‘Speaking’ through songs? African Black women,colonial violence and resistance among Cokwe people in rural Angola

Abstract

This article analyses Cokwe songs sung by African women and their insurgent voices in rural Angolan territories during the late Portuguese colonial period. Considering the complex forms of colonial violence endured by African populations through forced labour in the 1950s, this article examines the counter-hegemonic potential of music and the limits of subalternity, rethinking the conditions and possibilities of the subaltern subject’s voice. I explore how these songs transcended their local contexts to challenge colonial power narratives, focusing on how women used songs as tools to resist systemic violence, address oppression, and convey messages of survival and empowerment. What experiences of multifaceted violence perpetrated against the African population are revealed in these songs? In what ways did African women engage with this violence? To what extent did these subaltern women ‘speak’ through these songs? This article draws on interdisciplinary research combining anthropology, history, and postcolonial/decolonial theory to answer these questions. It incorporates a range of historical archival sources (sound, photographs, texts) and narratives of Angolan interlocutors collected during multisite and collaborative ethnographic fieldwork conducted in both Portugal and Angola. I argue that these songs and the women who performed them played a crucial role, both locally and translocally, resisting against the multiple layers of violence embedded in their lives, revealing intricate dynamics of power, race, class, gender, sexuality, and resistance. These songs serve as powerful sites of subaltern expression, showing how women navigated, resisted, and gave meaning through music to the violence of colonial labour regimes through music. This article offers a critical perspective on how creative expressions can confront gender-based violence, resist colonial domination, and foster collective memory and awareness. It emphasises the voices, agency, and identity of women, often overlooked, thereby contributing to a more inclusive approach to gender and feminist studies and postcolonial theory.

Introduction

The songs performed by rural Black African labourers under Portuguese colonial rule have been interpreted as a response to moments of tension and exhaustion, and as a means of preserving a way of life threatened by capitalist logic. In colonial rural areas of Angola, for example, songs sung in cotton plantations or diamond mines are analysed as primarily serving to endure the violence of labour routines, rather than actively confronting the Portuguese colonial system (see Ball, 2006; Cleveland, 2008). Consequently, these activities have been categorised as ‘low-risk’ (Cleveland, 2008: 132). In a similar vein, the anti-colonial and subversive impact of these labourers’ songs in cotton plantations in Mozambique was overlooked or misinterpreted as having limited scope, confined to the workplace or village where they were sung (see Vail and White, 1978a, 1978b, 1983).

I propose a counterargument to the prevailing historiographical interpretations of how to interpret these songs. I focus on songs performed by the Cokwe people ¹ in the rural areas of northeastern Angola in the 1950s. These songs were collected by Diamang, a powerful diamond company operating in Angola under Portuguese colonial rule. I examine how women used these songs to subvert and resist the violent experiences associated with cipale – the system of forced colonial labour imposed on Black African populations by the company, as known within Cokwe society. I argue that addressing this specific context requires an interpretation that considers the intersection of culture, power, gender, race, violence, and class. Recognising these artistic expressions as forms of subversive knowledge challenges dominant historical accounts and affirms the transformative potential of listening to silenced voices in the pursuit of decolonial memory and justice. This article also proposes a re-evaluation of the potentialities of the subaltern subject’s voice, challenging the perceived limits of subalternity.

From the perspective of subaltern studies, subaltern subjects and knowledge, when examined through a Gramscian lens, are not positioned entirely outside systems of power. Instead, they take shape through a dynamic and often contradictory engagement with the very structures that dominate them. Although these voices are formed within contexts of oppression, they carry embedded forms of subversive resistance that challenge and disrupt hegemonic narratives (Chatterjee, 2000; O’Hanlon, 2000; Prakash, 2000). This brings us to a central debate within subaltern theory: to what extent can subaltern subjects truly speak for themselves and be heard on their own terms? Gayatri Spivak engages this question by critiquing the essentialism inherent in the Gramscian conception of the subaltern as the collective voice of working-class and peasant groups. She argues that such a view risk reducing the subaltern to a monolithic and abstract category, thereby obscuring individual agency and the complex, context-specific nature of subaltern subjectivities.

