Inspired by the people, places and traditions of the continent, the project blends illustration, research and storytelling to create designs that feel both personal and universally recognisable. Recognised by the AIDA Awards, the work highlights the power of communication design to preserve heritage while creating new ways of experiencing culture.

Can you tell us a bit about your background?
I am an award winning illustrator, designer and African storyteller based in Johannesburg, South Africa. My work is deeply inspired by my surroundings, my township upbringing and the many stories that exist across the continent. Over the years, I have developed a visual language that uses colour, pattern and character to tell stories that feel both personal and widely relatable. I am interested in work that celebrates African identity in a meaningful way while also solving a design problem for the client. That balance between storytelling and commercial value is a big part of how I approach every project.

What drew you to the idea of using an everyday object like a pocket lighter to tell stories from different African cultures?
When BIC reached out to work on this project, I immediately thought it would be exciting to transform an everyday product into something more meaningful. What interested me most was the contrast. A pocket lighter is such a small, familiar and functional object, but that is exactly what made it powerful. It already exists in people’s hands, pockets and daily moments.
So instead of seeing it only as a product, I saw it as a small canvas with the potential to carry culture, identity and memory. I liked the idea of turning something ordinary into something people could recognise themselves in. That shift is what made the project feel special to me, because it brought storytelling into daily life in a very accessible way.

How did you decide which elements of food, music, fashion and everyday life could better represent each country in the series?
The process started with research and observation. I wanted each country to feel distinct, so I looked closely at cultural symbols, daily rituals, fashion cues, music influences and the kinds of moments that people would immediately connect with. I was careful not to reduce a country to one symbol only, but rather to build from elements that felt lived in and recognisable. Food, music, fashion and lifestyle are all expressive parts of culture, so they became useful entry points into telling a broader story. I was always asking what feels honest, what feels familiar and what would resonate with people from that place.

How did you make sure each design felt locally recognisable and meaningful?
It was important for me to approach each design with care and respect. I wanted the work to feel specific, not generic. That meant paying attention to details such as styling, gestures, objects, colour combinations and the mood of the composition. I focused on things that people could identify with from their own lived experience. At the same time, I wanted the work to remain visually strong at a very small scale, so the recognisable elements had to be clear and intentional. The aim was for someone to look at a lighter and feel that it spoke to something they know, rather than something imagined from a distance.

What did it mean to receive AIDA Awards recognition for a project that turns a mass-market object into a cultural storytelling platform?

It meant a lot. As a creative, it is always affirming when work that comes from a thoughtful place gets recognised. What made this recognition special is that the project was rooted in the idea that even a mass-market object can carry meaning. It showed that storytelling and cultural relevance do not only belong in galleries or large format campaigns, they can also exist in everyday design.
For me, the recognition was not only about the award itself, but about what it said regarding the value of African stories, and the potential of illustration to transform how people experience a product.

Why do you think a platform like AIDA Awards is important now for communication design and for the visibility of African visual culture?
I think platforms like AIDA Awards are important because they create space for African work to be seen, valued and discussed on its own terms. For a long time, African visual culture has often been underrepresented, simplified or viewed through an outside lens. Awards platforms like this help shift that by recognising the depth, quality and originality of work being produced on the continent. For communication design, that visibility matters because it encourages more culturally grounded work, more experimentation and more confidence in telling stories that come from who we are. It also helps create a stronger record of contemporary African creativity for the next generation.

Looking ahead, how do you hope to keep exploring culture through illustration?
I want to keep pushing illustration as a tool for storytelling, memory and cultural celebration. I am interested in exploring more everyday African experiences, the kinds of details, objects, people and environments that shape how we live but are often overlooked. I also want to keep finding ways to bring those stories into different spaces, whether that is product, branding, public art, exhibitions or publishing. For me, the goal is to continue creating work that feels proudly African, emotionally honest and visually rich, while also showing that our stories can exist powerfully in both artistic and commercial contexts.

As Head of the Jury for the first edition of the Africa International Design Awards (AIDA) 2026, he brings a rare combination of global industrial experience and deep cultural grounding. From automotive design to luxury watchmaking, and from Dakar to New York, his journey reflects a lifelong commitment to design as responsibility, narrative, and impact.

I was drawn to design very early because I was fascinated by how objects shape our daily lives and our dignity. Growing up in Senegal, I observed how creativity often emerges from necessity. Later, at Renault, working on projects like the Scénic II and the Trafic Van taught me that design is about responsibility at scale — when you design a car, you are shaping the experience of millions. At Tag Heuer, with the F1 Micrograph watch, I learned precision, storytelling, and emotional detail. Those early projects shaped my belief that design must combine innovation, culture, and human sensitivity.

Whether I design a car, a watch, a chair, or a cultural initiative, I always start with the same question: what human need am I responding to? Each discipline has its own constraints, but the core remains identical — listening, observing, and creating meaning. What connects them all is my desire to design for people, not for ego. For me, design is not about style; it is about service, narrative, and impact.

Projects like Design 4 People and AfroEats are meaningful because they are rooted in transmission and empowerment. Africa has extraordinary creativity, but it needs platforms and confidence. Through these initiatives, I want to show that African design is not “emerging” — it is evolving, innovating, and leading. Globally, I want this work to be seen not as a niche, but as a central contribution to contemporary culture.

Moving between Dakar and New York keeps me mentally flexible. Dakar gives me depth, community, memory, and cultural grounding. New York challenges me with speed, diversity, and global dialogue. The tension between these two contexts sharpens my perspective. It reminds me that identity and universality are not opposites — they strengthen each other.

When I teach, I hope students leave with confidence in their voice. Technique can be learned, but clarity of intention must be cultivated. I encourage them to understand where they come from and what they stand for. In return, I learn humility and curiosity. Students constantly question assumptions, and that keeps my own thinking alive.

What excites me most about the first edition of the AIDA Awards is the sense of collective energy. For the first time, projects from across the continent are being seen together, in dialogue. That visibility creates recognition, and recognition builds confidence. I am especially excited to see how diverse the interpretations of “African design” truly are.

