The previous chapter makes it clear that the Internet and communications technology have become important frontiers in the struggle against gender-based violence. Discussing, in particular, the everyday lived experience of violence against women online, it illustrated the extent to which online gender-based violence has been normalized as well as the direct linkages between online violence, offline harms, and intertwined structures of oppression based on patriarchy, Global North–South divides, and other social hierarchies. While Chapter 3 offered insight primarily into the experiences of domestic and interpersonal violence facilitated through online platforms, it left unaddressed the issue of how gender-based violence can be deployed by extremists using technology to further their own ends. The present chapter explores how online extremist violence both deploys gender discourse and uses gendered labour to further its end. This analysis looks primarily at the role of social media, but also addresses the role of messaging apps, decentralized platforms, and other related technologies.

A necessary first step in this exercise is to define both ‘violent extremism’ and ‘extremist violence’, and explore what these terms mean in a gendered context. The definition of extremism is contested and is not always linked explicitly to manifestations of physical violence. While extremism is often associated with radical ideological views, commentators have noted that holding or advocating such views does not necessarily lead to the practice of violence or to a decision to join an extremist group (Griset and Mahan 2002; Horgan 2009; Aly and Striegher 2012; Striegher 2015). Thus, violent extremism is often defined in opposition to terrorism. While ‘extremism’ denotes adherence to a radical ideology, and ‘violent extremism’ denotes adherence to an ideology that views violence as a suitable tool in the pursuit of ideological goals, whether extremist violence is also terrorism can be distinguished by whether an individual actually carries out violence and/or whether they are part of an organized group engaged in that practice (Striegher 2015; UNODC 2018). Extremism, then, is an appropriate conceptual framework for this chapter, which explores how gender-based violence is deployed by a combination of organized armed groups, diffuse extremist movements, and entities that fall somewhere in between.

Throughout this book, we have set out to explore the potential for political work and political consequences that humour can have in various African contexts. The process of corralling our thoughts and ideas together has been a challenging but also entertaining one – made all the more enjoyable by having the licence to legitimately argue that reading jokes and memes on social media, watching stand-up comedy and comedy skits, and looking at cartoons has been for work purposes. (If anyone ever asks why we do research on humour, the answer – in all honesty – is that it is fun. There is also much humour that goes along with the research process itself, but that is indeed another book).

As we have demonstrated across the chapters, the landscape of and for humour – and specifically humour which does political work – is diverse, varied and continually being contested. The long history of visual and verbal humour in Africa is complex and multifaceted, and these histories entwine with the experiences of colonialism to inform the current backdrop to the freedoms and constraints facing different types of humourists in different national contexts. We are far from the first authors to make this argument – we stand on the shoulders of the many scholars who have provided detailed discussions of these histories and conditions. However, we have expanded and built upon these works with a comprehensive assortment of examples and discussion from across the continent and from vastly different political contexts.

Among these scholarly giants, the work of Achille Mbembe on cartoons in Cameroon and the politics of affect continues to frame much of the ensuing discussion on humour and politics in Africa (and beyond). At the heart of his reasoning is the claim that cartoons – and humour more generally – may seek to resist or disrupt dominant or hegemonic power but in so doing actually serves to reinforce the omnipotence of this power. Linked, in part, to Mbembe’s work and allied to a common tendency for scholars to seek examples of oppositional practices and instances where the underdog or subaltern is able to effectively speak truth to power and upend dominant power relations, it has become de rigour to link humour and resistance.

A history of humour in Africa

In the past few decades, there has been a significant increase in published works exploring the multiple and shifting roles of humour in various African contexts. Gathara (2004) and Mason (2010a), for instance, provide book-length sociological and historical overviews of cartoons in South African and Kenya, respectively, while Donian (2019) and Nwankwọ (2021) study the different periods of stand-up comedy development in Nigeria and South Africa, respectively. Alongside these nationally focused works, key collections by Lent (2009) and Limb and Olaniyan (2018) offer continental-level reviews of the evolution and political power of cartooning across Africa. Nwankwọ’s edited volume (2022a) also contains chapters on various stand-up comedy practices in different parts of the continent. There are also more specialized works that have engaged with specific examples of cartoons and comic strips across the continent (Mbembe, 2001; Eko, 2007, 2010; Hammett, 2010a; Mason, 2010a; Willems, 2011); live performances such as everyday jokes and joking patterns/relationships (Obadare, 2010; Hernann, 2016; Chukwumah, 2018); storytelling and stand-up comedy (Seirlis, 2011; Musila, 2014; Källstig & Death, 2021; Nwankwọ, 2022c), comedic theatre (Povey, 1969; Haynes, 1994; Michieka & Muaka, 2016), oral performances (Scheub, 1985; Dowling, 1996; Johns, 2009); comedy films (Crigler, 2018; Ebrahim, 2018); and funny music/song renditions (Olaniyan, 2004). Additionally, there is an immense amount of literature that explores humour within traditional print media under which we also find cartoons, as well as billboards, drama, sitcoms, and jocular magazine/newspaper publications and talk shows (Limb & Olaniyan, 2018; Rabe, 2018). Further, with the ever-growing expansion of digital technology and, in some areas, satellite television, African humour now circulates via electronic and social media formats, as well as in the form of reality television and game shows (Neuendorf et al, 2014; Ngwira & Lipenga, 2018; Zirugo, 2021). Online presence, virtual self-performance, and the creation of social media content and participation have also proliferated across the continent in the past decade (Cheruiyot & Uppal, 2019; Vanyoro & Vanyoro, 2019; Lomotey, 2020; Mukhongo, 2020; Matsilele & Mututwa, 2021).