In her feminist postcolonial critique, Spivak (1994 [1988]) asserts that ‘the colonised subaltern subject is irretrievably heterogeneous’ (p. 79). Rather than viewing the subaltern as a unified or static figure, she emphasises their diversity and the fluid, relational, and context-specific ways in which they construct their identities. This heterogeneity renders their voices difficult to recover or represent, particularly by the ‘representing intellectual’ who seeks to speak on their behalf (Spivak, 1994 [1988]: 80). ‘Subaltern consciousness’ is embedded within the power relations from which it emerges and is entangled with structures of global capitalism (Spivak, 1994 [1988]: 79). Subalternity, therefore, is continually mediated by institutional structures of control and interpretation. As Spivak notes, the voices of the oppressed, and their potential ability to resist, are shaped by the dominant discourses that define them as subaltern. Although Spivak (1994 [1988]) does not claim subaltern subjects are incapable of expressing their voices, she points out that subaltern voices, particularly those of women, are only heard when institutionally recognised. Since this recognition does not occur, she asserts that ‘the subaltern cannot speak’ (p. 104).

While acknowledging Spivak’s contribution to understanding subaltern women’s voices, this article contends that realising the transformative potential of subaltern expression requires moving beyond discourse analysis to engage with lived practices of concrete subjects. Spivak rightly emphasises the importance of situating subaltern consciousness within the constraints of hegemonic capitalist structures. However, her argument has faced scrutiny. Despite critiquing essentialism, Spivak risks reproducing an essentialist view of subalternity by suggesting subaltern voices are entirely shaped – and ultimately silenced – by dominant power. As Benita Parry (2003: 40) observes, this perspective ‘severely restricts (if not eliminates)’ the space for subaltern enunciation, casting the subaltern primarily as a victim devoid of agency. In light of these limitations, it becomes crucial to reconceptualise power and resistance not as fixed binaries, but as performative, fragmented, and relational practices that arise within specific interpersonal and historical contexts (Abu-Lughod, 1990).

Building on these critiques, this article draws on James Scott’s influential work (1985, 1990) to further explore how subaltern subjects enact agency within oppressive systems. Scott foregrounds the subtle, often covert forms of resistance that do not necessarily appear confrontational to dominant powers yet nonetheless undermine them. He argues that such acts of resistance are embedded in the everyday and praxeological dimensions of social life (Scott, 1985). Moreover, what may appear as compliance with institutional authority often conceals a refusal to consent, illustrating the complex interplay between domination and negotiation (Scott, 1990).

Drawing on these theoretical debates, I assert the importance of acknowledging the emancipatory potential of subaltern subjects’ agency and resistance, even if their voices are not legitimised or recognised by dominant power structures. Scholars have a responsibility to prioritise research that contextualises power relations and explores diverse ways subalterns may ‘speak’ within contexts of violence – even when they do not transcend their subaltern condition. Achieving this requires ethnographic research examining power relations within specific contexts, moving beyond theoretical abstractions of power, resistance, and agency (Abu-Lughod, 1990; Galip, 2022; Valentim, 2022).

This article combines anthropology, history, and postcolonial/decolonial theory, drawing on archival sources, and narratives of Cokwe Angolans collected during fieldwork in Portugal and Angola (2014–2015). While this research has informed previous publications, here I turn to aspects of the Diamang collections not previously examined in depth. I critically engage with Spivak’s theory of subalternity, proposing instead an approach that recognises the effectiveness of subaltern speech. By foregrounding women’s voices and agency – often overlooked – this article contributes to a more inclusive perspective in gender, feminist, and postcolonial studies. The analysis focuses on the political potential of songs sung by Cokwe women in 1950s northeastern Angola, using a collaborative methodology to generate new meanings of the colonial past and to critically ask: who speaks, to whom, and for what purpose?

The songs of the forced labourers

The Dundo Museum was established by the Diamond Company of Angola (Diamang) ² in 1936 in the urban centre of Dundo, located in the northeastern Lunda District of the former Portuguese colony of Angola. The museum developed strategies to ‘rescue authentic traditions’ as a means of governing the African population, referred to as indígenas [indigenous]. These Black African men and women were governed by the racialised legal statute of Indigenato imposed by Portuguese colonial rule since 1926, which bound them to perform coercive labour under what was known as ‘contract work’. This status reflects a system of ongoing subjugation that was akin to slavery, ³ which was enforced through the legal imposition of compulsory labour (Neto, 2017). Although it was officially abolished in 1961, forced labour continued until Angola’s independence on 11 November 1975, and it is still remembered by Angolans as being similar to slavery.