Beyond recognition, AIDA Awards can create networks. Awards should not only celebrate; they should connect designers, investors, institutions, and media. If AIDA becomes a platform for collaboration and mentorship, it can strengthen ecosystems and support sustainable creative economies across Africa.

Right now, architecture and furniture design feel particularly dynamic in Africa. There is a strong return to local materials, climate-responsive thinking, and cultural references. At the same time, fashion continues to redefine global aesthetics through African narratives. What is powerful is this combination of heritage and forward-thinking experimentation.

To young designers, I would say: limitations can be a source of innovation. Do not wait for perfect conditions. Start with what you have. Build consistency. Tell your story clearly. And most importantly, stay patient. Design is a long journey — credibility grows over time.

I hope AIDA Awards will create a long-term archive of excellence — a reference point that future generations can look back to. If, in twenty years, African designers feel that they are not peripheral but central to global design conversations, then the legacy will have succeeded.

The shoe is manufactured by World Shoe Limited at a pioneering facility in Akosombo, Ghana — built from the ground up in twelve months — and has already created 200 local jobs while directing sales profits towards regional health interventions. Made from a compression-moulded foam with an organic additive to accelerate biodegradation, and incorporating a natural antimicrobial powder derived from discarded oyster shells, The Rowe is as considered in its materials as in its form. In this interview, Johnson talks about the automotive inspiration behind the shoe, the decision to manufacture in Ghana, and what it means for the design world when Africa sits on the judging panel.

Becoming a footwear designer was somewhat accidental. That is to say, it was not planned. At Carnegie Mellon University, where I studied design, we were surrounded by cutting-edge technology – computer science, robotics, AI, before it was called AI. And so it was more likely that after school, I would have headed to Silicon Valley to design computer housings or printers. But I made my way to a design conference and showed my portfolio to the Design Director at Saucony. I always liked sports, and I really like sports equipment, so when he offered me a job, I took it. But even then, I didn’t really know I would have a career as a footwear designer. I just thought sports and design, I’m in!

In the first World Shoe, I had designed a shoe that we loved internally, and by all measures, outsiders loved too. It was designed specifically for humanitarian purposes – to protect feet from disease – but I also designed it to embody important functional and stylistic cues from the sports industry and from sneaker culture. The idea was to take the design beyond a so-called “charity shoe” to one that would be attractive to young people – one that they would want to wear.

When it came to designing The Rowe, I had a different kind of freedom. As a brand, we decided that we could take a step towards a consumer who was interested in fashion and style. It’s true we wanted something that would be accepted in the healthcare space, where clogs were the standard. But even the choices for that consumer were not the most attractive choices; rather, they were practical ones. When I sat down to design the shoe, I drew from an experience I had two years prior when I was invited to Nissan Motors Headquarters in Yokohama, Japan, as part of a cadre of international designers from across the globe to take part in a review of new models, concept cars and interiors planned for upcoming release. 

For starters, I have always admired Japanese design for its beautiful balance of traditional and the avant-garde and the attention given to detail. It is a deep source of inspiration. At the Nissan design review, there was one car that I was particularly struck by – The Hyperforce, an all-electric, high-performance supercar. What struck me was its aerodynamic profile and the surface changes that were defined by crisp, recessed channels. It was sporty and sophisticated at once. I felt it was the perfect formula to bring newness to the molded shoe world. I called it “updressing.”- a counter to the casual trend brought on by the pandemic, where comfort took precedence over style. The Rowe was designed not only to be extremely comfortable but also stylish, proving that a shoe can be both a retreat for the feet and a statement piece.

The qualities start with our patent-pending foam material, which includes an anti-microbial agent that fights infection and a biodegradation accelerant that makes microbes want to eat it faster. It was independently tested by a world-class laboratory, which determined it had all the important qualities that one would want in a shoe – great cushioning, durability, shape retention, flexibility – all of it. It tested above average. After that, I designed into it ventilation grooves and what I call a “hybrid heel” – a clog-like feel with a shoe-like heel.

That is a really important question because it gets at our “Why”. From the start, our mission was not only to break the cycle of poverty by making people healthy but also to create opportunities to continue their journey toward prosperity. Creating jobs, we decided, is the way to do that. The emergence of the World Shoe as a brand is, in fact, deeply rooted in Africa. Our founder is from Nigeria, and we have roots in Ghana. Manufacturing in-country was always a part of the plan. I remember being in Ghana scouting out potential factory locations. One year later, we opened the factory. The speed at which we achieved this important step is unheard of in the footwear industry!

It is incredibly rewarding. Of all the things I imagined for myself as a designer, being recognized for work that is connected to the continent where I was born was not one of them. I grew up outside of Africa and away from African culture. But for me, this represents an important connection to my own roots. But what is especially profound to me – “what African design looks like when Africa does the judging.”

Why do you think a platform like AIDA Awards is important now for African fashion design and for projects that connect creativity with wider social change?

What I think is most important is delivering design that is rooted in Africa to the international stage and doing so on your terms. There is a stigma that is often attached to design grounded in Africa – that it is one-dimensional and often connected only to philanthropy. AIDA proves that design rooted in Africa can take on numerous challenges and can do so while being innovative at the same time. Fashion as innovation.

The truth is, I am not hopeful, but rather I am confident. I see footwear as a flywheel that can do so much good beyond putting shoes on feet. Who would have thought that the design of a shoe could build a factory, teach people good hygiene, inspire young students to pursue a career in product design, engineering and manufacturing and seed the idea of a design academy? The World Shoe has inspired the development of all of these things. There is more to come!

The structure relies entirely on regional resources and low-carbon building techniques. Its walls are formed from compressed earth blocks made using soil dug directly from the site, while a wide roof directs rainwater into a large storage tank for community use. This commitment to local materials and social purpose earned the project Architectural Design of the Year at the 2026 AIDA Awards. We spoke with architects Felix Holland and Xavier de Kestelier about how they balanced technical engineering with local craftsmanship to deliver a lasting asset for the settlement.

