Our Story: A Vision To Revolutionize The African Sculpting Industry And To Elevate It To The Global Stage.
A Cross-Cultural Journey Begins
Our founder, Dr. Hassan Diallo, a marriage counselor, entrepreneur, philanthropist and husband, grew up between the sunbaked streets of Niamey/Dakar and the gleaming malls of Jeddah, where his Malian heritage and Saudi upbringing gave him a unique perspective. Fluent in six languages by age 18, he saw how African art was misunderstood—relegated to "tribal curios" in one market and overpriced "exotic decor" in another.
The Spark: A Global Gap in Perception
While working in KSA’s luxury design scene, Dr. Hassan noticed a disconnect. High-end buyers admired African sculpture’s bold forms but hesitated to display it in modern spaces. Meanwhile, the artisans behind these works remained anonymous, their craft undervalued.
{Dr. Hassan at the Pullman hotel enjoying an orange juice while on the phone.}
The African Hand
is reconceiving the global art market as one of the world's premier destinations for authentic African sculptures and contemporary tribal decor. Our prime mover along with his dedicated team have curated one of the most respected collections of African artistic heritage. From advising luxury hotels to supplying private collectors and interior designers, we're slowly but surely establishing the gold standard for ethically sourced, museum-quality African art. Today, we're proud to be the bridge between the black continent's ancient sculpting traditions and the world's most discerning art spaces.
We’ve redefined African art acquisition through our collection—a constantly evolving showcase of craftsmanship that refreshes every 6-8 weeks with new discoveries from across the continent.
Why Our Rotation Matters
For Collectors
Fresh, museum-quality pieces arrive seasonally
Limited editions with documents of authenticity
Early access to emerging artisans in the traditional African sculpting industry
For Artisans
Regular income cycles through our fair-trade model
Opportunities to showcase creativity and new techniques
Digital archives preserving their evolving portfolios
For Traditions
Endangered techniques get renewed visibility
Younger generations see viable creative careers
Regional styles gain global platforms
Our team of cultural experts and design specialists have vetted over 200 master artisans across 22 African nations. We don't just sell sculptures - we've created an entirely new model that benefits collectors, supports artisans (through fair-trade partnerships), and preserves endangered artistic traditions. We're transforming how the world experiences African craftsmanship.
However, it was a long road to get where we are today. Join us on our way to the top!..
Most of the time “About Us” pages focus on how awesome they are and list all of their professional accomplishments.
Don’t get us wrong-we like success stories.
But even more than a success story, we’d like to share the story of our founder who’s a multilingual multiverse himself. From now on we’ll just call him Hassan
So here’s his story – we hope this’ll give you an idea of who he really is…
1990 To 2000: Hassan Diallo’s Birth to Teenage Years Between Worlds
{Hassan, 2 years old on a family passport.}
Hassan Diallo: The Miracle Child
A Night of Struggle and Survival.
On a cold Wednesday night in December 1990, under the flickering lights of Niamey’s maternity ward, Hassan Diallo entered the world as the 24th—and final—baby born that day. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the murmurs of exhausted midwives. His mother, a strong-willed woman from Niger’s Fulani tribe, had already delivered three healthy children. But this birth was different. Minutes after his first cry, Hassan’s tiny chest stopped moving. “Respiratory complications.”
The doctors rushed him away, whispering words like "asphyxia" and "neonatal distress." For three agonizing hours, his father, a Malian diplomat stationed in Niger—paced the halls, praying to Allah under his breath. Then, miraculously, the doctor emerged with news: "He’s breathing on his own."
That night, the midwives nicknamed him "L’Enfant de Dieu"—The Child of God
From Niamey to Jeddah: A Toddler’s Journey From African Dust To Arabian Sands
Two years later, Hassan’s life took another dramatic turn. His father received a prestigious posting to Saudi Arabia, and the family packed their lives into suitcases. For little Hassan, the transition was surreal:
One day, he was playing in the red dust of Niger, chasing his siblings through the sandy streets.
The next, he was blinking up at Jeddah’s breathtaking skyline, his tiny hand gripping his mother’s hijab as the desert wind whipped around them.
The heat was different here—dry, relentless, unlike Niamey’s humid embrace. The sounds, too: the call to prayer echoing, the hum of luxury cars gliding past their diplomatic compound palm-lined streets. His small feet leaving imprints that would foreshadow the cultural bridges he'd later build.
Hassan Diallo: Five Golden Years as the Baby Prince - The Little King of Jeddah
For five glorious years, Hassan Diallo reigned supreme as the undisputed prince of his household. The miracle child who survived birth complications in Niger had grown into a lively, curious boy—and as the youngest in the family, he basked in undivided attention.
His Malian diplomat father brought him tiny wooden animals from every African country he visited. His Nigerien mother let him "help" cook by sitting on the counter, sneaking him extra spoonfuls of sweet dégue porridge. Even his older siblings doted on him, letting him win at board games and carrying him piggyback through their Jeddah compound.
Then, in 1995, everything changed.
The Arrival That Shook His World
Hassan still remembers the day his baby brother, Omar, came home from the hospital.
"Look, Hassan! This is your little brother," his mother cooed in Zarma, placing the swaddled bundle in his arms. The five-year-old stared at the wrinkly face peeking from the blankets—and burst into tears.
"Take him back!" he wailed, stomping his foot. "I don’t want to share my toys!"
For weeks, Hassan rebelled:
He "accidentally" hid his baby brother’s pacifier in the laundry basket
He demanded his mother carry him like a baby whenever she nursed Omar
He "lost" baby bottles in the garden
Staged hunger strikes when his mother nursed
{Hassan, in 1995 on a vacation trip at his grandparents house in Niger.}
The spoiled prince's reign was over.
The Turning Point - From Rivalry to Revelation
Everything shifted one hot afternoon when Hassan found Omar crying alone in his crib. Their mother was napping, exhausted from nighttime feedings.
Something stirred in Hassan’s chest.
He climbed into the crib, mimicking how his parents rocked the baby. "Shhh, petit frère," he whispered in his broken French. "I’ll protect you." When their mother awoke to find them curled together, Hassan sleepily declared: "He’s MY baby now." In that moment, something shifted. The boy who had fought for his first breath now understood his purpose - to help others breathe easier between worlds.
