Colour as Narrative, Capturing Life in Motion: Reflections from the Makerere Murals Walking Tour
How are African art and architecture remembered, represented, and legitimised? Does cultural memory reflect the full spectrum of creators, or is it shaped primarily by visibility within institutional and global systems of power?
By Asmaa Mohamed
Colour as narrative
In Africa, colour and art are beyond aesthetic choices. They are sites of negotiation between colonial legacy and local identity. As a Sudanese architect, my perspective is shaped by a layered cultural positioning: African by geography, yet deeply influenced by Arab traditions. Encountering Ugandan art and architecture is therefore not neutral for me; it is a process of translation, comparison, and sometimes tension. Colour is the first language the human eye understands. Before form, before detail – colour. Unlike most living creatures, humans perceive a full spectrum, and that shapes how we experience space. Colour carries intention. In architecture, I gravitate toward earthy tones, grounded, calming, almost instinctual. In art, I lean toward bold, expressive hues. So, when I encounter bright colour in architecture, I pause. I question it. What is the logic? What is the story?
That tension struck me most when I saw the vivid blue shutters of the Ivory Tower at Makerere University. It sparked a deeper inquiry. Why blue? The answer lies in layers of history, practicality, and evolving identity. Completed in 1941 under British colonial rule, the Ivory Tower reflects the neoclassical style of British institutional architecture, with some sources noting similarities to London’s Senate House. In Western architectural theory, blue is often associated with trust, stability, and authority; paired with white, it tends to create a clean, controlled institutional aesthetic. Preserving the shutters in the 2024 restoration reflects a commitment to historical continuity, but it also raises a question: should restoration replicate or reinterpret identity?
Beyond symbolism, blue pigments, often copper-based, were historically believed to repel insects and reinforced passive cooling, an important consideration in pre-air-conditioning design. Psychologically, blue evokes coolness, reinforcing this environmental strategy. Over time, the blue-and-white façade transcended design and became identity itself, appearing on Ugandan currency and stamps. Colour, at this point, ceases to be aesthetic and becomes heritage.
Shifting from colonial interpretation to African meaning reframes everything. Across many African cultures, blue is often associated with peace, protection, spirituality, and connection to the divine. Deep indigo is tied to healing and ancestral continuity; across North Africa, blue is used in architecture to ward off evil, as in Chefchaouen, Morocco. Contemporary African architects often interpret blue as a symbol of hope and future potential. In Uganda, it conveys trust, truth, and stability. On the national coat of arms, blue represents the country’s lakes and the Nile.
I no longer see blue in the same way. Growing up with layered identities – African by geography, yet shaped by an Arab cultural lens and influenced by dominant Western interpretations of colour – once gave me a sense of stability. That sense has shifted. Now, blue is no longer fixed. Instead it reflects a negotiation where colonial history, African identity, and my own experiences intersect and compete.
The Makerere University Main Building (Ivory Tower). Photos: Franklin Kasumba
The Makerere University Main Building (Ivory Tower). Photos: Franklin Kasumba
The Makerere University Main Building (Ivory Tower). Photos: Franklin Kasumba
"A Story of Blacksmiths" by Ignatius Sserulyo in the Mary Stuart hall TV room. Photo: Franklin Kasumba
Capturing life in motion
While architecture encodes identity in space, art narrates it in motion. What fascinates me most is how artists freeze time, deciding what is worth preserving, and yet muralists do something even harder: they tell multiple stories simultaneously across space, with seamless transitions. That complexity is what stood out to me most during the Makerere murals walking tour.
Ignatius Sserulyo, a Ugandan painter, sculptor, and lecturer, was deeply invested in decolonising African art. His work centred indigenous life as authority as opposed to merely being subject matter. His murals, including those at St. Francis Chapel and Mary Stuart Hall, are rich with texture and layered colour. The tactile, almost sculptural quality of his work imbues it with emotional density. His philosophy was clear: African art should assert itself rather than imitate.
Sam Ntiro, a Tanzanian artist and diplomat, achieved early international recognition. His work, including Men Taking Banana Beer to Bride by Night, entered major global collections, making him one of the first African artists to break into that space. Ntiro’s style reflects rural life, especially Chagga traditions, earthy palettes with strategic bursts of colour, structured compositions where backgrounds precede figures, and subtle political undertones aligned with Ujamaa, or African socialism.
What initially seemed like a simple observation, the uneven digital presence of artists like Ntiro and Sserulyo, reveals something deeper: cultural memory is curated, not accidental. Ntiro’s work circulates widely in digital archives, international collections, and institutional narratives, while Sserulyo’s, despite its depth and influence, remains comparatively invisible online. This is less about artistic merit and more about access, alignment, and power. Ntiro operated within formal structures; state institutions, diplomatic networks, Western exhibition circuits. These systems include mechanisms to preserve work through documentation, archiving, and digitisation. In contrast, Sserulyo’s work, rooted in decolonial thought and local expression, existed partly outside these systems. What exists outside dominant structures often remains undocumented, or documented too late. The real issue, then, is not who created the most impactful work, but who had their work recorded, circulated, and legitimised by global infrastructures of knowledge.
Digital visibility today functions as a gatekeeper of legacy. What is searchable becomes teachable. What is archived becomes history. What is absent risks erasure. Postcolonial cultural memory is still largely shaped by structures that once defined “art.” Even in the present, the imbalance persists. The shift from physical to digital archives did not automatically democratise representation; it often reinforced existing hierarchies. Artists aligned with global systems remain visible, while others fade into obscurity regardless of their contribution.
The consequence is clear: Africa’s artistic narrative risks being defined not by the full spectrum of its creators, but by those most visible to systems of power. This raises a responsibility for architects, artists, and writers today to actively document, archive, and circulate the overlooked. If cultural memory is constructed, then it can be reconstructed, intentionally, critically, and on our own terms.
Asmaa Mohamed
Asmaa is an architect and visual artist with a strong interest in the relationship between art, architecture, and cultural identity. Her background in architecture has shaped the way she observe spaces, materials, and the social life of buildings, while her artistic practice allows her to explore these ideas through visual expression. Through both disciplines, Asmaa is particularly interested in details, storytelling, and documenting how environments reflect culture, memory, and everyday life.
"A History of Books" by Ignatius Sserulyo, created in 1973. Photo: Merritt Eby Gates