Under Diamang’s authority, an intense process of folklorisation of the African workforce took place, making this a prime example of the scientific occupation of Angola. This entailed a reimagining of traditions, whereby the lived experiences and culture of Africans were transformed into subjects of study and control. The ‘rescue’ of ‘pure’ and ‘authentic’ African traditions involved the formation of Indigenous Folk Groups in Dundo since the 1940s, as well as the collection and study of songs in rural areas far from urban centres and mines – more isolated from European presence. These expeditions were conducted by the Mission of Folk Music Collection (MFMC), headed by the employee Manuel Pinho da Silva, from the late 1940s until the 1960s. It recorded African popular songs on shellac discs and magnetic tapes from 21 ethnic groups, creating an equal number of musicological collections.

This folklorisation extended beyond Lunda through the circulation of folk music collections across prestigious institutions in Europe, America, and Africa. The transnational circulation of cultural knowledge – via studies, conferences, recitals, and media – sought to legitimise the company’s prestige while masking its economic interests (Valentim, 2022). In this way, Diamang instrumentalised African traditional culture as a ‘technology of control’ (Dirks, 1995 [1992]), reinforcing the Civilising Mission ideology that naturalised hierarchies and cast the coloniser as ‘civilised’ and the colonised as ‘primitive’ and ‘folkloric’ (Smith, 1999). Furthermore, guided by the idea of an ‘African rhythm’ and percussion as the hallmark of authenticity (Agawu, 2003), the MFMC curated songs and dances privileging drumming over other rhythms. Most of the musical collections consist of songs performed with ngoma (drum) within the Ciyanda dance – a traditional circle dance performed during major festive gatherings at villages – and during labour activities or travels. Furthermore, it was only after the songs had been recorded that the MFMC gathered the lyrics and stories in the local languages and translated them into Portuguese. In addition, despite efforts to select songs that presented less harsh depictions of the colonial violence and its impact on African populations, the MFMC still recorded songs that addressed these issues directly. ⁴ Notably, these songs were performed by the company’s workforce with a significant number sung by women working within the Diamang concessionary region.

Currently, these archival materials collected by the Dundo Museum along the MFMC – including collections of songs, reports, musical instruments, and photographs – are held by the University of Coimbra (UC) in Portugal. They have been digitised and made accessible online through the Diamang Digital portal hosted by the UC. ⁵ Through collaborative listening sessions based on sound elicitation techniques, I explored these digitised songs with Cokwe-speaking Angolan participants from the source communities in Angola and the African diaspora in Portugal in 2014 and 2015. I met the interlocutors during my fieldwork. They came from a variety of backgrounds and age group – from peasants and car mechanics to musicians, journalists, university professors, and postgraduate students and researchers – but they all had a direct or indirect connection to Diamang.

In Sub-Saharan African colonial contexts, songs – interwoven with dance, language, poetry, sound, and orature – serve as a powerful lens for analysing power relations and amplifying subaltern African agency and resistance (Agawu, 2003; Ishemo, 1995). Therefore, the following questions need consideration: What hidden narratives do these songs reveal about colonial structures and effects? How did women express themselves through these songs? Can these songs be understood as acts of resistance to colonial oppression? These questions were raised during the joint listening sessions and developed later when examining the fieldwork material. The following sections analyse selected songs from the Cokwe collection with these questions as a guide.

Forced recruitment of men for cipale

The songs tell us that contract work for the mines of the company involved the forced migration of men from rural areas to urban or semi-urban spaces. Coercive recruitment was assisted by the Sobas, traditional African chiefs, who were required by Diamang to select healthy, strong men from their villages to work in the mines.

One song that focuses on recruitment is ‘Txipalè mu Congomonje’ (‘Contract in Congomonje’), which was recorded around the Camissombo area in 1955. ⁶ Cuindama and a choir of women, presumably comprising workers and relatives of Diamang’s male contract workers, sing it. I have selected the following excerpt to analyse as follows (MRFM 6R, 1955: 186):

(. . .)

Txipalè mu Congomonje, Contract labour in Congomonje,

Samaringa,

Canda urianga curia, Don’t start crying yet.

Mama uó mama é, My mother, uó, my mother é

Mama, My mother

Jinacangana, We are suffering

(. . .)

Lunga rhiámi, My Husband [or my man]

Canda urianga curia, Don’t start crying yet.

