Essay by Maree Nikimaya for Contextualising Practice 

Content warning: This essay discusses domestic violence, suicide, violence, and trauma

 

From 1995 to 2000, my mother, father, and brother journeyed from South Sudan, which was on the brink of civil war, in search of a better life abroad. Before arriving in Tasmania, Australia, they stayed in a refugee camp in Nairobi, Kenya for five years. At this time, my mother survived a crumbling marriage rife with domestic violence, a miscarriage, a suicide attempt, and the increasing threat of violence and hunger that one encounters in a refugee camp. Often in life, and especially in my art practice, where I portray stories like hers through portraiture, I carry a deep sense of humility and guilt – recognising that my mother’s survival and strength were for the benefit of her three children and the improvement of our lives, most importantly, our education. My art practice, and the portrait works I will analyse in this essay, are not about me. They are for and about the woman before me, like my mother.  As Morgan (2023) has noted, the horrors that Black women endure(d) are finally being spoken about within the diaspora (Morgan 2023). My work sits within this emerging tradition. However, these stories and livelihoods are also fundamental for me to unpack through portraiture, as they inform the cultural, social, and religious iconography I utilise in my works that bring me closer to understanding my identity as a South Sudanese Australian woman.

The Black Horror Genre

Reading Kinitra Brook Sycorax: Black Women’s Hauntings of Contemporary Horror (2019), which offers a framework for analysing Black women in mainstream horror, made me realise that brutal drama films with Black women protagonists/characters shaped my childhood understanding of the horror genre. Films like The Colour Purple (1985), Precious (2009), and The Last King of Scotland (2006), albeit all categorised as dramas, are reflections to me of the surreal horrors Black women endure. Out of fear of the anxieties real horror films might provoke, I avoided the genre entirely during my childhood. However, in adolescence—and especially as I began developing my art practice—I found myself drawn to the representation of Black women in these destructive scenes. This shift significantly influenced the tone of the narratives I began to explore in my work, as I sought to convey the complexity of Black women’s experiences through emotive storytelling and detailed cultural iconography.

The ‘oppositional gaze’, as coined by bell hooks, is counteracted in works like 28 Days Later (2002), The Walking Dead (2010), and Lovecraft Country (2020), which critique the fundamentals of ‘film theory’. In these narratives, Black women lie outside of film ‘binaries’: we are neither as victimised and centered as the white woman nor as dominating as the male perpetrator/protagonist (Brooks 2014:313; Burgin X 2019). So, where do we lie? What happens when you are ‘too’ strong that you are masculinised, but also when brutalised, you are not worthy of protection? (Brooks 2014; Burgin X 2019). In reading works like Brooks, I came to understand why stereotypes of Black women stick so strongly, from the Jezebel to the Mammy, the mystical negroe, the Sapphire or the ‘Welfare queen’, these labels are simple yet destructive because they erase the complexities of Black womanhood (see for more Burgin X 2019; Bailey 2021). An antidote to this of course, is for Black Women to be at the helm of writing and creating our own stories, as better put by Moya Bailey in explaining Black feminist theory:

Black feminist theory clearly articulates the power of the image to serve the hegemony of “white supremacist capitalist patriarchy” by controlling the way society views marginalized groups and how we view ourselves (Bailey 2021:2)

Circling back to the personal story I shared about my mother at the beginning of the essay, this complex story of brutality and strength is what I endeavoured to portray in Where Is Your Fire? (Figure 1). The self-portrait is titled after the Sonia Sanchez poem ‘Catch the Fire’ and is an exploration of trauma, both generational and in maternal relationships. The visceral image of the lioness eating its cub is a direct and obvious display of the very vicious and tumultuous relationship my mother and I once had, an extremely personal horror of mine. In this painterly narrative, my mother and I are products of the very different but both brutal and traumatic environments we were raised in. Strength—or the ‘quiet endurance of the strong Black woman’—is a trait that Black women are often labelled with and burdened by, both in film and in reality. In my work, this is expressed through the covered mouth and the toub fabric enveloping me, showing that this ‘strength’ is not a choice (Crenshaw 1989; hooks 1999: 469). The forceful nature of survival has sparked generational trauma, a maternal trauma that has warped my view of motherhood to be as harrowing as a lioness cannibalising her cub.