Felix Holland: It was always the green angle. I was something of an environmentalist already before I studied architecture, and that interest has stayed with me ever since. It would be too easy to say that’s the only thing — of course it’s not — but it is a very formative part of how I approach architecture. Beyond that, I would widen it to say it’s also about being human-centred, keeping the user in mind, and trying to bring these two things together into something that is rooted in place and responds sensitively to location and climate.

Xavier de Kestelier: For me, it has probably always been about building — about how things are put together. I studied architecture, but at an engineering school in Belgium. I actually started in engineering, failed the first year, and found it far too theoretical, too disconnected from reality. That’s what led me to architecture at the same school, and suddenly everything was so much more about making things, small models at first, then larger prototypes. Later, in professional life, the first fifteen years of my career were really about how to build complex systems, both through digital tools and within physical constraints. I think that drive, and it might well trace back to failing that year of engineering, has always come from building, from thinking through making. You can probably see traces of it in the Bidi Bidi project, too. It was never just about creating a form. It was about creating something that does something, and arriving at form through that intention. The form did not come first.

Xavier: I was born in Ghent, in Belgium, a city of around 270,000 people, which is roughly the same population as Bidi Bidi. Extremely different in every other way, of course, but similar in scale. Growing up in Ghent, we were very fortunate to have a wealth of large cultural buildings: museums, a design museum, modern and classical art galleries, opera houses, and theatres. Going to Bidi Bidi and understanding that community. There were essential services, education, food programmes, and various support structures, but there was no cultural centre. And cultural buildings matter. They look different, they feel different from what surrounds them, and they tend to carry a level of care and attention to detail that sets them apart. That is exactly what we wanted to bring to this project: the same attention to design we would give to a cultural building anywhere else in the world, Australia, Europe, wherever. For that reason, we also drew on the same tools and techniques we would use in any of those contexts.

Felix: To add to that, what I find important about this project is that the idea did not come from us. Our client, TO, approached us with a brief they had developed together with Sina Loketa, who is now the building’s primary user. So, we came to the site and tried to understand it on its own terms.

There is no good reason to approach a project in a refugee settlement any differently than you would approach any other. You take it seriously, you bring the respect it deserves, and you try to understand the location and the needs of the people. And it becomes a very slippery slope to start asking why a refugee settlement needs a music and arts centre, follow that logic and you end up in a very difficult place.

Our first approach was one of modesty and careful listening, the same as with any project. One thing that became immediately obvious was the issue of water. That is really one of the essential elements of this design, the rainwater collection system, which did not have to be part of the Music and Arts Centre brief, but made complete sense in combination with it. Wouldn’t you say that was also a defining aspect of the project?

Xavier: Absolutely! And it wasn’t part of the original brief at all. It wasn’t about water collection to begin with. But we realised we needed a large roof anyway, to protect the centre and shield the walls from rain. And then it struck us: this roof could do something more; it could serve a second function. When you factor in the contaminated boreholes in the area, harvesting rainwater didn’t just make sense, it felt almost necessary.

Xavier: It is relatively straightforward to design for what you already know. We knew there would be performances, recording, music teaching, all of which were defined. The harder challenge is designing for what you cannot yet anticipate. When we visited, two things genuinely moved me. The first was seeing children playing on the central structure; it had become something else entirely, a place to hang out, to climb, to inhabit in ways we never planned for. The second was seeing entrepreneurs using the space to sell their goods. I had seen photographs of this before, but witnessing it in person was something different. People had taken the building and made it their own. That, I think, is the hardest thing to design for: a function that doesn’t exist yet, that only emerges once the building is alive.

Felix: There is also one function that is particularly difficult to reconcile with the others, and that is the music recording studio. By nature, the assembly space, the dance area, and even the teaching space are noisy, busy, and chaotic. And right next to all of that, you have this completely introverted, quiet room.

Xavier: That was the hardest one to design, wasn’t it?

Felix: Absolutely. It had to be sealed off acoustically, but it still needed light, it still needed air, just not noise. All of those competing requirements are converging on a single space. We made compromises, as you always do in design, and it’s honest to acknowledge that. In practice, the idea is that all activity in the adjacent spaces stops during recording sessions. But when that happens, the studio heats up quite quickly, and the users have to live with that tension. It is a real constraint.

Xavier: What I find remarkable is that we achieved everything with essentially one type of brick, one mould, which we sometimes cut, but that was it. And I think that restraint is what gives the building its aesthetic coherence. We didn’t rely on different systems to bring light in, no windows in the conventional sense, no proprietary acoustic panels. Everything was resolved through that single brick. Is it the most acoustically refined solution? Probably not. A proprietary system would likely perform better on paper. But given the location, the scarcity of available materials, and the difficulty of getting anything to the site, I think it was the right answer. And architecturally, that constraint became a strength — the building has a unity precisely because everything had to be done with one element.

Felix: In my experience, if you want a building to truly belong to a place, one of the most reliable approaches is to use materials found on or near the site. By definition, those materials already belong to that landscape. I was reminded of this when we recently drove away from the site; the road takes you around to the other side of the valley, and for a moment, we genuinely couldn’t find the building. We kept asking, where is it? And then, finally, there it was. That is not something you would expect. In an environment of small, low structures, a 400-square-metre building would normally demand attention. The fact that it didn’t, that it simply settled into its surroundings, felt like a real achievement. We had no interest in creating a monument that announces itself. It was always meant to be part of Zone 2, part of that whole environment.

Xavier: I’m often asked, particularly by people in the West, why we didn’t make more use of vernacular architecture. I find it a slightly odd question, because we did. We used the materials that were literally present on the ground. We drew inspiration from the way people in the settlement were already using corrugated panels for openings, windows, and doors. To me, that is absolutely learning from and working within the vernacular. It doesn’t need a label to be what it is.

Felix: And the form itself, your very first sketches were inspired by something much closer to the ground, weren’t they? The image of an African gathering space, a community under a large tree.