By morning, a new Hassan emerged:
Translating lullabies from Zarma to French for his brother
Sharing his most prized possession - a mini bike
He taught him his first words in French
Overnight, the spoiled prince transformed into a devoted big brother.
The Early Years: Hassan Diallo's Childhood Between Worlds
At eight years old, Hassan was already a citizen of multiple worlds.
His childhood unfolded in the space between cultures—where the scent of his mother’s tô porridge blended with the aroma of cardamom-spiced Saudi coffee, where bedtime stories alternated between Zarma folktales and Arabic poetry, and where his small hands learned to write French cursive before he could properly tie his shoes.
At breakfast, languages swirled around him like a dance:
His father on the phone in rapid-fire French with Bamako officials
His mother switching between Hausa and French with the house staff
The television playing cartoons in English with Arabic subtitles
Hassan absorbed it all, his young mind stitching together meaning before he even realized he was becoming fluent in all three.
He navigated the corridors of Jeddah's Lycée Français with the quiet confidence of someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere. The son of a Malian diplomat, he carried Bamako/Niamey in his heartbeat, Paris/Jeddah in his textbooks and friendships—a living mosaic of cultures like a walking paradox - too African to be Arab, too Arab to be French, too French to be fully Malian, yet somehow embodying all these identities with effortless grace. He existed in that rare space between worlds where cultures didn't just intersect, but fused into something entirely new under the relentless Arabian sun.
The journey to school was itself a microcosm of his fractured identity, while his headphones alternated between French rap legend Mc Solaar and Saudi pop sensation Abbas Ibrahim. The chauffeur, a man who had become something of a surrogate uncle, would quiz him on Arabic vocabulary during these rides - "Not that textbook Arabic," he'd chuckle, "the real Arabic people actually speak."
At school, he was—just "Hassan," the quiet boy who could slip between friend groups with ease. The French kids thought he was Saudi. The Saudi kids thought he was French. The truth was, he belonged to both and neither.
{9 years old Hassan on a school photo in the school year 1998-1999.}
Hassan Diallo: The Year That Forged a Cultural Explorer (2000)
A Mother’s Tears, a Father’s Resolve
"You’re throwing our son to the wild at just ten years old?!" His mother’s voice trembled as she clutched Hassan’s small suitcase in their Jeddah home. His diplomat father remained firm: "He needs to know Africa beyond embassy walls."
And so, in June 2000, Hassan became the unaccompanied minor on Royal Air Maroc Flight 203—his first solo plane journey. Clutching his Hello Kitty travel pillow (a teasing gift from his older sister), he watched Saudi Arabia shrink below him, equal parts terrified and exhilarated. The flight attendants took pity on the wide-eyed boy, sneaking him extra msemen pastries and teaching him to say "Salaam alaikum" in Berber.
Sent to a traditional boarding school by his diplomat father ("So you’ll learn the best French there is," he'd said),
Fun fact: some African countries have better education in French than France itself.
Hassan arrived with two suitcases—one full of clothes, the other stuffed with Saudi dates, lots of sweets, French comics and most importantly his expensive shoes.
The Shock of Belonging
The first week tested everything:
Cold bucket showers at dawn
Shared dormitories buzzing with mosquitoes
Getting used to no AC
Wolof lessons that left his tongue twisted
{Hassan at 10 years of age, on a school photo, months before going to Senegal 1999-2000.}
Near the end of his first month, Hassan wasn’t just popular—he was controversial. he wasn’t just another new student—he was a phenomenon. At only 10 years old, he carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who had seen the world. Born in Niger but raised in Saudi Arabia, he spoke Arabic like a native, effortlessly switching between dialects, leaving his classmates in awe. But it wasn’t just his language skills that made him stand out—it was his “shoes.”
Hassan didn’t just wear shoes; he curated them. While most kids in Sebikotane rocked the same worn-out generic Jelly shoes (he loves those shoes by the way) , Hassan stepped in with a rotation of fresh American-branded kicks (Kevin Garnetts, Kobe Bryants and Air Jordans or Js as he likes to refer to them, pretty much the hottest kicks at the time), Italian leather loafers, and designer sandals—styles schoolkids had rarely seen. According to him, he once went to Senegal with eight brand-new pairs and went back to Saudi Arabia with only two. "Some were gifts," he’d say with a shrug, "and some… well, let’s just say they walked away on their own."
His philosophy on footwear was legendary:
"Shoes represent 90% of your outfit," he proclaimed one day, lounging like a young philosopher-king in the dormitory. "When you walk into a room, people don’t look at your face first—they look down. They start at your feet and move up. So you gotta make sure your shoes shock quietly."
The Elegance of Hassan: Where Clean Lines Meet a Sharper Mind
In a world where most boys his age threw on whatever was within reach, Hassan approached each day as if it were a grand occasion. When asked why he took such care with his appearance, he delivered one of his most elegant philosophies:
"I dress myself every day as if it’s the 31st of December."
For him, this wasn’t just about looking good—it was a mindset. "Why wait for the last day of the year to be your best?" he would muse, adjusting the cuff of his crisply ironed shirt. "Every morning is a celebration. Every step is an entrance. And if you treat an ordinary Tuesday like New Year’s Eve, then life itself becomes a feast."
Some called it excessive. Others called it wisdom beyond his years. But Hassan didn’t care. To him, dressing well was more than fabric and stitching—it was dignity in motion. He carried himself with the quiet confidence of a boy who knew that every day deserved its own fireworks.
Every detail was deliberate, every movement calculated. His crisp collars never wilted, his sneakers never scuffed, and even his uniform looked like it had been delivered straight from a Parisian atelier. While others saved their finest outfits for holidays, Hassan turned every day into an occasion—because in his world, there was no such thing as "just another day." There were only opportunities to shine. But his obsession with perfection went beyond mere aesthetics—it was a matter of sanctity.
Hassan was, in secret, a germaphobe of the highest order.
He carried a small bottle of antibacterial gel in his pocket, applying it with the quiet precision of a surgeon. His desk was wiped down before class, his bedsheets changed twice a week, and he never—never—walked barefoot, not even in the dormitory. "The ground is a museum of filth," he once stated, inspecting the sole of his Italian loafers after an unfortunate encounter with a muddy puddle.