The toub fabric I wore in the work was also gifted to me by my mother, which came from her family in South Sudan. This cultural fabric, now travelled halfway across the world, is one of the few material ties I have that explicitly links my mother’s story of survival as a single mother and refugee, and the story of the product of her sacrifices–me. Like the Black Horror genre, the toub fabric within the portrait represents a story as beautiful as it is harrowing and red. The archetypes and overlooked complexities of Black women characters within the Black horror genre, as previously discussed through works like Brooks’, I aim to dispel through narratively layered motifs such as this toub fabric in figure 1.

Misogynoir: “All the women are white, and all of the Blacks are men.” (Brooks 2014) 

Jessica Morgan’s article Black Girl Gone: Misogyny, Hypervisibility and Black Women (2023) unpacks how Black women are largely left out of anti-racist and feminist theory conversations, which broadens the issue of intersectionality and lack of feminist allyship. Here arises Misogynoir, coined in 2008 by Moya Bailey, the combination of misogyny/sexism directed at Black women (Bailey 2021; Morgan 2023). In connection to misogynoir in the social and cultural sphere of mainstream Black Horror, works like The Black Guy Dies first (Means 2022) while critical, still centralise the Black man at the centre of Black horror analysis. The ‘sacrificial negroe’ stereotype means that the Black man in these stories is highlighted and often martyred, but the Black woman is forgotten (Brooks 2019; Means, 2022). For Black woman characters in horror, our value is placed in how much we help others. For example, Whoopi Goldberg in Ghost (1990), Viola Davis in Beautiful Creatures (2013), Bonnie in Vampire Diaries (2009), and most recently Annie in Ryan Coogler’s Sinners (2025) (Means, 2022) are defined by this characteristic.

In acknowledging this persistent trope of the overlooking and underappreciation of these Black woman characters, I thought of the personal ways Black womanhood has been erased within my family. In essence, the survival and flourishing of my family tree has all to do with the woman in each generation, from my mother to her grandmother, all amid civil war and unrest in South Sudan. The burden of marriage and motherhood has never been lost on me. I explore this narrative visually in Steel Karkade: Bride Price (Figure 2), a dual piece to Steel Karkade: My Mother (Figure 3). The Sudanese tradition of cattle as a currency for the bride price is displayed in the hide toub fabric that I (the bride) am endowed in, which is non-traditional. This is what I imagine the type of bride I would be had my mother stayed in South Sudan and I were born there. From the scarification to the jewellery, the henna and the mufraka stick I hold (used for cooking and corporal punishment), all these symbols of South Sudanese/Sudanese culture act as a concealment for the external turmoil’s. As illustrated in the Afghanistan ‘war rug’ inspired background that illustrates different conflicts in Sudanese/South Sudanese history to the present day (Bonyhady & Lendon 2021). My smile in the portrait is not worn in happiness or jest, much rather in a self-preservation sense, emblematic of that ‘quiet endurance’ Black woman character trope I spoke of earlier (Crenshaw 1989; hooks 1999).

Contemporary horror fiction is a space in which deepseated human anxieties can be given free reign because we are often defined by that which terrifies us (Brooks 2019:1)

It is integral for me to be intentional in my depiction of Black women in my works, keeping in mind the power of the ‘oppositional gaze’ and ‘the power of the image’ spoken of earlier as well (hooks 1999; Brooks 2014). To depict specifically our traumas and femininity in a way that is not exploitive, violent, or hypersexualised as otherwise seen in mainstream media and film (hooks 1999; Bailey 2021). To do this in direct contrast to the personal narratives I aim to depict (which often include violent and traumatic themes) is not an attempt at any erasure but rather a cathartic way to rewrite my beliefs, as well as those of viewers,  that are constructed due to misogynoir (Phelan 2020; Jarman 2021). This concept and narrative tool has risen through movements like ‘afro-bubbelgum’ that celebrate the infectious ‘frivolity’ of Blackness and Black women’s identities (Phelan 2020). Although this might be difficult to achieve within the Black horror genre, horror-influenced works like mine can still deliver similar non-passive experiences. This idea has been further cemented as I receive visceral and very ‘strong’ descriptive responses to my portrait works. Because of this, the purpose of my practice is not just representation but reimagination – where horror, vulnerability, tenderness, and refusal can coexist without diminishing the complexity of Black womanhood.