Amama uó mama é hé, My mothers, uó, my mother, e é hé

Mama, My mother

This song speaks about Samaringa, who must go to the Congomonje mine. His wife comforts him in response to his anxiety about going to cipale. The word ‘mama’ (mother) serves as a metaphor to convey the pain the man experiences in leaving his home, and his separation from his mother, wife, children, friends, and relatives. But above all, this song denounces the absolute despair caused by cipale, which the word ‘jinacangana’ conveys in the song. According to my interlocutor A, a specialist in the Cokwe language, this term goes beyond a simple state of suffering as translated by the MFMC. He explains that it conveys ‘the absolute despair of life coming to an end at that moment because there is no solution’.

Other songs sung by women reveal the impact of the cipale on marital and family dynamics, highlighting it as a significant site of emotional and social disruption under colonial labour regimes (O’Laughlin, 2002). According to the stories collected by the MFMC, the song ‘Lunga rhiámi quemba’ (‘My husband is a child’) is about a woman’s longing for her husband, who is often away fulfilling his contracts. This makes her jealous of other women (MRFM 5R, 1954: 207); ‘Ngulo txipalè maia’ (‘Ngulo goes to contract work’) expresses the lament of Ngulo’s sister, who, left alone in the village, suffers from the departure of her brother for contract work (MRFM 6R, 1955: 488); ‘Ahano há txihunda txeno’ (‘Here in your village’) speaks of the sadness and distress of a contract worker who asks, ‘Who will be my mother now?’, as his mother had passed away by the time he returned to the village (MRFM 6R, 1955: 324); ‘Iámi mungutxiaco’ (‘I will also go there’) expresses the lament of a mother who wants to go after her son who was pursued and captured by a cipaio ⁷ after attempting to escape from forced labour recruitment (MRFM 5R, 1954: 443); ‘Txipale caquene’ (‘Contract, only this one’) is about a wife who refuses to accompany her husband to the cipale again, as her mother passed away during their prolonged absence from the village (MRFM 6R, 1955: 339). ⁸

The song ‘Muambuâmbua’ (‘First Name, Masculine’) portrays the escape of a man from recruitment to the mines (MRFM 5R, 1954: 174). ⁹ According to my Cokwe interlocutors, this song expresses the women’s dissatisfaction with these unexpected flees. Considering the harmful effects of flight on the fugitive’s wife and family, as well as on the stability of the village’s social and political structures, women saw resistance not in fleeing, but in going to the mines as a strategy for survival and building collective strength (Valentim, 2018). Other songs, such as ‘Teleza’ (‘First Name, Female’), show that some men refused to renew their work contracts due to the death of their wives, who had accompanied them to the mines (MRFM 5R, 1954: 184). Likewise, others refused to return to the mines following the death of their mothers while they were away from the village for an extended period, as referenced in the song ‘Xaluinda’ (‘First Name, Masculine’) (MRFM 5R, 1954: 138). ¹⁰

These songs reveal that forced labour under colonial rule not only carried the risk of death during transport or work but also expressed deep anxieties about the unfamiliar experiences awaiting the workers. They evoke themes of marital and familial separation, infidelity, longing for loved ones, sudden escapes from coercive recruitment, and the emotional toll on those left behind in the villages. Crucially, these songs also shed light on how women navigated and responded to these hardships imposed by the colonial regime.

The forced labour of women and their children

Forced labour did not only target men. The wives and children of contract workers often accompanied them and were incorporated into the company’s workforce. Diamang implemented this labour settlement policy as a strategy to increase the workforce in the mining region, maximising the profitability of diamond extraction. This precipitated the extension of the contract duration to 18 months. In addition, Sobas received payments for each wife of a male contract worker who accompanied her husband to the cipale. Diamang also provided fabric to these women and offered a cash bonus upon the completion of the contract period (Cleveland, 2008).

Women were responsible for various tasks within mining operations, including working in dining halls, cleaning settlements, and labouring in agricultural fields and private plots (lavras) designated by Diamang. Women cultivated crops like rice, cassava, maize, and peanuts to sustain their families, sell surplus in Indigenous Markets, and pay the mandatory annual indigenous tax. Overseen by foremen, often white, women who failed to meet production quotas faced severe corporal punishment. Recalling stories from his mother, interlocutor B states: ‘There were overseers who forced women to work several hectares of land. [. . .] ‘Person X, you have X hectares to cultivate within a given period.’ And they had to do it. If they didn’t, they were whipped . . .’ Children and youths up to age 16 could be involved in mining activities or work as domestic servants in employee households. They also assisted with agricultural labour, livestock management, and tended company orchards (Cleveland, 2010). This exploitation of women and children highlights the systemic nature of labour coercion and its far-reaching impacts within the colonial economy.

