On a sweltering afternoon in Freetown last October, President Julius Maada Bio of Sierra Leone stood before a packed hall at the 10th All Africa Conference on Sexual Health and Reproductive Rights and declared his government had unanimously approved a Safe Motherhood Bill. The announcement sent a wave of applause through the room, where activists, policymakers, and civil society leaders had gathered to push for long-overdue protections for women’s reproductive health. “This bill will include a range of critical provisions to ensure the health and dignity of all girls and women of reproductive age in this country,” Bio said, his voice cutting through the murmurs of anticipation.
For feminists in Sierra Leone, the moment felt like a hard-won victory. The bill, which had been under discussion for years, would have addressed maternal mortality—one of the highest rates in West Africa—by expanding access to safe abortion care, criminalizing female genital mutilation (FGM), and mandating comprehensive sexual education. Activists had spent a decade lobbying for its passage, navigating a political landscape where religious conservatives wielded disproportionate influence. When Bio later shook hands with conference speakers at a private dinner, some in the room allowed themselves a flicker of hope: Was this the leader who would finally deliver?
Three years later, the bill remains stalled in parliament. The reason, according to Sierra Leonean feminists, is a coalition of far-right religious groups—the Inter-Religious Council of Sierra Leone—which has mobilized against its passage. The council, an umbrella organization representing Muslim, Christian, and traditionalist leaders, has framed the bill as a threat to “African moral values,” pressuring lawmakers to block it. In a country where even presidential decrees can be derailed by religious lobbying, the bill’s fate hangs in the balance—a symptom of a broader crisis unfolding across Africa, where conservative faith-based movements are reshaping laws, eroding secular governance, and rolling back hard-won rights for women and LGBTQ+ communities.
The pushback against the Safe Motherhood Bill is part of a regional backlash against sexual and reproductive freedoms, one that has gained momentum in recent years. In neighboring Ghana, the Promotion of Proper Human Sexual Rights and Ghanaian Family Values Bill, widely known as the “anti-LGBTQ+ bill,” advanced through parliament last year despite widespread international condemnation. The bill, backed by evangelical and Muslim clergy, criminalizes same-sex relations and could impose life sentences for “aggravated homosexuality.” In Uganda, a similarly draconian law passed in 2023 has seen activists arrested, clinics raided, and a climate of fear descend over discussions of sexuality. Across the continent, 31 of 54 nations still criminalize consensual same-sex relationships, and in countries like Nigeria and Somalia, punishments include death.
Yet this backlash is not merely a religious revival. It is a deliberate political project, one rooted in the legacy of colonialism and the strategic deployment of faith to consolidate power. Historically, European colonizers used Christianity to justify the subjugation of African societies, demonizing indigenous religious practices while imposing Victorian-era moral codes. In Senegal, for example, the Xaxars—traditional pre-marital gatherings where communities openly discussed sexuality, often with explicit and joyful candor—were once a cornerstone of cultural education. Today, they have been co-opted or suppressed under the weight of Islamic conservatism. “Even when these gatherings happen now, they are a shadow of what they once were,” says Hawa, a Senegalese feminist and researcher. “They occur only after marriage, stripping away the communal, liberating spirit of open conversation about desire and pleasure.”
The erosion of these spaces reflects a broader pattern: the replacement of indigenous knowledge systems with imported, often rigid interpretations of faith. In Ghana, where the anti-LGBTQ+ bill was fast-tracked, religious leaders have framed their opposition to queer rights as a defense of “African tradition,” despite the fact that many pre-colonial societies recognized gender fluidity and diverse sexual expressions. The Akan people, for instance, historically included Abronwoma—individuals who embodied both masculine and feminine traits—and were respected as spiritual intermediaries. Today, such traditions are either erased or pathologized under the guise of protecting “family values.”
The intersection of religion and politics is particularly acute in Sierra Leone, where the Inter-Religious Council has positioned itself as a moral arbiter over state policy. The council’s influence extends beyond reproductive rights; it has also opposed comprehensive sexuality education in schools, arguing that discussions of contraception or LGBTQ+ identities corrupt youth. This stance aligns with a global trend of faith-based groups gaining political leverage, from the U.S. Supreme Court’s overturning of Roe v. Wade to the rise of Hindu nationalist policies in India. In Africa, however, the dynamic is compounded by the continent’s post-colonial struggle for sovereignty—one where religious leaders often fill the void left by weak secular institutions.
The resistance to these trends is equally organized. In Sierra Leone, activists with Women’s Forum for Peace and Development and LBT Rights Sierra Leone have kept pressure on parliament, while international groups like Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch have documented the human rights violations tied to the anti-LGBTQ+ bills. In Ghana, protests erupted in Accra last year when the anti-LGBTQ+ bill was debated, with thousands taking to the streets under the banner “#GhanaDecides.” Yet the backlash has also sparked a cultural reckoning. Scholars and artists are revisiting pre-colonial texts to reclaim narratives of African sexual diversity, while younger generations—many of whom reject the religious conservatism of their elders—are pushing for secular governance.
The tension between tradition and progress is nowhere more visible than in the Candomblé temples of Bahia, Brazil, where Afro-descendant communities have preserved Yoruba spiritual practices despite centuries of slavery and forced assimilation. These temples, like their African counterparts, once served as spaces for open discussions of sexuality, gender, and pleasure. Today, they endure as living archives of resistance, offering a counter-narrative to the austerity of colonial morality. “The concept of sankofa—going back to retrieve what was lost—is not about romanticizing the past,” says Dr. Adjoa Anyimadu, a Ghanaian historian specializing in African sexual cultures. “It’s about reclaiming the parts of our history that were never meant to be forgotten: the fluidity, the joy, the communal celebration of bodies and desires.”
The Safe Motherhood Bill in Sierra Leone is now at a crossroads. After years of delays, Bio’s government has signaled it may push for a vote in the coming parliamentary session, but religious opposition remains fierce. Meanwhile, in Ghana, the anti-LGBTQ+ bill awaits presidential assent, with Bio’s counterpart, Nana Akufo-Addo, facing pressure from both domestic conservatives and international human rights bodies. The outcomes in these two nations will set a precedent for how Africa balances faith, governance, and human rights in the 21st century. For now, the battle lines are drawn—not between progress and stagnation, but between who gets to define Africa’s future: its people, or the institutions that claim to speak for them in the name of God.