His classmates found it equal parts baffling and impressive. While they wrestled in the dust during recess, Hassane stood at a calculated distance, watching like an anthropologist studying a foreign tribe. "You people touch everything," he’d mutter under his breath, shaking his head as a friend reached for a shared plate of cookies without washing their hands.
Yet, somehow, his fastidiousness only added to his legend.
When a teacher once scolded him for being "too delicate," Hassan simply replied, "Cleanliness is half of faith—Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, said so himself." The teacher, stunned into silence, could only nod. Even his phobias came with citations.
And so, between his immaculate shoes, his germ-free existence, and his unshakable belief that every day should be treated like New Year’s Eve, Hassan wasn’t just a student at Sebikotane—he was a self-contained phenomenon. A boy who moved through the world like a prince in exile, leaving behind the faint scent of antibacterial gel and the lingering question:
How does someone so young understand life so well?
Some teachers adored him for his wit, his effortless charm, and the way he carried himself like a miniature diplomat. Others? Well, they struggled with him—not because he was disrespectful, but because he had a habit of politely schooling them on Arab culture whenever they got something wrong.
One day, in history class, a teacher mispronounced an Arabic term, and Hassan—without even raising his hand—casually corrected him in that smooth, fluent Arabic of his. The class fell silent. The teacher, flustered, tried to brush it off, but Hassan wasn’t done. "Actually, sir," he said, leaning back in his chair like a scholar in a majlis, "in Saudi Arabia, we say it like this..." And just like that, he became the unofficial authority on anything related to the Arab world.
Other teachers found it infuriating. Who was this 10-year-old, dripping in designer shoes, casually out-teaching them on his own culture? One professor even snapped, "Hassan, this isn’t Riyadh!" to which he simply replied, "Alhamdulillah, but excuse me sir, I’m from Jeddah not Riyadh" with a grin, sending the class into muffled laughter.
But most of the faculty loved him. His Senegalese history teacher would beam with pride when he effortlessly switched between French and Wolof mid-conversation. The literature teacher adored how he’d quote Arab poets in their original language, then translate them with dramatic flair. Even the strictest instructors couldn’t stay mad at him for long—not when he’d flash that disarming smile and hit them with a perfectly timed "Wallahi, sir, I didn’t mean to cause trouble."
Hassan wasn’t just a student. He was an experience—one that left teachers either shaking their heads in frustration or fighting back smiles. The entire school knew his name. Schoolteachers whispered about the "little Saudi kid with the slick tongue." Hassan wasn’t just a student—he was a vibe, a movement, the undisputed star of Sebikotane.
And whether they loved him or found him mildly exasperating, they all agreed on one thing:
Sebikotane had never seen a kid like him before.
And he hadn’t even tried. That was the best part.
Toward his third month , Hassan was already teasing his Senegalese friends in Wolof. Their language was no longer a secret and he became even sharper in his conversations amongst them.
"Le Saoudien" Is Born
Hassan's classmates were fascinated by his hybrid identity. During lunch breaks, they'd crowd around as he:
Demonstrated how Bedouins tied their head scarfs
Taught them to write their names in Arabic calligraphy
Explained the weirdest arab traditions
The nickname came naturally: "Le Saoudien" (The Saudi). Not for his passport, but for how he embodied the Saudi culture perfectly
Sebikotane: Where His Childhood Rewrote Itself - Language as a Love Letter
The Senegalese boarding school hit him like a monsoon rain:
Dorm life: 20 boys to a room with zero privacy
Language immersion: Wolof lessons that began with him announcing "Dama tudd Hassan!" (My name is Hassan!) to uproarious laughter at his French/Arab-accented Wolof
Within six months, Hassan's Wolof became local legend.
His secret? He treated each new word like a treasure, storing them in the same mental palace where he kept French conjugations, Zarma folktales and Arabic poems.
The Great Mango Heist
Adventure struck! That December in An-nur Boarding School, at a sunrise on a cold winter day during a forbidden weekend excursion. Hassan, Moulaye, Thierno, and Fode were bored out of their minds. The high stone walls and strict headmaster made even the smallest adventures feel impossible—until Fode whispered the idea that changed everything.
“Old Man Bamba’s mangoes goes hard. I heard they’re so sweet, they taste like candy.”
“They say his mangoes are as big as a sun-warmed peach but much more sweeter, their weight generous, like a small, golden heart plucked straight from the tropics” he added
They could almost taste it.
{It is a wonderful experience eating a mango.}
Everyone in the village knew his mangoes were the juiciest—and the most fiercely guarded. Old Man Bamba’s orchard was legendary—and forbidden. But was too tempting to ignore—sweet, juicy, and the size of handballs.
With Harmattan winds biting their cheeks, Hassan with his gang of three made their fateful move plotting their great mango heist, taking their chance at forbidden fruit, slipping past the boundary of good sense ultimately crossing the line from curiosity to crime.
The farmer was a nightmare, a grizzled ex-soldier who patrolled his land with a rusty machete, known for his temper and hatred for trespassers, his "NO TRESPASSING" signs were nailed everywhere. But the quatret had snuck out before. How hard could it be?
The foursome slipped through a gap in the school’s back fence and sprinted across the open field to Old Man Bamba’s land. The orchard was even more tempting up close—rows of trees sagging with golden mangoes, their sugary scent thick in the air.
Hassan wiped his sweaty palms on his shorts then adjusted his brand-new Clarks shoes—a rare luxury in the village with his chest already tightening. Asthma always picked the worst times to flare up. His friends—quick-footed Moulaye, fearless Thierno, and reckless Fode—grinned at him from the edge of the farm while crouching in the bushes, plotting their heist.
“He’s probably napping,” Moulaye whispered as they snuck through the gates trying to avoid detection. The trees loomed heavy with fruit.
“You sure you don’t wanna come?” Thierno teased, already crouched like a sprinter.
Hassan shaking his head. "I’ll keep watch. You know I can’t run like you guys if Old Man shows up."
With that, they slipped into the orchard, vanishing between the rows of trees. Hassan stood at the entrance, heart pounding, eyes darting down the dirt road where Old Bamba usually patrolled. The seconds stretched.