The following songs refer to labour violence endured by workers’ wives, revealing how these women coped with oppression. Although not classified as ‘work songs’ by the MFMC, perhaps because they were originally sung by women rather than men at the mines, these songs reflect gender-based colonial violence.

The song ‘Txamona Nassamba’ (‘What Nassamba Sees’) was recorded in 1954, in the region of the Lóvua Administrative Post, Chitato area. ¹¹ It is performed by the soloist Upitè and a chorus of women. ¹² Below is an excerpt from the song’s lyrics (MRFM 5R, 1954: 733–734):

(. . .)

Ué iaiá, mama, Mama, Ué my sister, my mother, my mother

Txamona Nassamba, What Nassamba sees

Ó iaiá, Ó my sister

Ué iaiá é, Ué my sister é,

Ué iaiá, mama, Mama, Ué my sister, my mother,

Txamona Nassamba, What Nassamba sees

Ilanga iiéssuè, All those fields

Tuanacurima, We worked in

Hitúnua meia, We drank water, (rested)

Á ino iá mussono, These here from today,

Culóvua mutuia, We are going to Lóvua Post

This song draws a comparison between a past situation and the current one, emphasising the challenges of completing the present task. Weaving together feelings of pain with irony and provocation, the song implies that under such circumstances, Nassamba and her companions (‘sisters’) will inevitably need to make their way to Lóvua. In light of the explicit nature of the song, which portrays agricultural labour as arduous and violent, Manuel Pinho Silva, the head of the MFMC, presents the following account in the expedition’s report:

The authorities had ordered plots of farmland to be assigned to women. At that time, the Company [Diamang] had not yet institutionalized such work. The initial plots were completed, but due to food shortages in the region, the authorities sought to address this issue by ensuring an abundance of crops and ordered the allocation of additional farmland. It was then that the women, particularly Nassamba – who was described as elderly and sluggish – remarked: ‘All those earlier plots were completed, and we even had time to ‘drink water’ (a phrase meaning to rest). But with these new plots, we’ll all end up imprisoned at the Lóvua [administrative] post, having to explain ourselves to the chief, because we won’t be able to finish them. They are too large, and the planting season is almost over’ (MRFM 5R, 1954: 735).

This information provided by the MFMC reveals a contradiction: while acknowledging the harsh labour conditions imposed on women, Pinho Silva simultaneously dismisses their protests as mere expressions of laziness in response to mandatory tasks. However, according to my interlocutor C, who listened to this song with great attentiveness, the women’s voices convey a sense of resistance against what they recognised as violence and injustice. This is his interpretation:

These women are from Lóvua and were contracted to work on these plots, which were cultivated to produce food for sustaining the contracted workers and their diet. As the workload intensified, they began singing: ‘No, no, this is too much; we need to leave and return to Lóvua, our homeland.’

Ultimately, this song primarily reflects an act of defiance against colonial violence rather than passivity or idleness. It also demonstrates an acute awareness of the subaltern condition endured by these women. As Anne Clément (2010) points out, awareness of subalternity creates spaces for subversive expression, allowing the voices of subaltern women to emerge and opening possibilities for challenging and potentially reversing systems of oppression. In this context, the following list of songs are particularly significant, as they give voice to women’s emotional experiences and articulate both labour violence and resistance through musical expression.

