The Double Standard Around African Spirituality & Mythology

An exploration of why African pantheons are policed as dangerous while Greek and Norse myths are celebrated

We once asked this question that almost broke the internet.

Why is it that, as Black people, we are so comfortable consuming mythologies from everywhere else, Greek, Norse, Japanese, you name it, yet when it comes to African pantheons, so many of us hesitate, pull back, or label it ‘scary’ or ‘demonic’?

Why is it that so many of us can list Greek gods on command… Zeus, Athena, Poseidon, or recognise Norse and East Asian mythological figures from Marvel films, anime, and fantasy novels… but stumble when asked to name even three deities from the African continent?

So… we have time now on Substack. Let’s talk about it!

For many of us, that hesitation isn’t an individual failing. It’s the aftertaste of colonialism, missionary pressure, and centuries of storytelling that taught us that African spiritual systems are something to fear, mock, or keep at a distance.

Think about the stories we grew up with.

On one hand, we had Disney’s Hercules, the Percy Jackson books, Harry Potter (kmt), Viking sagas, Thor in the Marvel universe, anime like Naruto and films like Spirited Away. These worlds were magical, adventurous, exciting, and completely acceptable. You could wear a T-shirt with a Greek god on it and no one would bat an eyelid. You could binge an anime about spirits and demons / shinigami, and it was just “fantasy”.

On the other hand, when anything to do with African spirituality appeared on our screens, it was often a warning sign. In Nollywood, how many times have we seen the same tropes: the “witch” in the village, the evil shrine, the cursed idol, the person who “went to the native doctor”? In a lot of our homes, anything related to traditional religion was folded into one word: ‘evil’.

So of course, when you grow up in that tension, you might feel uneasy about even reading a children’s book on African deities, while happily devouring books on Greek mythology. The message is subtle but powerful: other people’s gods are “culture” and “mythology”; ours are “darkness” and “idolatry”.

Almost five years ago, we realised just how deeply that had shaped us.

We’ve always loved mythology. Percy Jackson, Hercules, all of it. We could talk for ages about Medusa, Hades, or Odin. But one day, someone asked us: “Are there any African deities?” and we froze.

We couldn’t answer. Not one name came to mind.

That moment was humbling. How could we, born of this continent’s heritage, talk so fluently about everyone else’s pantheons… and have nothing, absolutely nothing, to say about our own?

That question cracked something open.

We started reading, researching, digging. We found stories of Yoruba orisa like Sàngó and Ọya, of water spirits like Mami Wata (who is not evil, but more on that later), of creators, tricksters, guardians, and ancestors from across the continent and the diaspora. Africa is not a monolith. Across the continent, throughout its regions, countries, tribes and diaspora, there are thousands of intertwined systems: Igbo, Akan, Dinka, Dogon, Kongo, Vodou, Candomblé, Santería, and so many more.

It didn’t feel like dabbling in something forbidden. It felt like coming home to a library of books that had always had our names on the spine.

And we didn’t leave it at reading. We began to paint these stories, use them to add cultural depth and nuance to our art. Our canvases became a place where theology, folklore, cosmologies, and imagination could sit together. As we learned, we created. As we created, we shared.

Because our African history cannot only begin with enslavement and colonisation. Those are important chapters yes, but they are not the first ones. Our mythologies, philosophies, and spiritual technologies are part of a much older archive of how our people understood the universe, community, justice, beauty, and responsibility.

And here is something important to say clearly:

Engaging with African mythology does not require you to abandon your current beliefs.

Many of us grew up learning about Greek and Roman mythology or even religions like Sikhism and Buddhism, without it changing our core faith. In the same way, exploring African stories, spiritual systems and pantheons, can simply be a way of understanding how our ancestors made sense of the world… and how many still do.

If just reading ANYTHING that does not belong to your faith makes you immediately want to rebuke it, this conversation might not be for you today. And that’s fine.

We are speaking to the ones who feel a tug of curiosity. The ones who have quietly wondered why they know the names of Olympian gods but not the deities honoured by their ancestors. The ones who sense that there is more to our heritage than trauma, but aren’t sure where to start.

To you, we want to say: it’s not scary. It’s not inherently evil. It is culture. It is memory. It is philosophy wrapped in story. You are allowed to learn about it. You are allowed to ask questions. You are allowed to be both critical and curious.

Almost five years into this journey, we’re still learning. Still unlearning. Still surprised by how much has been buried, mistranslated, or flattened, and how powerful it is to see African cosmologies represented with depth and respect.

If any of this resonates with you, we’d love you to sit with a few questions:

What stories about African spirituality did you grow up hearing?

Where did those stories come from? Your family? Church or mosque? Films? School?

And what might it mean for you to encounter these traditions not as horror elements, but as complex systems of thought?

Our Substack is one of the places we’re holding that conversation.

We’d genuinely love to hear from you. Have you discovered any African deities, myths, or spiritual practices recently that shifted something for you? Did you grow up with any of these stories, or are you starting from zero like we did?

Feel free to reply, share your experience, or even just tell us which questions this piece stirred up.

This is only the beginning of the conversation.