Xavier: Yes, though it was never a literal copy. People tend to assume that vernacular has to mean direct imitation, and of course, that’s not what it means at all.

Xavier: What I love about the recognition this project has received is that it has come from different places and from different angles. It has been acknowledged through African awards, but also through the Dezeen Awards and the RIBA Awards. And what feels most meaningful now is that the programmes themselves are being recognised; Sina Loketa’s music programmes, the work actually happening inside the building. That, to me, is fantastic. The building and the life within it are celebrated together. I hope it gives us the leverage to do more of this kind of work — it demonstrates what is possible, and with that, hopefully, more funding will follow.

Felix: What makes this particular recognition feel special is precisely that it is an African award. There are countless awards programmes around the world, but very little exists in the way of celebrating African talent and design excellence on the continent itself. I am genuinely excited about anything that begins to fill that gap. And we should be proud that the Bidi Bidi Centre is the inaugural winner of the main design category. What I know for certain is that it is a profound source of pride for the users and the owners of the building; whenever news of an award reaches them, the excitement is real and immediate.

Felix: Honestly, it hasn’t changed our direction because Bidi Bidi was always an expression of where we were already headed. It was an extraordinary opportunity to work in a remote and challenging location and pursue excellence through local materials. But there is something we haven’t touched on today: one of the most exciting aspects of the collaboration between Hassell and Localworks was the bringing together of two very different worlds. There is far more high-tech and parametric design thinking embedded in this building than you might suspect from simply looking at it. That combination, rigorous digital design methodology meeting local materials and craft, is what made it so compelling for us. And we are not stopping there. We are continuing along that path, already working on other projects that excite us in similar ways. For me, this is one step on a much longer journey.

Xavier: Exactly. The project gave us confidence. We have done it once, we have the reference, and now we know it is possible. But what I valued most was realising how much we learned from each other as practices. We work in completely different parts of the world, and yet our ways of thinking and designing turned out to be very closely aligned. That was perhaps the most exciting discovery of all, and being able to draw on each other’s expertise made the whole process richer for it.

To break through, lead designer David Vallier and the team at Ag Partners Publicis Africa Group took a deliberately disruptive approach — partnering with Tampidaro, a popular young urban painter from Dakar, to create visually arresting posters and stickers that spoke directly to the city’s youth. The campaign earned the project the title of Communication Design of the Year at the 2026 AIDA Awards. We spoke with Vallier about how disruptive design can spark real dialogue — and why African design deserves its own international stage.

Our group operates across the entire continent, where nearly every country and region has its own unique characteristics. Whether we’re working with brands or in social marketing, the challenge remains the same: getting a message across to the relevant audiences and establishing a genuine dialogue. As the old saying goes, “A picture is worth a thousand words.” And when it comes to awareness campaigns, we’ve heard it all so many times it’s become tedious…

When the European Union entrusted us with the campaign, it became clear that, given the extent of pollution in this area, the public believed the problem was beyond their control. The challenge was to convey the message that it is everyone’s responsibility. The primary target audience, naturally, was young people. It would be wrong to assume that young residents are indifferent to this pollution problem; however, they have long since stopped responding to the awareness messages that have been used. We therefore needed to change our approach, our angle, and, of course, our tone.

We had already worked with Tampidaro in a different context, and we had noticed from comments on social media that his work and his style resonated deeply with urban youth. The choice was an obvious one.

Tampidaro’s artistic perspective was central to the campaign. His distinctive visual style transformed a familiar environmental issue into something fresh, engaging, and culturally relevant. By using imagery that reflected the codes and aesthetics of urban youth culture, he helped make the campaign instantly recognizable and more likely to spark conversation. Because of its relatability, style, and alignment with their values, young people embraced the message and also felt valued and heard by this disruptive approach.

This campaign has already won awards in other competitions (EPICA, African Cristal Festival), but the AIDA Awards’ strong focus on design seemed to us to be a good fit for the creative direction we had chosen. That is why we entered the competition, and it is for the same reason that we are particularly honored to have won.

By its very definition. The AIDA Awards is the first international program celebrating creativity and forward-thinking design across the African continent. It fills an important gap by giving greater visibility to African design excellence and socially engaged creativity, while providing a platform where African voices, perspectives, and solutions can be recognized and celebrated.

We’ve done it before and will continue to do so because we firmly believe that “disruptive,” “generous,” “visual,” “empowering,” and tailored communication is the most effective way to raise awareness and, above all, to establish a genuine dialogue. This is, in fact, the same approach we applied to another campaign we ran on behalf of the European Union in Senegal: “Dajé and Gagné” (meet, collaborate, win), which received a tremendous response and achieved unprecedented levels of engagement and impact.

In this conversation, the polymath designer reflects on her deep roots in Ndebele culture — where women have historically served as the primary architects of their communities — and on how a global upbringing shaped her approach to placemaking. She also speaks candidly about what it means to receive recognition from her home continent, and why the international design conversation needs to make more room for African voices.

I would describe myself as a polymath. My work moves between architecture, urban design, public art, teaching, and cultural storytelling, but at the core of all these disciplines is a deep passion for placemaking. Whether I am reimagining a city or neighbourhood at an urban scale, designing a building, or creating a public art installation, I am ultimately interested in how people experience space and how design can create meaningful connections between people, culture, and place. To me, architecture is a form of public art. Buildings shape our daily lives, influence how we interact with one another, and contribute to the stories we tell about ourselves and our communities.

My path has been shaped by a lifelong curiosity and a desire to work across scales and disciplines. Growing up with a global upbringing rooted in African culture gave me an appreciation for the richness of identity, heritage, and storytelling. Over time, I realized that design could be a powerful vehicle for expressing those ideas. Whether through architecture, urban design, or projects like Pearl Jam, I see my work as an opportunity to create spaces and experiences that celebrate culture, inspire joy, and foster a sense of belonging.

What is unique and profound to me is that all of these disciplines are connected. They are simply different ways of exploring the same question: how can we create places that enrich people’s lives and leave a positive impact on the world around us?