‘Ilanga’ (‘Agricultural fields’) recounts the tragic story of a woman who died in the Belgian Congo due to excessive labour in the fields and being forced to work during a storm (MRFM 5R, 1954: 145); ‘Lola’ (‘Lola, Name of a woman’) portrays Lola’s sorrow at being unable to return to her mother’s house (her home village) because of agricultural work assigned to her by ‘the farming service’ in the village where she lived with her husband (MRFM 3R, 1952: 690); ‘Canzelele uapula mataca’ (‘Casaleiro marked the obligatory agricultural tasks’), later revised in 1957 to ‘Huleno Canzelele’ (‘Ask to Casaleiro’), documents a woman’s refusal to work on the fields assigned to her by Casaleiro, an employee of Diamang’s agricultural section, as she expresses her desire to abandon the unwanted work and return to her homeland (MRFM 3R, 1952: 297); finally, the song ‘Muàmona Lóssò’ (‘When she saw the rice’) conveys the despair of a woman who fled to her homeland after accompanying her husband and being forced to labour in the Company’s rice fields in the Chitato region (RFM RE 3R, Vol. III, 1957: 1673). ¹³ In sum, these songs reveal how women, though marginalised, articulated their perspectives through culturally embedded forms like music. In doing so, they resisted the erasure of their experiences and challenged the legitimacy of the colonial labour regime. These songs suggest that dominant power is fractured rather than absolute, and that subaltern subjects can voice themselves within oppressive contexts without intermediaries, as Homi Bhabha (2004) argues.

Maternity in the context of forced labour

The inclusion of women in the capitalist system aimed to stabilise the workforce in the mining region through procreation and settlement. To ensure this, the company imposed strict medical surveillance on workers, their families, and local communities. Despite Diamang’s success in improving maternal care and reducing infant mortality, many women returned from the mines feeling frustrated and regretful. According to my Cokwe interlocutors, who recall the return of male and female workers from the cipale, these ‘bad returns’ held particular significance within their matrilineal system, where women played a central role as bearers of wealth, transmitters of property, and guarantors of political autonomy in their villages (Valentim, 2022). The following two songs illustrate these experiences, offering insight into how such disruptions were felt and remembered through music.

The song ‘Ussuco uá lunga’ (‘Relatives of the man, of the husband’) expresses a woman’s deep despair at her inability to conceive children. She accompanied her husband to the cipale hoping to become pregnant but returns childless, blaming witchcraft. In distress, she seeks help from her husband’s relatives (RFM RE 3R, Vol. II, 1957: 1140). The song ‘Cacambo cami’ (‘My regret’, or ‘Misfortune/Disaster’) tells the story of a woman who was unable to conceive during her husband’s contract period. She deeply regrets going to the cipale and feels sorrow for being misled by her uncle, whom she insults as a ‘sorcerer’ for raising false hopes of pregnancy (MRFM 3R, 1952: 518). ¹⁴ These songs reveal the emotional and social impact of colonial labour migration. They reflect how expectations surrounding fertility, kinship obligations and gender-based blame were intertwined with wider systems of coercion and displacement.

The capitalist mode of production, which shifted power towards monetary wealth and individual control over production, challenged procreation as central to the matrilineal system and political autonomy of rural Cokwe societies (Valentim, 2022). Colonial labour migration and the circulation of goods forced African communities to adapt, but they also created tensions between modern colonial realities and traditional practices, fostering new aspirations among men and women (O’Laughlin, 2002; Valentim, 2022). Similar to Anne Clément’s (2010) findings from the folksongs performed by agricultural workers in the colonial Egypt and Rui Cidra’s (2015) study of Cape Verdean workers’ songs about labour migration to the Portuguese colony of São Tomé and Príncipe, these songs reveal the tension between embracing liberal capitalist values and recognising the system’s inequalities. They also interweave narratives of suffering with aspirations for a new life within capitalist systems.

These tensions between survival, resistance, and collaboration are highlight by the song ‘Muambuâmbua’ which, as previously mentioned, conveys women’s dissatisfaction with a man’s abrupt decision to flee to avoid recruitment into the mines. However, their discontent extends beyond the act of fleeing; it also reflects frustration with the necessity of participating in the cipale. This participation was essential for bringing goods and money back to the village, a practice that was crucial for achieving social status and meeting the new aspirations driven by the rise of capitalism (Valentim, 2018). This behaviour reveals that apparent compliance with dominant power may mask a refusal to consent, revealing a complex dynamic between domination and cooperation (Scott, 1990). The song ‘Txiueue’ (‘First Name, Masculine’) ¹⁵ serves also as a compelling example of these complex reflections prompted by these changing dynamics. It recounts the story of a man and a woman who each possess something different: Muazeia has a child (mwana), and Txiueue has a bicycle (kinga) (MRFM 6R, 1955: 76). The song poses a profound question: Who holds greater value – those who have children or those who own bicycles? The answer, as conveyed in the song, asserts that Muazeia (the woman, the mother) holds greater value. According to my Cokwe interlocutors, the song delivers a message from women to men, urging them to acknowledge the importance of tradition even as modern values emerge. At the same time, it reflects the growing appeal of new desires and ambitions, as symbolised by the shift towards buying bicycles within the context of colonial capitalism shaping African lives (Valentim, 2016).