Hassan shifted nervously by the farm's tree branch gates, his friends—Moulaye, Thierno, Fode—had already disappeared into the thick mango grove, their laughter fading between the trees.
"Just keep watch," Fode had said, tossing him a nervous grin before vanishing.
Hassan strained his ears. The orchard was eerily quiet—too quiet.
Then—rustling.
Not from the road where he expected Old Man Bamba to come from, but from deep inside the farm, right where his friends had gone.
Then—CRACK—a twig snapped.
A shadow moved between the trees.
Hassan's blood turned to ice.
Bamba had been waiting for them.
The old farmer emerged like a ghost out of the mango trees.
“YOU LITTLE THIEVES!”
Hassan’s breath hitched his heart leaped into his throat. He fumbled for his inhaler, but it was too late—his friends were still deep in the orchard, laughing as they stuffed mangoes into Fode’s bag. He had to warn them.
He sucked in a sharp breath and whistled—the loudest, most desperate whistle of his life.
Old Man Bamba stormed into view his roar split the air. The kids spun around to see the farmer charging at them, his face red with rage, a long, gleaming machete in his hand.
Chaos erupted.
His friends burst from the trees like startled birds, mangoes tumbling from their bags. Bamba moved shockingly fast for an old man, his machete slicing through the air as he gave chase.
"I wondered when you rats would come back," Old Bamba said.
"RUNNN!!!" Moulaye screamed..
Hassan turned to flee—and his foot sank deep into thick, sticky mud. His precious Clarks shoe came off, stuck fast in the muck.
"SCHLOP!"
"MY SHOE!" he shrieked.
"RUN!!!" Moulaye screamed.
Behind him, Fode absolutely lost it. Between gasping breaths, he bent down, scooped up the muddy shoe, and waved it like a prize, howling with laughter.
"HASSAN'S RUNNING IN ONE SHOE!" he screeched, tears streaming down his face.
"IT’S NOT FUNNY!" Hassan wailed, but even Thierno was snorting with chuckle.
"FORGET THE SHOE, RUN!" Thierno yelled.
They ran—Moulaye in the lead, Thierno behind him, one-shoed Hassan, and Fode still cackling like a madman as Bamba swung his machete, hacking at low-hanging branches.
"I’LL SKIN YOU ALIVE, LITTLE RATS!" Old Bamba bellowed.
The ex soldier’s boots pounding behind them. His shouts turned into furious, breathless swearings as they sprinted across the field and through the gates.
But Old Man Bamba didn’t stop at the gates.
He kept chasing them.
Moulaye glanced back—Old Bamba was gaining on them, his overalls flapping, the machete still in his grip. “HE’S NOT STOPPING!” he yelled.
While fleeing, Hassan’s bare foot slapped against the dirt, behind him, Fode wheezing with laughter, even as he ran for his life. "Hassan—gasp—you're—wheeze—hopping!"
Old Bamba was gaining fast, his breath loud behind them. The farmer wasn't shouting anymore. He was laughing—a deep, terrifying sound that made Hassan's skin crawl.
They crashed through the school gates and tumbled over, collapsing in a heap of gasps, laughter, and sheer terror. Hassan limping, Fode clutching the muddy shoe like a trophy.
The furious farmer chased them right through the school, past shocked students, and into the courtyard - machete still in hand, his chest heaving, yelling in a mix of French and colorful Wolof curses. "NEXT TIME, I CHOP OFF YOUR FEET—THEN YOU WON’T NEED SHOES!"
The headmaster looked up from his paperwork just in time.
"WHAT IN GOD'S NAME-?!"
To see them storm in the dorm room, Hassan went diving under his bunk bed—one foot bare, one still shod—he made a silent vow: “If I survive this, I’m changing my ways”. Fode still giggling hysterically, and Old Man Bamba standing in the middle of the courtyard, Panga machete at his side.
"YOUR STUDENTS! MY MANGOES!” Old Bamba said to the schoolmaster, outraged.
His eyes burning with fury. He pointed the machete at them. “I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE NOW, BRATS. NEXT TIME, YOU WON’T MAKE IT BACK.”
Then he turned and stalked away, leaving the kids shaking in the grass.
As the old farmer stomped away, Thierno was still wheezing with laughter. "Hassan… the way you yelled… MY SHOE!" he mimicked, clutching his stomach.
"You’re all terrible friends, this is my last time" Hassan muttered.
Gasping, HD clutched his inhaler and finally took a deep breath. His friends collapsed next to him, laughing in disbelief—until they realized Fode had dropped the entire bag of mangoes in the escape.
With a mix of weary resignation and hard-earned wisdom glinting in his eyes, Hassan glared at his partners in crime with all the seriousness of a wet sock, and declared, "The next time I even think about stealing mangoes with you clowns, I want you to slap me so hard my unborn children feel it." Now permanently traumatized. “This is the last sunrise I'll ever see while plotting shenanigans with you hyenas."
“...We almost died for nothing?!” Moulaye groaned.
Hassan, still panting, managed a weak grin. “At least… we didn’t die.”
Fode, still clutching the mud-caked remains of the other shoe, snorted. "So... same time next week?"
Hassan threw his hands up. "I hate all of you."
(But deep down, they all knew—he’d stick around.)
That evening, the four stood in the headmaster's office - Fode still snickering, all of them reeking of mango and shame.
"Suspended for a week," the headmaster said.
Fode's snort earned them an extra week of detention.
They never stole mangoes again.
(But sometimes, the kids swear they can hear laughter from deep in Old Man Bamba's orchard.)
The Legacy of That Year
Two decades later, Hassan would credit Sebikotane for:
His consultancy's "cultural remix" philosophy
His ability to spot connections where others saw differences and blend with all
His love for Senegalese culture
One of his most cherished childhood memories
"That village didn't just teach me Wolof," he often reflects. "It taught me that the best way to belong is to be open minded but not to the extent where your brain falls off."
The Journey Home
The plane touched down at Jeddah’s airport runway. Hassan’s legs bounced with exhilaration. His shirt—now slightly too small—was wrinkled from the long journey, and his backpack was stuffed with treasures: a seashell from Dakar’s beaches and fabric dolls in Senegalese outfits (gifts for his sister) and various presents he bought and received from his friends in Senegal (Recycled Glass Jewelry, Books by Senegalese Authors, Senegalese Coffee, Leather Wallets & Pouches, Dakar-made Sandals, Jelly Shoes, Senegalese spices and more). With a notebook full of memories.
