Not All Representation is Liberation: Kemi Badenoch and the Postcolonial Condition

Kemi Badenoch—a woman of Nigerian descent—has emerged as a figure that both challenges and unsettles our preconceptions.

For many of us, the very idea of someone from her background rising to lead a conservative movement, while championing the ideals of the British government and monarchy, is profoundly disorientating. It forces us to confront the contradictions embedded in our collective understanding of heritage and power. We are compelled to ask: How can a person so deeply rooted in the culture of a postcolonial society, with all its scars and complexities, be seen as a custodian of an institution that historically oppressed her ancestors?

This shock is not merely a reaction to an unexpected political alignment—it is emblematic of the enduring tensions between identity and ideology. Kemi Badenoch’s ascent signals a reimagining of what leadership and loyalty can look like, but it also exposes the fissures in our understanding of both heritage and modern conservatism.

In a world where the legacy of empire still lingers in subtle yet pervasive ways, her prominence disrupts the neat narratives we have constructed. It calls into question the assumption that those who come from historically marginalised backgrounds must inherently reject the symbols of power that once subjugated them.

But to view Badenoch’s rise as an isolated phenomenon would be a mistake. She is not an outlier—she is a symptom of something far older, far deeper. Her politics, her rhetoric, her unwavering defence of British institutions are not new. They are the direct results of ideological conditioning that began during colonial rule and persist today, shaping the way many people from postcolonial nations see themselves, their histories, and their allegiances.

How easily we forget that colonialism was never just about land or wealth—it was about shaping minds. It did not end when the flags were lowered, and the independence ceremonies were held. It seeped into education, into governance, and into cultural values, ensuring that long after colonial administrators left, their influence remained. It ingrained the idea that proximity to Britishness/whiteness was synonymous with progress; and that success meant assimilating into the structures of the former empire rather than dismantling them.

And this is where the illusion of progress traps us. Many of us have been convinced that we are in a new time, a new space, where the sins of the past no longer shape the present. That we are all on an equal playing field now. But figures like Badenoch—along with the institutions that elevate them—force us to ask: Has the system changed, or has it merely found a new face to wear?

In the words of Dr Ruha Benjamin, “Black faces in high places are not going to save us”. We need to understand that the presence of Black and brown people in positions of power or prestige does not signify justice or equality. It does not mean the ideologies of colonialism have been dismantled. In fact, it often means the opposite.

Historically, colonial powers always ensured that a select few from the oppressed class were given proximity to power—not to liberate the rest, but to maintain control. The role of the gatekeeper is not new. During the era of slavery and colonialism, a handful of people from the oppressed group were granted privileges to keep the rest in line, to uphold the system that exploited them. This is still happening today.

Power structures do not rely on overt oppression anymore; they rely on complicity. And complicity is far easier to maintain when it is embodied by someone who looks like you, speaks like you, and claims to share your experiences. It is easier to sell the idea that the playing field is level when there are people who look like you reinforcing the message. It is easier to convince the world that Britain is a meritocracy when a woman of Nigerian descent stands at the forefront of its conservative movement, defending the very institutions that once deemed her people inferior.

But we have to be clear: This is not just about Kemi Badenoch. This is about all of us who have internalised these ideas without even realising it. It is about the postcolonial condition—how we have been taught to revere the very systems that marginalised us. It is about the deep-rooted belief that to succeed, we must assimilate rather than challenge. That progress is about proving ourselves to the standards of empire rather than rewriting the rules altogether.

And this is the danger. Because when we do not recognise the historical continuity of these tactics—when we believe that representation alone is enough to signify progress—we misunderstand the game that is being played. The furniture may have been rearranged, but the foundation remains unchanged. And as long as we are unable to see it, as long as we remain trapped in the illusion that history no longer dictates our present, we will continue to mistake visibility for victory.

The moment we acknowledge that colonialism’s ideological grip did not end with decolonisation—that it still determines who gets to be seen, who gets to speak, who gets to succeed—we begin to see our position in this so-called new world for what it really is. We begin to question the standards we have been taught to aspire to. We begin to unlearn the myths we have been fed about meritocracy and progress.

And that is where real change starts. Not by celebrating every instance of representation as a triumph, but by asking what that representation is upholding. Not by mistaking individual success for collective liberation, but by recognising when success comes at the cost of upholding a system designed to keep us in place.

Because the true measure of progress is not who is allowed to sit at the table—it is whether the table itself is worth sitting at.