Some time for the Ancestors

In light of Ryan Coogler’s previously mentioned Sinners (2025), watching the globally successful horror film was an informative experience that led me to research African spirituality, which is explicitly linked to ancestors. In many African cultures, spirits such as umoya (Zulu, South African) or orishas (Igbo, Nigerian) can possess individuals or serve as mediators to communicate with ancestors (Munyaradzi Felix Murove, 2023). The ‘ancestral plain’ can inhabit our current environments, and these relationships can be nurtured and strengthened through continual spiritual practice (Munyaradzi Felix Murove 2023). A re-devotion to these sacred practices, as explored in Sinners (2025) through music and dance, enables us with the tools to essentially decolonise our minds. To revert to pre-colonial religious practice, strengthening our connection to the land and sustainable practices through animism and conservation, and birth prosperity, unison, and harmony in our conflicted and divided communities (Losoncz 2013; Munyaradzi Felix Murove 2023.

Many of these cultural and spiritual practices and beliefs inform me subconsciously in my art practice, influencing the visual iconography and narrative. Most consistently, this is done through my motif of Baobab trees in my works (Figure 3), which are a pillar for symbolising life, water sources, and used in healing medicine (Munyaradzi Felix Murove 2023). My real name, Amoweng (Dinka), is after my paternal great-aunt, who was a witch doctor; I embody her reserved and wise characteristics in Figure 2. On a spiritual level, it is challenging to articulate how deeply connected I feel to my ancestors through my art practice. I found the words to fully comprehend this after viewing Sinners (2025). The film articulates to me how thin the veil is between us and the ancestral pain, and that communication vessels, whether music, art or dance, can aid or deplete our life source.

…Africa’s perennial social-economic and political problems as a result of the existence of severed relationships between modern Africa and her ancestors (Munyaradzi Felix Murove 2023:45)

My works in Figures 2 and 3 are essentially portraits that honour the spiritual aspects of animism in Dinka culture. The cow hide as mentioned, symbolises not just cattle as currency but emphasises the importance of livestock and animals in coming of age and spiritual practices. Boys journeying into manhood are often named after the cows that they have raised, and goats are sacrificed to welcome loved ones back to the motherland, as was done when my mother visited South Sudan. These practices, alongside many other African spiritual practices, especially involving animal sacrifice, have long been demonised or labelled ‘primitive’ (Munyaradzi Felix Murove 2023). This serves to negate ancient tradition and uphold colonial versions of religion and spirituality, which is especially critical to counteract for those of us in Western diasporic spaces (with the rise of right-wing white supremacy). This is so we do not lose further connections to our culture and ancestors (Bailey 2021; Munyaradzi Felix Murove 2023; Kissubi 2025).

To further pluck at the threads that white supremacy unties in the Black diaspora, here in Australia, the racial tensions against our community have become more egregious, as seen most recently in Northland shopping centre through hate speech displayed by white supremacist Neo-nazi groups (Kissubi 2025). These groups starkly parallel the leeching and obsessed vampires and white supremacist antagonists in Sinners (2025), depicting how the horror genre, “…functions as a powerful genre to deliver racial social critiques in large part because it relies upon intense emotional delivery” (Jarman 2021:63). As further unpacked by Michelle Jarman via the example of Jordan Peele’s Get Out (2017), the use of mental control in the film is a permeating example of ‘white racial power’ and its psychological devastations (Bellot, Cox & McKinney 2021; Jarman 2021). Unlike in Sinners (2025) and in reality, dance and music or art is not a cure-all to these social issues of white supremacy. But these practices can open up conversations about ancestral power and spirituality that lead to positive, reverberating generational changes. This is also why I chose to depict myself alongside my mother in a dual piece, to convey a resilient example of the Black family and maternal relationships. This is despite the traumas and external stresses of immigration, such as social assimilation in Australia and language and cultural barriers. I envision her as a matriarch like the ancestral mothers before her, this position consolidated by the chief Mandari and Neur tribe spear she holds in Figure 3.