But the most precious thing he carried was the confidence of a boy who had survived his first big adventure alone. Eleven-year-old Hassan pressed his face against the tiny window, his heart racing with excitement. After a whole year away at boarding school in Senegal, he was finally home. He had so many stories to tell!
The time he and Malick (his Senegalese cousin) got lost in Dakar during a field trip and had to find their way back using only street signs.
The epic basketball tournament where his underdog team won, and he scored the final goal.
The night the power went out, and his dorm mates told ghost stories under the moonlight.
He couldn’t wait to see his family’s faces when he told them everything.
A Hero’s Welcome
The Arrival Gate Reunion.
The sliding doors hissed open, and a wave of humid air rushed into the air-conditioned terminal. Amid the crowd of weary travelers, he emerged—shoulders slightly slumped from the long flight, but eyes alight with anticipation. His backpack hung loosely from one hand. Hassan spotted his father first—tall and serious, but with a small smile tugging at his lips. Then came the squeal. "Hassan!" His little sister, Fatima, sprinted toward him, with a blur of pink and bouncing curls launched herself at him, now so much taller than he remembered. She wrapped herself around his waist like a koala, squealing into his shirt. "You're finally back!". His mother wasn’t far behind, she finally reached him, her eyes glistening as she cupped his face. "Look how much you’ve grown!"
Lost in Translation at King Abdulaziz Airport.
A year in Senegal had soaked his brain in Wolof, French, and the slang of Dakar’s bustling streets. Hassan had completely forgotten his mother tongue (Zarma).
His little brother trying to conversate with him —only to freeze when his brain short-circuited.
"Nanga def?" he stammered automatically, Wolof for How are you? instead of Keefak?
Omar skidded to a halt, confused. His father burst out laughing. "Mashallah, we sent you to Senegal, not Mars!*"
His mother, tears of joy in her eyes, pulled him into a hug. Hassan, flustered, mumbled, "Jërejëf"—thank you—into her shoulder.
"What is he saying?" his sister whispered loudly.
"Wallahi, he’s gone full Senegalese on us!" his father cackled.
By the luggage carousel, Hassan’s brain finally rebooted. "Ana… al… hamam?" he asked hesitantly, mixing Arabic and Wolof for Where’s the bathroom?
His brother lost it. "Astaghfirullah, he’s broken!*" one howled.
"What did you say?" his father wheezed, tears forming in his eyes. His little sister, Fatima, mimicked him, chanting "Jërëjëf! Jërëjëf!" between giggles.
As they piled into the car, his father grinned at him in the rearview mirror. "Bienvenue, fiston," Welcome home son his father said, voice thick with emotion.
Hassan slumped in his seat, defeated. But when Fatima suddenly chirped, "Nanga def, ya Hassane?" in perfect Wolof, he knew—he’d brought a piece of Senegal home with him. And honestly? Worth it.
The airport noise faded around them. In that moment, there was only this: his father’s firm embrace, his sister’s endless chatter, his brother slinging an arm around his shoulders, and his mother’s tears dampening his collar.
As they drove through the bustling streets, Hassan pressed his face against the window, taking in the neon-lit shops, the honking cars, and the towering minarets against the golden sunset. When they reached their neighborhood, a group of boys playing football in the dusty street paused. One of them squinted, then shouted, "Hassan?!"
Within seconds, he was surrounded by laughter and playful shoves. "You talk different now!" one teased, mimicking his slightly blended Arabic-Wolof accent. Hassan laughed, relief washing over him. Maybe some things had changed—but the warmth of home hadn’t.
At home, they gathered around as Hassan unpacked his souvenirs. He handed Fatima the seashell ("It sounds like the ocean if you listen close!") with a pair of African dolls, then gave his mother and father a Senegalese fabric, gifted from his auntie. His mother gasped when he presented her with a beautiful thiéboudienne spice mix. "Now you can cook like the Senegalese!" he declared proudly. Finally, he gifted his brother the famous Jelly shoes and more.
That night, Hassan groaned into his pillow as he lay in his old bed, the call to prayer echoing through the humid air but the sound of laughter down the hall—warm, unfiltered, home—made him smile. Zarma would come back.
He knew one thing for sure: no matter how far the winds of life carried him, Jeddah would always be the compass of his heart.
For now, he was the family clown. And honestly? It felt good.
He was home!
{11 years old Hassan, awakened to say goodbye to his older brother going to Belgium.}
Against All Odds: Hassan’s Thrilling Journey Across a Changing World (2000-2010)
Back to the Red Sea: Hassan Reconnects with Jeddah.
Jeddah, 2001. The Arabian heat wrapped around Hassan like a familiar embrace. A year away had changed him. He spoke a little more formally now, carried himself with a quiet discipline. The sights and sounds of his hometown felt both strange and comforting. The scent of salt from the Red Sea mixed with the rich aroma of spiced coffee drifting from nearby stalls—it was home.
In Saudi Arabia, life moved at a different rhythm—call to prayer ringing over marble courtyards, his mother’s quiet relief at having him close again.
A Father’s Battle in Mali: Hassan’s Dad Runs for President (2003)
In the bustling corridors of Jeddah’s OIC (Organization of the Islamic Cooperation) Youssouf Diallo stood apart—not just for his sharp intellect and eloquence, but for the fire that burned within him. A seasoned diplomat, he had spent years navigating the intricate world of international politics, yet his heart remained tethered to one unwavering mission: freeing Mali from the lingering shadows of French colonial hegemony.
Born in Gao (a major city in the ancient Mali empire) under a sky that had witnessed both the pride of one of the most famous African great empires, once stood as symbols of African opulence, power, and scholarship—founded by Sundiata Keita (1235)—known for its wealth, especially under Mansa Musa (1312–1337), who is considered one of the richest men in history—and the scars of foreign invasions, domination, colonialism, and exploitation.
Youssouf grew up hearing stories of resistance—of Samori Touré, Modibo Keita, and the brave souls who had fought for sovereignty. But as Mali celebrated its independence in 1960, he soon realized that true freedom was more than a flag or an anthem. France’s economic grip, military presence, and political influence still dictated his nation’s fate.