Ndebele culture is my paternal cultural heritage, so in many ways, my connection to it has always been personal. Historically, Ndebele women were the architects of our communities. They built our homes, maintained them, and adorned them with the beautiful geometric paintings that have become synonymous with Ndebele identity. Architecture, art, and cultural expression were deeply intertwined. Today, we see less of this architectural tradition being practiced in everyday life, but the culture continues to be expressed through ceremony, clothing, adornment, and beadwork. Ndebele jewellery carries stories, identity, and craftsmanship that have been passed down through generations of women.

As an architect and designer, I was fascinated by the relationship between these different forms of expression. I began to see parallels between the way Ndebele women used architecture to communicate identity and the way they use jewellery and beadwork today. Pearl Jam emerged from that realization. I wanted to create a project that honored this lineage of female makers while exploring how cultural expression can evolve across scales—from a beaded pearl worn on the body to a large-scale public artwork experienced by an entire community.

The beading became a crucial part of Pearl Jam because it represents both heritage and continuity. The project brings together traditional craftsmanship and contemporary design, creating a dialogue between past and future, between ornament and architecture, and between individual expression and collective cultural memory.

The intention behind Pearl Jam was to create a joyful and accessible celebration of culture. I believe that many cultural elements are far more universal than they are divisive or polarized, and I wanted people from all backgrounds to feel a connection to the African continent through the work.

My hope was that people would engage with the piece with a sense of curiosity, wonder, and playfulness, while also recognizing the beauty of the stories, craftsmanship, and traditions that inspired it.

It’s such a blessing! There is something especially meaningful about being recognized at home, by your own continent and peers, for work that is rooted in African culture, memory, and identity.

This recognition gives me the confidence to continue creating, exploring, and sharing the richness of our cultures with international audiences. It reinforces my belief that our stories, traditions, and ways of making have global relevance and deserve to be celebrated on the world stage. For me, the award is not just a recognition of Pearl Jam, but an encouragement to keep building bridges between culture, design, and contemporary public life.

I think a platform like AIDA Awards is incredibly important because it is intentional about celebrating and elevating African design on its own terms. I have attended many international awards and exhibitions where I rarely see work that reflects our cultures, our perspectives, or the incredible talent that exists across the continent. AIDA creates a space where African designers can be seen, recognized, and valued, while also connecting us to one another. It allows us to discover what our peers are creating, learn from each other, and be inspired by the diversity of ideas emerging from different regions of Africa. As the continent continues to grow as a creative force, platforms like AIDA help build visibility, confidence, and opportunities for designers, while ensuring that African voices are contributing to and shaping the global design conversation.

As I continue to explore cultures, cities, and human-centred design, I’m focused on building futures that feel more connected, inclusive, and grounded in lived experience.

At the core of my work is a belief that design is a way of preserving who we are while also reimagining who we can become. While I may not know exactly what the future holds, I am excited by the process of continuing to discover myself through this work and through the cities and cultures I engage with.

I also hope to see art and design expressed across all socioeconomic communities so that this sense of creativity, identity, and magic has a more universal footprint that is not limited by place or privilege but felt everywhere. Ultimately I want to contribute to spaces that are more humane, expressive, and alive where people can see themselves reflected in the environments they inhabit.

We spoke with Armstrong about her personal journey into art and design, the deep research behind the lighthouse metaphor, the deliberate choices that shape the book’s form, and how she sees technology serving genuine human and social needs going forward.

From a young age, creativity was always my primary language – at school, I studied art, and it was through art that I first understood the power of a visual idea to communicate something words couldn’t quite reach. One of my matric (Grade 12) artworks was a mixed-media charcoal drawing installation about my personal experience living with Common Variable Immune Deficiency (CVID), and it placed first in the International Festival of Paintings for Pediatric Patients in 2018. That experience taught me early that most resonant work tends to come from truth, from real stories, real struggle, real life.

Almost everything I’ve made since has followed that instinct; here are a few projects from my studies that reflect that. Save Our Seas uncovers how we exploit our oceans and tries to cultivate a deeper love and respect for marine life. Zebruh, a gender-neutral pop-up shop concept, uses the zebra as a metaphor for community, individuality, and freedom, challenging the black and white lens society has unconsciously taught us to see the world through. And Be Bald, inspired by my brother’s experience with Alopecia, reframes hair loss not as something to hide, but something to own. Each project started with a real person, a real problem, or a real injustice, and Becoming a Beacon was no different.

After school, I studied a BA in Visual Communication (majoring in Graphic Design) at the Stellenbosch Academy of Design and Photography, graduating with a Distinction in 2021, and went on to complete a BA Honours in Multimedia Design at Greenside Design Centre, College of Design in 2022. More recently, I finished an MA in Digital Media Design at Birkbeck, University of London, again graduating with a Distinction in 2025.

The project was actually born from the International Society of Typographic Designs (ISTD) 2022 brief, which centred around lighthouses, structures that exist entirely in service of others, standing alone but guiding everything around them. Being selected in the ISTD Student Assessment Scheme 2022 and elected as a Member of the Society as a result made the brief feel even more significant to me looking back. The more I researched the history and architecture of lighthouses, the more I kept arriving at Mandela. A lighthouse doesn’t simply appear fully formed; it is built in layers, each one structural and each one essential to what comes next. Mandela’s life works the same way. Remove any section, and the beacon doesn’t hold. Once I saw that parallel, the concept felt inevitable. The structure of a lighthouse became the architecture of his story, and of the book itself.

Every decision was made in service of the metaphor and the reader. The book is structured around the five sections of a lighthouse (the Foundation, the Entrance, the Staircase, the Windows, and the Beacon), each corresponding to a phase of Mandela’s life. The colour palette was drawn directly from the South African national flag, anchoring his story to the country he helped build. The typography pairs Helvetic Neue with Athelas, a clean modern sans-serif alongside a warmer, more classical serif, holding the tension between a contemporary audience and a deeply historical story. 

