There’s a certain magic that occurs when a room full of Black people gathers in grace, power, and purpose. Cloaked in tuxedos, evening gowns, pride, and legacy. It’s not simply a soirée. It’s not just another awards dinner. It’s a reclamation. A declaration. A spiritual conversation carried out in silk and basslines, laughter and remembered names. It is what I’ve come to call: Black Tie, Black Consciousness.
This phrase, though poetic, is not metaphor alone. It is literal. In my travels and encounters across continents, from Johannesburg to Washington D.C., from Dakar to Paris, I have seen the transformation of Black elegance into a political act, a cultural assertion, a healing ritual. And behind this beauty and glamour often lies the beating heart of a philosophy that shaped my very being, the Black Consciousness Movement.
Of Philosophy and Fabric
Black Consciousness, as birthed and cultivated by Steve Biko, Saths Cooper, Strini Moodley, Mamphela Ramphele, my father, Drake Koka, and his generation, was never just a theory. It was an awakening. It was a re-rooting of the African soul, severed too long from its identity by colonialism and apartheid. It insisted that the first act of revolution was internal: “The greatest weapon in the hands of the oppressor is the mind of the oppressed,” Biko reminded us.
To be Black and Conscious was, and is, to understand oneself as worthy. Beautiful. Capable. Divine.
Yet that understanding didn’t always come in dashikis and clenched fists. It came too in poetry and performance, jazz and prayer. In the sway of a woman’s hips as she entered a ballroom knowing she was enough. In the swagger of a young man who had studied Biko and Baldwin in the same breath and now led conversations at embassy dinners.
Black Consciousness lives in the tuxedo as much as in the trenches.
Ballrooms and Battlefields
There’s a long history of political and cultural resistance shaped in high places. For some, dressing up was seen as assimilation, but for many of us, it was subversion. We were taking up space we were told did not belong to us. We were showing up in rooms our ancestors were barred from. And we were doing so not with apologies but with intention.
The likes of Mirriam Makeba, affectionately known as Mama Africa, would walk into a United Nations hearing, wearing traditional regalia as an act of defiance. “I see other women imitate my style, which is no style at all, but just letting our hair be itself. They call it the Afro Look”. Yet that same woman would later perform in sequins and velvet at swanky venues across the globe, unashamedly African and unapologetically elegant.
Dumile Feni, another prophet with a brush, wielded his art with such power that even in exile, his ink bled protest. “My drawings are a form of resistance… a way of refusing silence,” he said. And it was in galleries, under soft lights and sips of wine, that these protests found an audience that governments feared.
The irony is that some of our greatest freedom fighters moved between the battlefield and the ballroom without contradiction. The tuxedo didn’t negate their militancy, it accentuated it. Because to stand in your full glory, in a world bent on erasing you, is a radical act.
Black Tie Evenings, Conscious Mornings
In today’s world, that spirit persists. We see it in cultural galas celebrating African excellence, in Black business forums, in literature festivals, in heritage concerts. But often, those attending are not merely dressed for the occasion, they are also carrying a consciousness. They are survivors, descendants, dreamers.
The young academic from Soweto wearing a tailored suit to present his research on decolonising education. The businesswoman from Umlazi funding rural school libraries in Louboutin heels. The poet who quotes Sankara between verses about heartbreak. All these represent a generation still living Biko’s message, perhaps not in protest marches, but in what they choose to do with their success, with their platforms, with their presence.
And I’ve seen it again recently in gatherings of the diaspora. A group of former exiles and their children met in Washington D.C. over dinner. The occasion was formal, but the conversations were radical. Talk of Black philanthropy. Preserving legacy. Connecting Zoe Molelekoa, a young jazz prodigy and son of the late Moses to resources for his studies. Even in the clink of wine glasses, Black Consciousness found new breath.
Not Just a Look
Let me be clear. Black Tie is not the struggle. It is not the revolution. But it is a window into the complexity of our liberation.
We were never meant to be one-dimensional. Our struggle was waged in churches and jazz clubs, in classrooms and courtrooms, in marches and in love letters. And it must still be. Which is why the balance of Black Tie and Black Consciousness is so important. One without the other is hollow. All form, no fire.
This is also a caution. Our elegance must remain rooted in our people. It must reflect them, serve them, uplift them. There is danger in disconnection. A beautifully dressed people with no memory is a parade, not a movement.
So let our gatherings reflect substance. Let our charities and trusts carry meaning. Let our galas fund scholarships, let our dinners birth ideas, let our champagne toasts honour ancestors. Let us dress up but never forget to look back.
Luminaries in Velvet
In every age, there are torchbearers. Some known, some not. This is the moment to celebrate them. Not only the well-known like Winnie Mandela, Lindiwe Mabuza, or Victor Ntoni, but also the unheralded ones. The aunties who took in comrades on the run. The musicians who passed messages hidden in lyrics. The teachers who sparked minds.
Black Consciousness teaches us that we all matter. That our dignity is not for sale. That we can wear crowns and overalls, and both are equally sacred.
And in that same spirit, we must challenge today’s cultural gatekeepers. Where are the young Dumile Feni’s being nurtured? Who is publishing the next Wally Serote? Are our awards shows celebrating true art or imported aesthetics?
Legacy and the Future
If we’re honest, some among us have allowed the Black Tie to obscure the Consciousness. Titles have replaced service. Glamour has smothered integrity. We must self-correct, as Biko would demand. To be conscious is to be ever-aware, ever accountable.
But I remain hopeful.
I see a new generation of “conscious creatives” who blend fashion with purpose. I see young scholars embracing Black existentialism, writers revisiting Black theology, and entrepreneurs investing in Black futures. And I see elders, those who once marched and went into exile, guiding quietly, reminding gently, serving still.
Final Word
To be Black, Conscious, and Clothed in Elegance is not a contradiction.
It is the fullness of who we are. Royal and rebellious. Sacred and stylish. Grounded in struggle, glowing in spirit.
So, the next time you see a room filled with Black brilliance, dressed in tuxedos and gowns, don’t just admire the spectacle. Look deeper. Listen. You might just hear echoes of Biko in the laughter, see the light of Makeba in a smile, or feel the fire of Sekoto in a firm handshake.
This is who we are.
Black Tie. Black Consciousness.
And the struggle continues in beauty and in truth.