If you picked up this book hoping for entertaining jokes and witty remarks, your expectations may be rapidly dashed. It is clearly not a book of anecdotes but one that describes the relationships between humour and politics in Africa. As much as we (the authors) like to think we are funny, you – the reader – may disagree. This is because even though we find each other hilarious and often laughed over the course of writing this manuscript, the jokes we enjoyed during meetings (Izuu and Dan often told dry dad-jokes, while Laura regaled them with tales from dating app encounters) may not elicit mirth in other circumstances. We did enjoy these gatherings and saw our discussions as a nice reprieve from ‘that lockdown life’, and at times used humour to deal with set-backs and logistical challenges – one of which is alluded to in the earlier ‘joke’.

Through the latter parts of 2021, we had worked remotely on sections of this book, emailing draft content to each other and meeting on Zoom and GoogleMeet. By early 2022, we felt it was important to meet for an in-person writing retreat to work through and finalize the content collectively. To do this, Izuu – travelling on a Nigerian passport – needed to come to the UK from Germany. After completing seemingly more paperwork than would be needed for an intergalactic trade agreement, Izuu applied for the necessary visa. The planned date for the writing retreat approached and passed, the seasons changed, the ice caps melted, stars were born and died, and eventually the much-delayed visa was issued and the writing retreat rearranged. Needless to say, our use of humour through this journey was a mix of coping, stress release and commentary on the state of British politics and society. Nevertheless, this book is not about us, nor is it an attempt to subject the audience to our lame (and at times wildly inappropriate) senses of humour.

Humour offers an accessible mode through which such sentiments are represented, as it favours the agency of the less powerful and highlights their capabilities in the face of adversity and extremely powerful political forces, even if it does not always lead to substantive change in the precise moment it takes place. The ways in which humour can aid people to re-frame and re-think their own roles and agency within society is in and of itself its own form of power. This is exemplified in the forms of jokes designed to ridicule power like the following which circulated in Nigeria about former president, Olusegun Obasanjo, in which he received information that the United Nations wanted to honour him by commissioning a statue to be erected in his honour at the nation’s capital, Abuja. He was elated when he heard the information and he quickly agreed to pose for a photograph from which his sculpted image would be made. As the people were getting the instruments ready, he heard someone mention that the United Nations had made a budget of five hundred million dollars for the project, and he immediately halted all discussions in order to get clarifications:

This is an example of some of the political jokes that Nigerian comedians performed during Obasanjo’s time in office to humorously characterize some of the criticisms surrounding his persona and government. The changes and transformation humour can bring does not simply ‘happen’, but rather reflect a culmination of mundane, yet often significant encounters with those in power. This is reflected in political humour – and any resistance it may or may not demonstrate. Such fleeting moments of humour, however, still constitute political work and the accrual of these moments are important.

Ultimately, narratives transmitted through humour and satire over time are ‘dynamic, continual and shifting negotiation of ideas of power, resistance and dissent … the narrative through which leaders are mocked or ridiculed may be viewed as resulting in a simultaneous reification of elite power and critique thereof ‘ (Hammett, 2010a, p 15).

Silence entails a gap within conversations or joke-telling in which no one says anything or gives any response. It is also a moment of profound political work, wherein issues that cut to the bone, often uncomfortable, are broached, ultimately forcing reflection on the part of audiences and performers. Silence also signals the diversity of an audience because not every member of the audience finds every joke laughable (Harvey, 1989, pp 347–8). In joking situations, silence can either be the bridge-gap between the moment between a punchline and a laugh or can indicate an undesirable absence of laughter ascribed to failed humour (Bell, 2015, p 101), due to the understanding that the joke may be lost on the audience or subject to unintended readings and reception. In this sense, silence is the antithesis of laughter because when the punchline comes from the comedian, especially in situations where the joke has been delivered appropriately, laughter implies that it is funny and that the comedian has done his job well, whereas silence means the very opposite; the audience does not think that what has been said is funny. Consequently, silence becomes the audience’s way of countering the (re-)definitions of its boundaries of risibility. With this in mind, consider the following story:

Humour is a primary means through which members of civil society, regardless of social or economic status, education or networks, can actively participate – both critically and uncritically – in political discourse. Hence, humour is frequently analysed in the context of resistance, particularly in Africa. This predilection is driven, in part at least, by widespread interest in the everyday-ness of politics and the ways in which populations experience and encounter political power. For their ubiquity in society, humour and laughter become obvious locations for those seeking to understand how resistance manifests in everyday life, whether this is linked to jokes as a ‘weapon of the weak’ (Scott, 1985) or in thinking through the unintended consequences of laughter and its potential to re-inscribe the very power it is aimed at (Mbembe, 2001). Consequently, in many ways, humour is important for politics: on an everyday level, it is an accessible arena for social and political participation, one that does not necessarily require high levels of literacy or social or economic capital to access. Thus, in societies with significant wealth disparities and limited ability to access central power (and the powerful), joking is one way in which many people are feasibly able to speak truth to power and stake a claim to civic participation. Such participation may occur on a whole range of levels, from the private to the public, from the shared, whispered joke with a close friend to performing a full stand-up routine to a public audience to the production and dissemination of skits, memes or cartoons to (potentially) millions via online platforms. While there are certainly limits to the impacts humour by itself can effect change, its engagement can be a critical tool to starting bigger conversations that can act as a bridge and lead to prominent political work.

These differing forms and forums are, therefore, part of the ecosystem that inherently links politics and humour. The pervasiveness of each aspect of this ecosystem reflects the elites’ tolerance or suppression of dissent and laughter towards them.