For the imagery, I converted archival photographs and newspaper headlines to black and white with a grain overlay. This textured historic quality runs throughout, complemented by graphic devices drawn from the lighthouse theme itself, such as stars referencing maritime constellations, circles used like pins on a pinboard to link images to information, and dotted lines threading it all together. The physical object mattered too; the hardcover binding, the coloured page edges, the tactile quality of the paper. In an era where everything is scrolled past in seconds, I wanted to make something that asked to be held.

Working on Becoming a Beacon taught me three things. First, the importance of research. Before I touched a single layout or made any visual decisions, I spent a long time immersing myself in two subjects simultaneously, which brought the history and architecture of lighthouses and the life of Nelson Mandela. That depth of understanding is what gave the concept its integrity. Second, I learned to trust my concept. Once I committed to the lighthouse metaphor, there were inevitably moments where I questioned whether it was too abstract or too indirect a way to tell Mandela’s story. But the strength of the final book came from not abandoning the idea when it felt uncertain; committing to it fully is ultimately what made it work. Third, and most personally, I learned that design is a form of responsibility. When you design around a subject, especially one as historically and politically significant as Mandela’s life and South Africa’s past, you can’t treat it casually. You have to understand it deeply and find a way to honour it honestly. Designing this book changed my own relationship with South African history in a way that has stayed with me, and that sense of responsibility is something I carry into all of my work now.

Receiving this recognition means a lot to me. Becoming a Beacon was my BA Honours project, the work where I first started to feel like I had found my own voice as a designer, where my technical skills and instinct for storytelling came together in a way that felt genuinely like me. To have that piece of work still being recognised four years later is something I didn’t expect, and it means a great deal. The timing also feels significant. Since completing the project in 2022, it received an ISTD pass award and was selected as a Loerie finalist in 2023. But I am now on the other side of a master’s degree, and looking back at the designer I was during that Honours year, this feels like a kind of full circle, a confirmation that the ideas in that project have a life and a relevance beyond the classroom.

I think platforms like AIDA are vital, particularly for students and recent graduates. Speaking from my own experience as a student, there simply aren’t enough platforms that specifically celebrate African students and emerging design work. Most of the big international award platforms are expensive to enter and heavily weighted toward established agencies, making them largely inaccessible to students or those just starting out. Having a platform that sees that work, celebrates it, and puts it on an international stage does something really important. It tells young creatives that they are good enough, that the stories they are telling and the work they are making from this continent matter and can stand alongside the best in the world.

Looking back, my studies felt like a natural progression, from graphic design to multimedia design, to digital design, and I think that mirrors the shifting creative landscape we are all moving through as technology becomes more present in every aspect of our lives. I never want to be left behind by that shift, but rather grow with it and figure out how design can harness it meaningfully.

The stories I am most drawn to are rooted in social issues, particularly environmental ones, and how design can shift the way people feel about something and move them to care. Going forward, I want to push that further, and I’m increasingly interested in how technology can amplify that work. My master’s dissertation is a good example of that. It explored how UX and UI design could improve systems in the agriculture sector, specifically looking at how sugarcane farms in KwaZulu-Natal could move from manual ticketing processes on trucks to a more efficient digital system. That project came from exactly the same instinct as most of my earlier work, identifying something that isn’t working, understanding the people affected by it, and using design to find a better way. It made me realise how powerful the intersection of people and technology can be when driven by a genuine human or environmental need, and that intersection is where I want to keep working.

At my core, I remain passionate about visual communication and the tactile elements of graphic design. But I am evolving, and excited about what becomes possible when you bring those instincts into new spaces. The medium may change, but the drive underneath it, to tell real stories, solve real problems, and make people care, stays the same.

From purpose-driven campaigns addressing environmental conservation, public health, and digital inclusion to contributions in global entertainment, Emuron’s work consistently bridges cultures and communities. His storytelling has been recognized with some of the industry’s highest honors, including Cannes Lions, Dubai Lynx Grand Prix, Grand Clios, and Loeries.

As a jury member of the Africa International Design Awards, Emuron brings a culturally grounded and human-centered perspective to the evaluation process. His approach values authenticity, social relevance, and the power of narrative, recognizing work that not only demonstrates creative excellence, but also reflects a deep understanding of context, community, and impact within and beyond the African continent.

You’ve often been described as a storyteller whose narratives transcend borders. Where did this passion for storytelling begin, and how has it shaped your career?

To be honest as a child I used to get into trouble a lot so I used to have to figure out elaborate tales on the fly/on the spot to get me out of trouble or punishment. Also as an introvert, I found that the one thing I could do to engage people especially I did not know so as to break the ice was to tell elaborate stories. When I joined advertising, this ability to harness one’s imagination to tell intriguing tales helped to accelerate my growth as a radio and film script writer. Since then that skill has helped me weave compelling stories into brand stories.

Over two decades, you’ve worked across more than 30 African countries, drawing insights from everyday places like markets and bars. What do these settings teach you that formal research cannot?

Formal research will tell you how people behave, these everyday places will tell you how people feel. These places show you the unseen motivations of why people behave the way they do and also showcase the intangible electricity/energy of people in their daily lives.

Your projects have ranged from saving endangered rhinos to addressing HIV and encouraging older generations to embrace mobile technology. How do you approach such different challenges while keeping the human story at the center?

I’m a storyteller. That’s what I started out as. That’s what I am most comfortable doing, so no matter what the brief is or the problem I am trying to solve, my default is to start thinking of the story I need to weave to solve the problem and my starting place is always in the culture, it is always in the everyday places understanding the humans to whom I am trying to tell this story and as such, it is inevitable that a human story will be at the centre of all that I create.

Beyond advertising, you’ve written for Netflix and voiced characters in children’s shows. What attracts you to storytelling in so many formats, and how do you adapt your voice to each one?

Curiosity is what attracts me to these formats. I love great stories in any shape, form or format and I do the best I can to contribute great stories to any ready/available platform. How I am able to adapt my voice to each platform is simply because of the fact that as a younger storyteller, I experimented with multiple platforms and grew up learning to create for multiple markets which forced adaptability to be part of my natural way of being.