Determined to rewrite this narrative, Youssouf used his diplomatic post to challenge the status quo. Behind closed doors, he advocated for stronger African alliances, economic self-sufficiency, and the dismantling of neocolonial structures like the "CFA franc". To some, he was a radical; to others, a prophet of Mali’s unfinished liberation.
But Youssouf knew the road ahead was perilous. The forces that benefited from Mali’s subjugation were powerful, and dissent came at a cost. Yet, for the sake of future generations, he refused to stay silent. Because to him, diplomacy wasn’t just about negotiation—it was about revolution.
And the revolution had only just begun.
The Diplomat’s Fire.
Young Hassan could never understand why his father, Youssouf—a respected Malian diplomat—would risk everything to run for president in a region where coups are as common as rain in the monsoon season—frequent, disruptive, and often following a predictable cycle (Africa has seen over 200 coup attempts since 1950, with more than 100 successful ones—the most of any continent).
Hassan finally asked him: "papa, why do this? They kill presidents there."
Youssouf set down his papers, his face hardening in the dim light. Then, slowly, he reached into an old wooden chest and pulled out a faded daguerreotype—a regal man in flowing robes, a crown resting proudly on his head. "Do you know who this is?" he asked. Hassan shook his head.
"Your great-great-grandfather.—" Pointing on the photograph. "—a king!" He added.
Hassan's breath caught.
His father’s voice was low, seething. "The French shot him where he stood for refusing to surrender our land. They gunned down his crown prince beside him—your ancestor—like dogs in the street. Then they stole our gold, our dignity, and left us begging for scraps in our own country." He leaned closer, eyes burning. "And today? They still pull the strings. The CFA franc chains our economy, their soldiers occupy our land, and their corporations loot our mines. Every coup, every ‘crisis’? Orchestrated to keep us weak."
Hassan’s chest tightened. He had heard whispers of this before—but never like this, never with the weight of his own blood behind it.
"So yes," Youssouf said, gripping his son’s shoulder, "they kill presidents there. But if I don’t fight, if we don’t all fight, then your children will still be kneeling to Paris. And that—" He tapped the photograph. "—would make their deaths mean nothing."
That night, Hassan dreamed of kings and gunfire. And when he woke, he finally understood: his father wasn’t just running for office.
He was going to war.
The Unbowed Diplomat – Exile in Jeddah.
Youssouf never won the elections. In a afternoon under a scorching Red Sea sun in Jeddah.
Hassan overheard his father's muffled voice in the next room, speaking in short, clipped sentences. He crept to the doorway and saw his father silhouetted against the predawn glow of Jeddah's skyline, the phone pressed to his ear like a weapon.
"How many polling stations?" A pause. "And the French observers said nothing?"
Hassan didn't need to hear the answer. The tension in his father's shoulders told him everything.
By sunrise, it was official. The electoral commission announced the results with obscene cheerfulness—62% for the incumbent, the man Paris called "a stabilizing force for the region." International observers praised the election as "mostly peaceful" despite video evidence of ballot boxes being stuffed in military barracks.
His mother turned off the television with a violent click. "They didn't even bother to hide it this time," she spat, her gold bangles clashing like swords as she crossed her arms.
The apartment in Jeddah's Al Hamra district, usually filled with the scent of his mother’s cooking and the sound of birds singing, now felt like a gilded prison. The Saudi government had granted them residency due to Youssouf’s consulting work with the OIC, but every luxurious detail—the marble floors, the view of the Red Sea—only emphasized how far they were from home.
Then the calls began.
First, the whispers from Bamako—"A cabinet position awaits you if you concede gracefully." Then the veiled threats—"It would be safer for your family if you accepted reality." Finally, the desperate offers—a UN ambassadorship, a lucrative consulting contract with a French mining conglomerate, even a royal Saudi advisory role arranged through "mutual friends."
Then, a midnight call from the Malian ambassador to Saudi Arabia: "The President wants you as Minister of African Integration. A gesture of national unity."
The decisive moment came when the Malian Foreign Minister, on a official visit to Saudi Arabia asked to see Youssouf. Over iftar at a luxury hotel near the Corniche, the man slid an embossed document across the table—appointment as Special Advisor to the President with full diplomatic immunity.
"Ten thousand dollars monthly salary," the minister said pointedly. "More than you make now."
Youssouf didn't touch the golden-rimmed coffee cup in front of him. "I earn ten times that consulting for Gulf firms," he replied calmly. "Did you really think I went into politics for money?"
The minister leaned forward, his Rolex glinting. "Be reasonable, Diallo. You're not in Mali anymore. Your supporters can't protect you here."
"Allah protects us everywhere," Youssouf countered, rising to his feet. "I didn't leave Mali to beg for scraps from your masters table. I left to build a bigger one."
That night, as the call to prayer echoed over the Red Sea, Hassan watched his father pace their moonlit balcony like a caged lion. The scent of frankincense from the nearby souq mixed with salt air.
"Papa..." Hassan hesitated. "What do we do now?"
Youssouf gripped the railing, his eyes fixed on the dark horizon where Africa lay beyond the water. "We remember who we are," he said. "Your great-great-grandfather died standing. We won't live kneeling."
Hassan stood there, watching his father’s face—the same face that had once told him of kings and gunfire. There was no defeat in it. Only resolve.
Hassan’s Awakening.
Since that day, Hassan was on board for revolution, he hated even speaking French—every word felt like a chain, a reminder of the centuries of humiliation his people endured. To him, French wasn’t just a language; it was the tongue of the colonizer, a tool to keep his people mentally enslaved, forever tied to the boot that once crushed them.
The Hypocrisy of "La Francophonie".
Every year, his school held a "Francophonie" ceremony, where students were told to dress in their traditional clothes—colorful boubous, woven mudcloth, and leather sandals—to "celebrate cultural diversity." But Hassan saw through the lie.
- "Representing France in Our Own Clothes" – They were paraded like exotic exhibits, forced to perform their Africanness for the same system that still controlled their economy, their education, their future.
- "The CFA Franc’s Shadow" – Even their money was printed in France, a constant reminder that independence was a myth.
