How do law schools teach the histories and legacies of race and empire? If they do at all? What pedagogical approaches are emerging to address colonialism, racialisation and global inequalities within legal education? Where are they emerging? What challenges and opportunities do educators encounter in undertaking this work? These questions sit at the heart of the launch event for the Critical Legal Pedagogies of Race and Empire Network, a new collaborative initiative dedicated to fostering dialogue, innovation and community around the teaching of race and empire within legal education. Registration is free, and participation is available both in person and online. Register here: Launching the Critical Legal Pedagogies of Race and Empire Network

The launch event will take place on 14 September 2026 at the University of Bristol, bringing together academics, researchers, practitioners and students from across disciplines and jurisdictions. It represents an important milestone in the development of a growing international conversation about how legal education can engage more meaningfully with the histories, structures and contemporary realities of empire, colonialism and racialisation.

Many years ago, I decided to study international law. I was impelled by a desire to find a pathway within the law to respond to the plight of those whom Frantz Fanon describes as the Wretched of the Earth (more accurately, the damned of the earth; see Switzer, 2021, for more on this point). What I found by the end of my PhD was that international law and the international community have mostly been futilely spoken of as sources of hope for the wretched. The last couple of years in particular have demonstrated how both of these institutions (if we can call them that) are significantly responsible for making the wretched of the earth rather than saving them. Those who are persecuted, in despair, abandoned, oppressed and derelict cry out in vain to international law for help. Over and over again.

In the summer of 2024, in response to horrific attacks on and killing of nursery school children in Southport on 29 July, approximately 29 riots broke out across the United Kingdom. Those riots were ultimately triggered by false claims that the Southport attacker had been a Muslim asylum seeker. The truth was that he was born in Cardiff to Christian parents. These riots targeted racialised people as well as immigration centres, asylum hotels, mosques, businesses owned by racialised people, and refugee support offices; people were subject to physical attacks, and buildings were damaged.

In a previous blog post, I wrote a summary of the life of Patrice Émery Lumumba, who was a Congolese politician and also the first prime minister of the First Congolese Republic. Lumumba was known as a fierce nationalist who wanted Congo’s resources to be controlled by the people of Congo. He also refused to play a diplomatic game with Belgium and instead called out the sheer brutality of their colonial rule. The possibly apocryphal statement “Nous ne sommes plus vos singes” credited to Lumumba and directed at King Baudouin of Belgium summarises his legacy in this regard. The death toll under Leopold’s Congo is estimated to be over 10 million people, so Lumumba was unapologetic in wanting to free Congo of such brutal control. However, the substantial deposits of uranium and other resources under the Congolese earth made the Congo pivotal in the Cold War and made a mockery of any “granting of independence”. This post is a reflection on the documentary Soundtrack to a Coup d’État (2024), which explores this context and what led to the assassination of Lumumba. The documentary is both harrowing and exceedingly important to watch.

Early in 2026, I agreed to write an essay on decolonisation and AI for the Bristol Institute for Learning and Teaching (BILT). The original article was published on the 23rd of March and can be found here. I have added many thoughts to the original text in the essay below, in which I question the possibility of “decolonising AI”. My grounds for this include the fact that decolonisation and the push to adopt GenAI in everything have diametrically opposed logics, means and aims. A caveat: I am writing specifically about the adoption of GenAI in the context within which I work.

I have been thinking for quite some time about what unsettles me about the phrase, “He was no angel.” Variations of this phrase have been used to essentially justify (mostly but not only) killings of often people of colour or people who stand for racial justice. George Floyd is a notable recent instance. After he was killed by Chauvin, Candace Owens said, “George Floyd is being uplifted as an amazing human being … Everyone is pretending that this man lived a heroic lifestyle when he didn’t.” Basically, we are only allowed to mourn perfect people. But this type of justifying speech has a very long and much broader history. For example, in the 1960s, media and politicians in the West, in light of Patrice Lumumba’s belief in the right of the Congolese to political, social and economic self-determination, characterised him as insane, arrogant, overly ambitious, and even satanic. He was assassinated against the backdrop of this description of his character. And many thought that that was justified. Ultimately, he was no angel, and then he was no longer with us.

Unbelievably, I have been attempting to write this essay for nearly four years. I have now cut it up into 2+ different posts for readability. This first post is a commentary on the current condition of the world, especially the destruction wrought by those who claim to love their countries. The further posts will be broader reviews of the subject matter of this essay. Stay tuned.

Patriotism is the feeling of love, devotion, and a sense of attachment to one’s country or state. – Wikipedia

Ultimately derived from Greek patrios, meaning “of one’s father,” [family] Merriam Webster

We have been assailed in recent years by the loud voices and actions of those who claim to be acting out of a deep and abiding love for their countries. This “love” seems to have been focused on attacking the [mostly but not only] racialised other as a deep threat to the country’s economy, security, culture and ultimately homogeneity. The actions that have followed have been punitive psychologically and physically, often with no upside for anyone but a few already privileged people. It is very difficult to write anything about this which can do any more than point out the hypocrisy and wrongness of it all. A sentence or two would suffice. Love for country that is exhibited mainly by vitriol provides its own incontrovertible evidence for why you should not agree with it. An illegitimate and bad-faith position will not be convinced by an appeal to reason. It neither wants nor seeks it. Similarly, a good faith position needs no convincing that humanity is inherently precious. As such, here I use the lens of a Turkish soap, not to convince but to reflect in a cathartic way on where we have always stood in relation to the question. What does it mean to love your country?

In my work and in this blog, I have used the umbrella term Black/African Science Fiction (B/A SF) to describe a wide range of science fiction and fantasy forms that have been originated by African and African-descended people. These are literature forms which in many ways seek to use the speculative writing of science fiction to centre the experiences, philosophies and hopes of Black/African people. Though I use B/A SF as an umbrella term to point to this collective and overarching goal, in this essay, I want to examine the continuities and points of departure in the origins and composite aims of the subgenres within B/A SF. To do this, I focus on two key strands of B/A SF – Afrofuturism and Africanfuturism. But beyond these are a wide range of related and sometimes overlapping genres from a vast array of artforms that include graphic art, music, fantasy, magic realism, speculative African fiction and Africanjujuism.