Having worked across so many contexts, what do you think makes African storytelling distinctive and powerful on the global stage?

African storytelling is colorful, warm and even when attempting to be subtle it is dramatic. Our continent is also extremely diverse and as such offers up a broad and deep well of great stories that can be told. Our storytelling is richly diverse.

You have won recognition at Cannes Lions, Dubai Lynx Grand Prix and Grand Clios, and also served as a juror at international festivals. How do these experiences influence the way you view your own work?

These experiences, have helped to benchmark across global standards. One of the hardest things is getting hyper local stories and making sure that are loved and appreciated by global and universal audiences whose existence and influences vastly differ from yours. Doing work that is worthy of global recognition forces you to open up your world view and sharpen your craft to match global standards while ensuring that your stories stay deeply rooted in your local experiences and nuances.

The Quollective Africa positions itself as a cultural bridge. How do you bring that idea to life in practice?

We start everything with culture. We don’t do anything without interrogating the culture and working together/co-creating with culture experts in the categories we are solving for. We immerse ourselves into culture using a tool called the Culture Safari and make sure that anything we developed is based on our findings from the culture we are creating for. We let culture dictate the way forward and don’t dictate or force our ideas onto culture.

Many of your stories address urgent social issues. How do you see creativity playing a role in driving social change in Africa today?

I strongly believe creativity and imagination are Africa’s least exploited Infrastructure. Our continent needs extraordinary solutions for our extraordinary problems. Unfortunately most of our countries leave problem solving and solution finding to the traditional experts(in many cases Engineers, Doctors and other scientists) many of whom stick the global standard ways of solving problems. The truth however is that if we need to do things differently, we need to engage the creative minds that think differently. Right now most of these minds primarily grow brands and do communication, entertainment, etc. Well harnessed, these same minds can solve Africa’s problems with African solutions in a cost effective manner.

The AIDA Awards bring together creativity across architecture, fashion, interiors, products, and more. What excites you about being part of this jury, and what qualities will you look for in the entries?

I am excited to see the work across categories. Good creative work excites me and Great creative work nourishes me. I’ll be looking for innovation, relevance to category and audience, overall freshness of thought and brave thinking.

For young African creatives who want to tell stories that connect with global audiences, what advice would you give on finding their voice and building their craft?

Start creating and experimenting. To find your voice, you need to journey through different styles and ideas. You need to study and emulate the best of the best and keep innovating until you find your distinct white space/empty real estate in the densely populated and saturated world of creativity.

Working primarily with metal, Ousmane creates furniture, lighting, and everyday objects that balance function with reflection. His collections illustrate a design language defined by strong forms, bold color, and a deep consideration of how objects shape daily life. Sustainability, durability, and cultural context remain central to his work, alongside an ongoing exploration of materials such as copper and wood.

Active internationally while deeply connected to Senegal’s design landscape, Ousmane bridges local craftsmanship with a global outlook. As a Jury Member of the Africa International Design Awards, he brings a hands-on, values-driven perspective—one that recognizes design not only for its innovation, but for its authenticity, intention, and lasting impact.

You were trained in manual trades alongside your father rather than through traditional academic paths. How did that early experience shape your way of seeing and making design?

Being trained in manual trades by my father profoundly shaped my vision of design. From a very young age, I learned to work with materials, to understand their limitations, their resistance, but also their potential. This hands-on approach instilled in me a sense of detail, precision, and above all, a respect for a job well done. Unlike a traditional academic path, this hands-on training taught me that design is not limited to aesthetics: it must be functional, durable, and suited to real-world use. Every object I design must have a reason for existing, meet a concrete need, and fit into the daily lives of its users.

“Decolonising design” is widely discussed today, but how does it translate into the way a space is actually designed, built, and experienced?

For me, it translates into choice, authorship, and proportion. It means questioning why a spatial template exists, who authored it, and who benefits from it. Decolonising design is not aesthetic decoration, it is material sourcing that prioritises local craft economies, proportioning systems rooted in African textile logic, climate-appropriate construction over imported style expectations, and narratives that centre the people who built the land, not those who documented it.

Through your role at the Pan Afrikan Design Institute (PADI), you are shaping how design is taught and understood. What is the biggest shift you still want to see in African design education?

I would like to see African design education stop defending its validity and start defining global futures. We have moved past inclusion; we are at a moment of authorship. The next shift must be an educational ecosystem that recognises indigenous knowledge as methodology, not anecdote, as theory, not folklore.

Your work draws deeply from indigenous knowledge systems. How do you carry tradition into contemporary interiors without turning it into a museum piece?

By allowing tradition to breathe, not perform. I reference indigenous systems as active technologies, ventilation, spatial hierarchy, sonic privacy, thresholds of welcome, not as ornamental motifs. When tradition is treated as wisdom rather than display, it becomes contemporary effortlessly.

Metal has become your signature material, yet you now also work with copper and wood. What draws you to experiment with new materials?

Experimenting with new materials allows me to explore other textures, other emotions, and to expand my creative language. Each material brings a new way to tell a story and enriches my design practice.

Color is one of the most striking features of your work. How do you think about it when creating a new piece?

I consider color as a material in its own right. It is considered alongside form to enhance furniture pieces. Like a human being who dresses, we all have a base, but depending on our mood and desires, we choose one color or another, and this evokes different feelings. Form is the body, and color is clothing. Color remains something that can move, change, and evolve, according to the moment, the seasons, needs, or desires.

You’ve spoken about design as a way to improve daily life. When you sit down to create, do you think first about beauty, function, or the message behind the piece?

I take all these different aspects into account from the very beginning. Utility, function, beauty, comfort, and aesthetics all go together. For me, all these aspects come into play from the outset, when I start designing the piece.

From furniture and lighting to hotel and restaurant interiors, your projects touch both private and public life. Does your approach change depending on the space, or do the same ideas guide you everywhere?