- "They Stole Our Gold, Now They Steal Our Tongues" – Hassan refused to sing the French national anthem with pride. Every word tasted like betrayal.
A Silent Rebellion.
While others clapped politely at the Francophonie events, Hassan stood stiff, lips sealed. He dreamed of the day Mali would burn its French textbooks, reject the CFA franc, and speak Bambara, Soninke, or Fula without shame.
Because true freedom didn’t mean dancing for the colonizer—it meant breaking the chains for good.
{Hassan assures he has nothing against the French people, just their government.}
Hassan’s Great Escape (from French to American School).
Every morning at the Lycée Français, Hassan felt like a prisoner of war.
Between the merciless dictées, the existential dread of "analyse de texte", and teachers who looked like they’d rather be anywhere else, his soul was slowly evaporating. Meanwhile, his friends at the American International School were out here living their best lives—wearing hoodies to class, calling teachers by their first names, and actually enjoying school like it was some kind of Netflix teen drama.
Then there was the Brevet—watching 14-year-olds have full existential crises over "la rédaction" while teachers muttered "C’est facile" like villains. Hassan wasn’t fooled. This wasn’t education—it was a psychological experiment.
The final straw? A ninth grader—just fourteen years old—had jumped from his balcony after failing the Brevet blanc. The teachers spoke in hushed tones in the staff room, but by third period, it was business as usual: "Reprenez vos cahiers, nous avons un contrôle surprise."
Hassan sat frozen at his desk. Yesterday, that boy had been here, grinding through practice exams. Today, he’s no longer with us.
That afternoon he looked at his own notebook filled with corrections in angry red ink. Across town, his American-school friends were probably in some "stress management" workshop with beanbags and coloring books.
That's when it clicked:
This wasn't rigor—it was madness.
Hassan looked at his own future—a gauntlet of coefficients, mentions, and soul-crushing pressure—and had an epiphany: "I’m not a lab rat. I’m out."
A year later, he transferred.
(His first "A" on an English essay tasted sweeter than any *20/20* ever could.)
The Glow-Up of Hassan Diallo.
Hassan’s English was a disaster.
A year prior to him joining the American School, his English was limited to "Hello," "Yes," and "My name is Hassan." Then he met Layla (a girl he’s trying to flirt with on MSN Messenger)—a sharp-tongued, effortlessly cool Saudi-American girl who had him stumbling over his words even more than usual.
One day, after he’d butchered a pickup line so badly it sounded like a medical symptom ("You are… very beauty… like moon?"), she sighed and said, "Hassan, your English is so poor, I actually feel bad for you."
Hassan’s heart burned.
That night, he made a vow: He would master English if it killed him.
Songs with lyrics. Movies with subtitles. Forcing himself to speak even when he sounded like a malfunctioning robot. His friends called it "The Layla Effect." Hassan called it war.
A year later, fate intervened.
At a coffee shop, he spotted her—Layla, hunched over a textbook, looking stressed. Hassan, now fluent, slid into the seat across from her.
"You look like you could use a break," he said, smooth as the iced latte he was holding.
Layla’s head snapped up. "Wait… Hassan?!"
They talked for an hour—about school, life, her upcoming exams. He didn’t miss a single verb tense.
As she gathered her things, impressed, Hassan leaned back and said, "Now it’s your turn."
"My turn for what?"
"To learn French. I’ll give you ten years. Bonne chance."
Layla stared. Then burst out laughing. "Oh my God. You’re insufferable now."
Hassan grinned. Mission accomplished.
Hassan in Jeddah: The Diplomat’s Son Who Commanded Respect.
As a Black African in Jeddah, Hassan faced the stereotypes and harassment common to many migrants—until his diplomatic status turned the tables. Saudi police, accustomed to profiling Black expats, would stop him, only to freeze when he flashed his red passport and replied in flawless Arabic, laced with cold authority. "Call your supervisor or call the foreign affairs if you doubt me," he’d challenge, watching their bravado crumble.
In Saudi Arabia’s royal circles, where African expats were often dismissed as servants, Hassan broke the script. While his Saudi friends rushed to kiss the hands of princes—a gesture of submission—Hassan stood firm, offering only a confident handshake. His refusal to perform deference turned heads.
Princes, unaccustomed to such boldness from a Black foreigner, would demand: “Who is this guy?” The moment they discovered he was a diplomat’s son fluent in French and Arabic, their suspicion turned to fascination. French, the language of global elites, gave him an air of unexpected sophistication; his Arabic, sharp and Hijazi-accented, proved he wasn’t just another outsider.
Soon, the same royals who expected groveling invited him to private majlises, eager to learn new words in French or trade jokes in Arabic. Hassan played the game—charming but never fawning—knowing his power lay in making them chase his respect, not the other way around.
Hassan’s commanding height, sharp wit, and effortless style made him a magnet for attention in Jeddah’s elite circles. More than once, Saudi princes—accustomed to Africans as servants or entertainers—assumed he’d jump at their job offers.
"Ya Hassan, be my personal bodyguard!" one laughed. "We’ll pay you generously!"
Hassan would decline with a polite but firm smile, leaving them baffled. Later, they’d pull his friends aside: "Why did he refuse? Doesn’t he know what opportunities he’s missing?"
The shock on their faces when they learned Hassan was a diplomat’s son—wealthy, educated, and socially their equal—was priceless.
He became living proof that respect isn’t bought, but demanded.
For Hassan, Jeddah was a lesson in power and perception. His status, education, and unshakable confidence made even the privileged rethink their biases. "They respect nothing but strength," he’d say. "So I gave them no choice."
{Hassan at 23 years old in Jeddah with the homies} 😀😁😎
2006: Hassane at Limkokwing/Malaysia - The Polyglot Who Bridged Continents
When Hassan first arrived in Malaysia in 2006, fresh from graduating from the American International School in Jeddah, he quickly noticed something fascinating: the moment he mentioned he attended Limkokwing University, people's expressions would shift—not to skepticism, but to wide-eyed admiration.
"Limkokwing?!" locals would exclaim, their tone dripping with newfound respect. Taxi drivers would suddenly sit up straighter. Shopkeepers would offer him discounts. Even government officials at visa offices would nod approvingly when he handed over his student ID.
