By Chioma Madonna Ndukwu
The sun rises over Africa, lighting up cathedrals in Kinshasa, chapels in Kigali, and basilicas in Lagos. It touches the beads of countless rosaries and the bowed heads of millions at Mass. Africa is not just praying; it is carrying the Church on its back.
Yet still, the throne of Peter has never been filled in our modern age by a son of African soil. And so the question lingers in the incense-laced air of the Vatican: Why not Africa?
It is a question that floats through the pews and sacristies of the continent, brushing past cassocks and crucifixes. With nearly 250 million Catholics, Africa is one of the fastest-growing regions of the global Church.
Its seminaries are full, its altars are vibrant, and its faith is fervent. But the papacy, to many, still seems like a castle on a hill, walled by centuries of custom and quiet exclusion.
Few remember that Africa already gave the Church its shepherds, long before lines on maps divided nations.
Pope Victor I, a Roman African, took the chair of Peter in the second century, pushing the Church toward unity in worship and language. Pope Miltiades followed, bridging the gap between persecution and peace under Constantine. Then came Pope Gelasius I, a man of sharp mind and firm theology, who helped define the delicate dance between spiritual and political power.
These popes were African by birth, Roman by appointment, and Catholic in their bones. But as centuries passed and the Church’s power grew concentrated in Europe, Africa’s voice was softened to a whisper.
In the Sistine Chapel, where the next pope is chosen behind locked doors, the Holy Spirit is said to guide the cardinals. But even divine whispers must pass through human ears, and those ears often wear the filter of tradition.
“The conclave is not just about holiness,” said a Vatican insider. “It’s also about history, diplomacy, and which shoulders can carry the weight of the Church’s politics.”
It is no secret that the College of Cardinals still tilts toward Europe. The men who vote for the pope are often products of a system that rewards familiarity. And Africa, while rising in numbers, still sits far from Rome in the halls of decision-making.
As Dr. Sophia Nkrumah, a theologian at the University of Ghana, put it:
“An African pope would face not just spiritual expectations, but the entire pressure of representation. But it would be a holy earthquake and the Church needs one.”
Even in sainthood, the Church’s highest honour, the pace slows when it comes to African names.
Blessed Cyprian Michael Iwene Tansi, a humble Nigerian monk known for his fierce devotion and selflessness, was beatified in 1998 by Pope John Paul II. But 26 years later, he still waits at the gate of canonization.
“Every Church has its heroes,” said Fr. Michael O’Connell, a scholar of Church history. “But Africa’s heroes seem to rise more slowly, as if the ladder they’re climbing has more rungs.”
It speaks not just of theology but of perception. The African Church is rich in virtue but often seen as poor in prestige.
In Lagos, Nora Nwando, a beauty expert from St. Mary’s Parish, speaks with quiet force.
“We are still seen as incapable,” she said. “We wear our rosaries, we keep our vigils, yet we’re always the ones waiting to be seen. If we cannot wear the crown, then what do our prayers mean?”
Her voice, though soft, cracked open a deeper truth: “When the roots of a tree begin to decay, the tree will die in the wind.”
From Abia State, Barrister Arinze Nonyelu of Our Lady of Lourdes Parish strikes a gentler tone.
“The process of choosing a pope is deeply secretive,” he said.
“Many things; age, experience, networks, matter. Maybe we have not yet raised one who checks all the boxes. But I believe the time will come. Slowly, the Church is turning her gaze toward us.”
He quoted Saint Augustine: “The Church is a mother, and it takes time to nurture her children to maturity.”
From Kaduna, Mr. Lawal Ahmed, a businessman and lay leader at St. John’s Parish, expressed his frustration.
“We’re not asking for charity,” he said. “We are asking for recognition. If faith was the measure, Africa would have worn the papal crown long ago.”
He leaned forward, his voice stronger now:
“We send priests across oceans. We build churches with sweat. We stay, even when bombs go off at Mass. If that’s not leadership, what is?”
He nodded slowly. “The Church must begin to reflect the faces in its pews. Not just the faces in its portraits.”
There are no laws in canon that say an African cannot be pope. But unwritten rules, laced with history and bias, often speak louder.
It is not that Africa is unready. It is that the gate is narrow, and the keys are few. But change is not impossible.
As Cardinal Peter Turkson, one of the most prominent African cardinals, once said: “The Church is universal. Its leadership must reflect that.”
The next pope may still come from Europe. Or Latin America. Or Asia. But each year, Africa’s voice grows louder, its presence more powerful, its claim more undeniable.
One day, the conclave may look south, not out of obligation, but because the light shining from Africa will be too bright to ignore.
Until then, the continent watches. Waits. Prays. For when that day comes, it will not be just a triumph of geography, it will be a vindication of history, of faith, of long-silenced voices. A thunderclap after centuries of whispers.
As Cardinal Francis Arinze once said: “The Church is not bound by culture or ethnicity. It is a family, united by one faith.”
And in that family, people would want to believe that Africa will not remain the last born forever.