The principles remain the same: functionality, coherence, and identity. Only the scale and use of space change, leading me to adapt forms and materials without losing my vision. Human is at the heart of my thinking, whether for private or public spaces.

You have shown your work internationally, from New York to Tokyo, Lagos to Barcelona. How do global audiences respond to your creations, and what do you hope they take away from them?

The first reaction is always surprise, curiosity, and that’s always quite positive. People ask me about the choice of materials and how they were worked, the technique. What touches me most, and what I’m often told, is that it’s a very beautiful way to represent Africa.

As Design Curator for the 2024 Biennale of Contemporary African Art, what perspective did you want to bring, and how do you see design in dialogue with contemporary art?

Design is taking its rightful place in the contemporary creative ecosystem and universe. The line between design and contemporary art is very thin. Each needs the other to express itself and complement each other; it’s a constant dialogue. For 16 years, we didn’t have a design section during the Biennale, and reintegrating a whole section dedicated to design was essential for me; it was important to restore its place in the contemporary artistic debate.

The Africa International Design Awards aim to highlight designers who combine creativity with cultural and social relevance. What excites you about this initiative, and what qualities will you be looking for in the projects?

What I love is that design is often neglected and undervalued in Africa, so any initiative that highlights and celebrates it excites me, and I’m all for it!
I look forward to being surprised by the projects, my only expectation is to let people express themselves and discover their vision, what will come of it, and the impact it might have, cultural, economic, social, and so on.

Many young designers in Africa are also starting their journey outside formal education, much like you did. What advice would you share with them about finding their own path and voice in design?

Believe in yourself, listen to yourself, never stop trying, experimenting, doing.
It is only through doing that you find your path, your identity, and your voice.

An Executive Board Member of the Pan-Afrikan Design Institute (PADI), Kavishe plays a key role in shaping how African design is taught, debated, and positioned globally. Her work challenges inherited spatial templates and imported design logics, advocating instead for methodologies rooted in indigenous knowledge systems, climate intelligence, local craft economies, and lived experience. In 2024, she was named among South Africa’s Top 100 Design Voices, followed by the AMPS Critical Futures Award in 2025 for her research on decolonising design perspectives.

As a jury member of the Africa International Design Awards (AIDA Awards), Juliet brings a sharp, deeply human lens to evaluating contemporary design across the continent. She looks beyond trend and surface, leaning into projects that show cultural courage, material honesty, and emotional generosity. In this interview, she reflects on how her thinking around space has evolved, why African design education is entering an era of authorship, and what it truly means to design for dignity, agency, and belonging.

You have spent 17 years working across continents, cultures, and typologies. When you look back at your early work, what has changed most in how you think about space today?

In the beginning, I approached space as a resolved object, something to articulate, beautify, and complete. Today, I understand space as a living cultural ecosystem. It holds memory, migration, labour, language, and emotion. I now design less to “finish” a space and more to allow it to continue becoming layered, adaptive, and responsive to those who will eventually inhabit and use it.

“Decolonising design” is widely discussed today, but how does it translate into the way a space is actually designed, built, and experienced?

For me, it translates into choice, authorship, and proportion. It means questioning why a spatial template exists, who authored it, and who benefits from it. Decolonising design is not aesthetic decoration, it is material sourcing that prioritises local craft economies, proportioning systems rooted in African textile logic, climate-appropriate construction over imported style expectations, and narratives that centre the people who built the land, not those who documented it.

Through your role at the Pan Afrikan Design Institute (PADI), you are shaping how design is taught and understood. What is the biggest shift you still want to see in African design education?

I would like to see African design education stop defending its validity and start defining global futures. We have moved past inclusion; we are at a moment of authorship. The next shift must be an educational ecosystem that recognises indigenous knowledge as methodology, not anecdote, as theory, not folklore.

Your work draws deeply from indigenous knowledge systems. How do you carry tradition into contemporary interiors without turning it into a museum piece?

By allowing tradition to breathe, not perform. I reference indigenous systems as active technologies, ventilation, spatial hierarchy, sonic privacy, thresholds of welcome, not as ornamental motifs. When tradition is treated as wisdom rather than display, it becomes contemporary effortlessly.

Being named among South Africa’s Top 100 Design Voices and receiving the AMPS Critical Futures Award puts your thinking in the spotlight. Did that kind of recognition change anything for you?

It affirmed that the work of cultural excavation and African epistemic dignity resonates globally. It didn’t change my approach, but it expanded the platform, the room, and the microphone — and that matters, not for me, but for the students and young designers who need to see that African thinking is not an appendix, but a canon.

You often work from concept to completion. At what stage do you personally feel a project truly becomes “real” for you?

The project is always real for me. Whether it’s writing about design or fulfilling a client’s brief for their residential home, the person who will read my writing and the clients who walk on site as their building evolves make it real for me. For me, the process and research of design is as real as the product.

As an AIDA Awards jury member, what makes you stop, look again, and lean closer to a project?

Courage. Not aesthetics, not trend, but the audacity to propose something culturally intelligent, materially honest, and emotionally generous. When I see a design that resists predictability and instead responds to human need, I lean in.

You often speak about design as a tool for human freedom. Where do you feel design still has the most power to shift lives?

In the enabling and support of agency. When design is used to return decision-making to communities, how they live, store, gather, cook, grieve, archive, and celebrate, it becomes a tool of freedom. Spatial dignity is political, and design can either reinforce exclusion or reimagine belonging.

From homes to commercial spaces and museums, which type of space challenges you the most, and why?

Museums. They hold collective narratives, but often through colonial framing devices. Redesigning such spaces requires ethical precision: to honour memory without mythologising it, to present truth without spectacle, and to make room for pain, joy, and reclamation simultaneously.

For young African designers entering the AIDA Awards for the first time, what would you tell them before they submit?

Submit work that sounds like you, not what you think “design language” expects. Do not dilute your references. Lead with your grandmother’s pattern logic, your city’s sonic rhythm, your coastline’s humidity, your vernacular spatial intelligence. The world is not asking you to imitate, it is waiting for you to author.