Hassan soon realized why:
Limkokwing wasn’t just a university—it was a microcosm of the world, one of Malaysia's crown jewels of elite education, buzzing with students from every corner of the globe, where the children of prime ministers, Fortune 500 CEOs, and celebrities studied. The campus was a who's-who of international power players in the making, and simply being admitted signaled that you belonged to an exclusive circle.
For Hassan, this was paradise. One minute he was debating Middle Eastern politics in Arabic with Saudis and Libyans, the next laughing over nasi lemak with Indonesians, then swapping stories about hip-hop with Canadians. His Korean girlfriend, Ji-eun, even taught him to write his name in Hangul (하산), while his Nigerian roommate dragged him to Afrobeat parties.
Hassan moved between circles so effortlessly that the Botswanese head of student services, Ms. Ireene, finally called him in, baffled.
"Hassan, every time I see you, you’re with a different group," she said, eyeing him over her glasses. "How and why?"
He shrugged. "They’re my friends."
"But—do you even speak Arabic?" she probed, testing him.
"Eeh naam, and five other languages," he replied, grinning. "Want me to say ‘hello’ in Setswana too?"
Ms. Ireene shook her head, amused. In a campus of cliques, Hassan was a human bridge—borders blur when you speak the world’s tongues.
What made Hassan stand out even more was how he wore this privilege. While some students flaunted their status, Hassan remained humble yet confident—a diplomat's son who could discuss African literature with professors, debate Middle Eastern politics in fluent Arabic, then grab teh tarik with working-class Malaysian friends.
His ability to code-switch between worlds—from the boardroom polish of Limkokwing's elite circles to the vibrant energy of its international student body—only added to his mystique. People weren't just impressed by his university; they were fascinated by how effortlessly he embodied its global prestige while remaining authentically himself.
By graduation, Hassan had turned his Limkokwing identity into something even more valuable: a masterclass in how to wield privilege with grace.
From Limkokwing to Corporate Nomad: Hassan's Post-Graduation Drift (2010-2020)
God's GPS: The Unlikely Journey From Jeddah to Niamey - Hassan's 10-Year Transformation.
When Hassan returned to Jeddah in 2011 after his transformative years at Malaysia’s Limkokwing University, he carried with him more than just a degree—he possessed a global perspective that set him apart. Over the next five years, he navigated the corporate world. Yet, despite the financial success, something gnawed at him—a restlessness, a sense that his true purpose lay elsewhere. In 2017, he heeded the call of family, relocating to Senegal to join his uncle’s thriving import-export business. It was a move that grounded him in his roots, reconnecting him with the rhythms of West African commerce and culture. But destiny had even bigger plans.
In December 2019, Hassan traveled to Niger to visit his sister, who had just been appointed a senior advisor to the President of Niger with the rank of minister. What was meant to be a short, celebratory trip turned into a life-altering chapter when the COVID-19 pandemic erupted in January 2020. Borders slammed shut, flights were canceled, and the world plunged into uncertainty.
The moment burned into Hassan's memory like a nightmare: men in full hazmat suits from Niger's Ministry of Health storming into their home, spraying disinfectant like soldiers fumigating a warzone. As the chemical mist filled the air, that's when the chilling thought hit him: "This is it. The end."
For a man who'd survived many adventures, COVID-19 felt different—an invisible enemy no passport or language skill could negotiate with. As Niamey went into lockdown, Hassan watched from his window as armored trucks patrolled empty streets. The same city where he'd arrived months earlier to celebrate his sister's presidential appointment now resembled a dystopian film.
Stranded in Niamey, Hassan faced a moment of profound reflection. As the chaos of lockdowns unfolded around him, he experienced a lightning-strike revelation: This was no accident. God had orchestrated every step—from Jeddah to Malaysia, Senegal to Niger—to place him exactly where he needed to be, at the precise moment his country would need him most.
"God didn't strand me here to die. He trapped me here to build." Hassan said.
The pandemic, rather than being a setback, became a divine reset for Hassan. With his sister now at the heart of Niger’s government and his own unique blend of global experience, multilingual fluency, and entrepreneurial acumen, he saw a clear path forward. Niger, often overlooked on the world stage, was ripe for transformation—and Hassan realized he had been uniquely equipped to play a part in its rise. The crisis became his calling.
Today, Hassan is laser-focused on his mission: to elevate Niger into a leader not just in Africa, but on the global stage. Whether through leveraging his international networks, advocating for innovative policies, or fostering cross-border collaborations, he is committed to turning his vision into reality. The road ahead is challenging, but Hassan moves with the conviction of a man who knows he is walking in divine alignment. The blueprint is set. The mission is clear. And Hassan? He’s just getting started.
The Vision Takes Shape
In 2023, Hassan channeled a lifetime of cross-continental experiences into founding The African Hand—a bold venture with a singular mission: to elevate African sculpture from cultural artifact to the world stage of art and interior design. Drawing on his unique journey from Jeddah's diplomatic circles to Malaysia's elite campuses and Niger's corridors of power, Hassan envisioned a platform that would shatter stereotypes and redefine African craftsmanship as the ultimate symbol of sophistication.
The African Hand was born from Hassan's realization that while Western museums displayed African art behind glass, the world's luxury spaces rarely celebrated living African artists. His solution? A disruptive ecosystem connecting master sculptors from Dakar to Kinshasa directly with architects, collectors, and design houses in New York, Dubai, and Shanghai. Each piece—whether a Benin bronze reinterpretation or a contemporary Sankofa-inspired installation—came with a certified provenance.
What set The African Hand apart was Hassan's diplomatic finesse in bridging worlds. Even COVID-era Niger's isolation taught him to leverage digital showrooms before the art world caught on.
By 2024, The African Hand wasn't just selling sculptures—it was orchestrating a cultural coup, with Dr. Hassan as its quietly determined general. As he often told investors: "We're not decorating spaces. We're rewriting history—one hand-carved masterpiece at a time."
But this venture represents just one facet of his multidimensional impact.
Simultaneously, Hassan serves as a certified marriage counselor, applying his cross-cultural insights to help couples navigate modern relationships and beyond commerce and counseling, Hassan channels his entrepreneurial spirit into philanthropy and social change as the founder of Hope4all, a non-profit organization headquartered in Niger with operations across West Africa.
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