Within my community, viewers of my work can resonate with the visual language as it is fundamentally spiritual and cultural. It is about how my culture and lived experiences inform my spirit as a Black woman within the diaspora. Although the Black horror genre still has a way to go in depicting more enlightened and complex stories about Black women, I chose for my work to dissect and appreciate the dichotomy of the Black women’s experience. These experiences are similar to those within the Black horror genre, paralleling themes such as brutality and strength, misogynoir, and African spirituality. These portrait works are the culmination of displaying these themes through cultural iconography, which reflect the life experience and narratives of not just myself, but my mother and all the women before us and in our community.

 

Reference List

Bailey, M (2021) Misogynoir Transformed: Black Women’s Digital Resistence, NYU Press, doi:10.2307/j.ctv27ftv0s.

Bellot, G, Cox, R & McKinney, D (2021) ‘How Black Horror Became America’s Most Powerful Cinematic Genre’, The New York Times, accessed 29 March 2025. https://www.nytimes.com/2021/11/10/t-magazine/black-horror-films-get-out.html

Bonyhady, T & Lendon, N (2021) ‘I Weave What I Have Seen’, Australian National University.

Brooks K (2018) ‘Searching for Sycorax: Black Women’s Hauntings of Contemporary Horror’, Ithaca, NY: Rutgers University Press, doi:10.36019/978081358464.

Brooks KD (2014) ‘The Importance of Neglected Intersections: Race and Gender in Contemporary Zombie Texts and Theories’, African American Review, 4(47)461-475, doi:10.1353/afa.2014.0062.

Burgin X (director) (2019) Horror Noire: A History of Black Horror  [Documentary Film], Hollywood, U.S.: Shudder.

Crenshaw, K (1989) ‘Demarginalizing the Intersection of Race and Sex: a Black Feminist Critique of Antidiscrimination Doctrine, Feminist Theory, and Antiracist Politics’, Feminist Legal Theory, 1:57-80, doi:10.4324/9780429500480-5.

hooks b (1999) ‘The Oppositional Gaze: Black Female Spectators’, Feminist Film Theory, 21:307-320, doi:10.4324/9781315743226-8.

Jarman, M (2021) ‘Horror as Resistance: Reimagining Blackness and Madness’, CLA Journal, 1(64):62-81, doi:10.1353/caj.2021.0000.

Kissubi J (3 June 2025) ‘This photo was taken outside Northland Shopping Centre in Melbourne…’ [Instagram post], Jeff Kissubi, accessed 3 June 2025. https://www.instagram.com/jeffsterkiss_/p/DKZU4j9hCoV/

Losoncz, I. (2013) Absence of respect: South Sudanese experiences of Australian government and social institutions [Thesis Phd], Australian National University 209-224, doi:10.25911/5d51543d6fb4d.

Means, R.R. (2022). BLACK GUY DIES FIRST: Black Horror from Fodder to Oscar. S.L.: Saga Pr.

Morgan, J (2023) ‘Black Girl Gone: Misogynoir, Hypervisibility, and Black Women’, Health Education & Behavior, SAGE Publishing, 50(4):505-507, doi:10.1177/10901981231177084

Munyaradzi Felix Murove (2023) ‘African Spirituality and Ethics’, Springer Nature.

Phelan, A (2020) The Art Movement Bringing Fun and Frivolity to Portrayals of Africa, Atlas Obscura, accessed 30 March 2025. https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/afrobubblegum-ted

VICE News (2020) ‘South Sudan Is Collapsing Thanks to Corruption Over Oil’, YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qi37th_N3Ck.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Consider deleting this reference as you are discussing your lived experience here so it is not totally clear where Lonsoncz fits in.  If you don’t want to delete you can bring them into the sentence or even use a footnote if they just helped you think of this idea.