource royalty. Necessary, perhaps, as a holding action, but catastrophically insufficient as a vision. True sovereignty is not about getting a better percentage of the loot. It is about owning the means of production and defining the purpose of the endeavor.
This externalized control is feared to extend to the very bedrock of digital identity: the domain name. It is often suggested that a startlingly low percentage of Africa's country code top-level domains (like .ke or .ng) are physically hosted on servers within the continent, which would fundamentally undermine digital resilience. Think about this. The digital real estate that is meant to be most intrinsically *of* a nation could, in many cases, be physically located on another continent. This is not a trivial technical detail. It means the core of a nation's digital addressing system, the root of its online presence, risks being an external dependency. In a moment of geopolitical tension or even a technical dispute, what happens to that namespace? This is more than an irony; it is a profound vulnerability. It symbolizes a deeper truth: we have accepted a digital world where even our most sovereign symbols are held in trust by others. Our digital flags may fly on foreign soil.
What, then, is the way out? How do we reject the digital colony model?
First, we must shift the paradigm from *extractive connectivity* to *generative infrastructure*. This means a continental commitment to building Digital Public Infrastructure (DPI) not as a single monolith, but as interoperable, open-source protocols for identity, data exchange, and payments. Think of it as digital Ubuntu—a philosophy of interconnected, mutually affirming systems. India's India Stack offers one model, but Africa's must be different. It must be decentralized by design, respecting both continental coherence and national particularities. It must treat data not as a commodity to be harvested by platforms, but as a common good, managed for the public benefit by custodians accountable to the people. This is not about building an African Facebook or an African Google. It is about making it possible for a thousand African *contexts* to bloom, by providing the shared, sovereign plumbing upon which they can build.
Second, we must enact digital sovereignty not just in law, but in physical reality. This means a pan-African imperative for data localization of critical systems, for continental internet exchange points (IXPs) that keep African traffic within Africa, and for massive investment in tier-IV data centers owned and operated by African consortia. It means treating data routing and hosting as strategic national security issues, akin to energy or transport grids. The African Union's Digital Transformation Strategy acknowledges this, but it must move from strategy to urgent, funded implementation.
Third, we must reframe the narrative. The language of "leapfrogging" is often a trap. It suggests we are merely jumping ahead on a path laid down by others. Our goal is not to leapfrog onto their platform. Our goal is to build a different plane of existence entirely. The African intellectual tradition, particularly Ubuntu, offers a vital counterweight to Silicon Valley's hyper-individualistic, extractive logic. Ubuntu's assertion that "a person is a person through other persons" is a radical framework for the digital age. It suggests that our data, our digital identities, are not isolated property but relational fabric. Our digital systems should strengthen community, not just extract from individuals. This is a first-principles advantage we have largely ignored.
The window is closing. The AI boom is not a separate event; it is an accelerant on this fire. With the AI boom accelerating data hunger, Africa risks becoming a permanent data plantation—a source of raw digital material (data) for refinement and profit elsewhere. Large language models and predictive algorithms are ravenous for the one resource Africa generates in abundance: human data, reflecting diverse languages, contexts, and ways of being. Without sovereignty, we will feed this hunger. Our stories, our speech patterns, our social relations will become training fodder for systems that will then sell insights back to us, or worse, use them to manipulate our politics and economies with unseen precision. We will be the soil, while others own the seeds, the tools, and the harvest.
This is the urgent choice. Will we be digital citizens, co-architects of our own future? Or will we be digital subjects, tenants on platforms owned elsewhere, our agency mediated by algorithms optimized for distant shareholders?
The historical Berlin Conference drew lines on a map that ignored cultures, languages, and histories, carving a continent into spheres of influence. Today's digital conference is drawing lines in code, in data flow agreements, and in API permissions. It is happening in corporate boardrooms and in closed-door bilateral meetings. We were not invited to the first Berlin Conference. We are, passively, inviting the second through our acquiescence to a pre-fabricated digital destiny.
Africa's parliaments, its civil societies, its technologists, and its citizens must become the unruly participants at this new conference. We must crash the boardroom. The agenda is not connectivity. The agenda is sovereignty. The resource is not our data. The resource is our right to a future of our own making. We must build it, not from a place of isolationist anger, but from a place of generative, confident self-determination. The tools to build a different digital world are there. The need is catastrophic. The time is now. Let us begin.