It is clear that these songs demonstrate that music not only preserves and transmits cultural values but also reveals the nuanced local impacts of colonial rule and the shifting dynamics of domination, resistance, and negotiation. In doing so, these songs challenge rigid binaries such as oppressor versus oppressed or collaboration versus resistance (McCaskie, 2018).

Sexual abuse of women

Cokwe songs openly denounce instances of sexual abuse by foremen and colonial officials against the female workers. These abusive experiences were not only a frequent occurrence in Lunda (Cleveland, 2008) but also in other regions of Angola (Ball, 2006, 2015) as well as in other Portuguese colonial contexts, such as Mozambique (Isaacman, 1992; Vail and White, 1978b, 1983). According to my Cokwe interlocutors, the harsh conditions in the cipale – gruelling work schedules, corporal punishment, and sexual abuse – discouraged many men from bringing their wives to the cipale. Stories from returning workers highlighted the unpredictability of mine life and the difficulty of establishing families, deterring others from exposing their loved ones to such conditions.

The song ‘Halocola’ (‘Already pierced’), ¹⁶ recounts the harrowing story of a woman sexually assaulted by a cipaio while walking alone on a deserted path as he carried out his duties to recruit men for the cipale (MRFM 5R, 1954: 731). Another significant song is ‘Ni iena, ni iámi’ (‘You and I’), ¹⁷ recorded between 1951 and 1952. This piece, performed by the soloist Natxítxi alongside a mixed choir, features succinct lyrics that are repeated seven times in a call-and-response pattern between the soloist and the choir (RFM RE 3R Vol. I, 1957: 449–451):

Ué iaiá, Ué my sister

Mama iámi é, My mother é,

Ni iena, ni iámi, You and I

Cuáhua, It’s over, (there is no one else)

According to Manuel Pinho Silva’s account, this song is about the construction of the first administrative post in the Sombo region, which relied on the forced labour of local women, including the Sobas’ wives, who were abused by colonial officials and foremen. The Sobas were severely punished for complaining, and some of their women never returned to their villages. One woman managed to flee with her husband because she refused to submit to sexual exploitation, ‘particularly from the white post chief, because she wanted only her husband in her life’ (RFM RE 3R Vol. I, 1957: 452).

First, this song exposes the systematic sexual abuse of women by African and European colonial agents. Second, it highlights the role of songs in denouncing these acts of violence. According to my interlocutor D’s interpretation, the voice of this woman reveals the following:

She is angry, she is . . . She is announcing the end of a relationship. [. . .] This song is about separation. It means, ‘you and I, it’s over,’ Cuahua. This song is a concise expression of the idea that ni iena, ni iami, cuahua [. . .].

In other words, it conveys a strong sense of determination, expressed by a woman who wants to end an unwanted situation, where the ‘you’ refers to the perpetrator. In this sense, the song highlights the agency of these women, while also broadening the range of possible recipients of this message.

The extent of colonial sexual abuse against women could be even more complex than the above-mentioned form of violence. Interlocutor E recalls something his great uncle said related with the hard work in mines:

The work was divided . . . the pits . . . (. . .) When the time was up, and one person had completed their work while the other had not, the man would propose an arrangement like this: ‘The goods I owe you, I’ll give to you. If you don’t accept this, you can have my wife instead.’ This was a tactic to avoid punishment.

This account – echoed by other Cokwe interviewees – is about the extreme desperation of African men, who, in some cases, used their wives’ bodies as shields or bargaining tools. It reveals that the women who accompanied their husbands to the cipale were exploited by their spouses as part of a resistance strategy, which in turn perpetuated the cycle of violence. This dynamic transformed male workers from victims into perpetrators and positioned women as subordinate not only as Black, female, indigenous labourers, but also as wives, revealing the deeply entangled dimensions of power, sexuality, violence, class, gender, and resistance in colonial settings (McClintock, 1995; Stoler, 2002). Most importantly, considering interlocutor D’s interpretation and the abusive colonial context involving multiple layers of violence and various possible perpetrators, the song Ni iena, ni iámi is about a woman rebelling against her aggressors. It showcases her agency and resistance within the patriarchal structures of colonial and customary systems. These songs served as multifaceted forms of resistance, reflecting, as Abu-Lughod (1990) suggests, the complex nature of dominant power practices above all else.

Conclusion

This article examined the political potential of songs sung by Cokwe women in 1950s northeastern Angola, situating them within broader debates on subalternity, agency, and resistance. These songs circulated across villages, cipale, and urban spaces and – through Diamang’s colonial propaganda apparatus – reached global audiences. Although recorded by the MFMC as representations of a so-called ‘uncivilised’ people subject to labour exploitation, these songs themselves conveyed women’s voices and knowledge about the violent realities of colonial life. As noted in the introduction, historiography often minimises their political force, portraying them as adaptive practices with limited impact beyond their immediate context. My analysis contests this, arguing that these songs were not only situational acts of endurance but also interventions with broader emancipatory resonances. They produced shared memories, articulated critiques of colonial authority, and circulated collective imaginaries of resistance that exceeded their immediate setting. Furthermore, in critically engaging with Spivak’s framework, I challenge interpretations that portray subaltern voices as inevitably silenced. My analysis of these songs – enriched by fieldwork discussions – shows that women not only voiced oppression but also created spaces of resistance, ambiguity, and reflection on colonial rule. These songs exemplify how racialised individuals used music, alongside dance, language and poetry, to make sense of their realities and reclaim dignity against the ontological violence that rendered them non-persons, in a Fanonian perspective.

In Cokwe songs, women’s voices addressed various social actors, denounced multiple forms of violence, and transmitted advice to their communities on coping with colonial oppression and its local effects. Far from being merely personal laments, these songs expressed collective experiences of oppression and disruption, while exposing the exploitative mechanisms of colonial rule. These laments foreground the profound social disruptions caused by forced labour – family separations, disrupted kinship ties, and emotional dislocation – rather than focusing solely on individual suffering. In doing so, these women actively contributed to cultural resistance and the ‘collective memory of shared experiences’ (Ishemo, 1995: 108). They disseminated strategies for navigating the everyday, multidimensional violence of Portuguese colonialism, thereby extending their impact beyond the immediate and local context.

While colonial authorities dismissed Cokwe songs as mere ‘folklore’ and therefore harmless, ethnographic and collaborative research uncovers their subversive potential as powerful expressions of resistance, memory, and agency. These songs challenged the colonial regime by exposing its regulatory, exploitative, and silencing mechanisms. By voicing African women’s emotional experiences – such as pain, separation, longing, and defiance – these songs construct a counter-narrative to colonial discourse. This shows that, despite structural marginalisation, women articulated their experiences through culturally embedded forms like music, transforming memory into acts of resistance. As aesthetic interventions preserved in archives, music from colonial African contexts can be reactivated through collaborative ethnographic fieldwork. Listening to these sound archives with critical sensitivity enables the recovery of long-silenced voices that remain unheard in dominant narratives. By foregrounding women’s voices, often marginalised in historiography and theory, this research advances subaltern and postcolonial studies, showing how everyday practices such as song function as forms of speech and political action. This requires a nuanced analysis attentive to the interplay of culture, power, class, gender, kinship, race, and sexuality. Hence, the collaborative interpretation of these songs underscores the importance of dialogical methodologies in unsettling colonial epistemologies and producing accountable knowledge. In this sense, the article contributes to decolonial perspectives by rethinking archives, memory, and expressive culture through the voices of those historically relegated to the margins.

During fieldwork in the Lundas, I observed that songs recorded by the Dundo Museum were no longer common in everyday village or urban life. Yet, they persisted through contemporary Cokwe musical groups, state-led heritage revitalisation initiatives, and radio programmes that broadcast Diamang songs to recall cipale and celebrate the resilience of the Angolan people. The sessions with my interlocutors during my fieldwork in Angola and Portugal in 2014 and 2015 revealed precisely their familiarity with these songs. The content of these songs activated in them memories passed down within their families, triggering discussions about the violence inflicted upon their communities by capitalist exploitation during the colonial period. This persistence shows that, although rooted in colonial oppression, these songs continue to generate meaning and resonance in contemporary Angola, linking past struggles to present practices of memory and cultural affirmation.