By Davida Spaine Solomon
Kono, 10th March 2026- In Jiama Nimikoro Chiefdom, Kono District, the sound of women’s voices often rises above the noise of shovels and splashing water. It is not the kind of singing you hear in a church choir, though the words sometimes carry the same faith.
“Come and see what the Lord has done,” they chant in Kono, their voices steady, their feet planted in muddy water. Here, women are not only caretakers of homes. They are miners.
In this gold-rich chiefdom, many women spend their days waist-deep in water, sifting through soil in search of tiny specks of gold. It is artisanal mining hard, manual, uncertain work. Yet from these pits, they have raised children, paid school fees, and built modest lives for themselves. For this story, I will call them Diana and Jane.
The two women work side by side, bonded not just by the long hours in the pits, but by shared struggle. They do not own the tools. They do not dig the deep pits. That work is mostly done by men, who have the manpower and equipment and often the power to intimidate.
The women wait for abandoned or already-dug pits. When the men leave, they enter.
It is risky work. There have been drowning incidents in these communities. There have been cases of rape. Diana herself is a survivor of sexual violence. She speaks quietly about it, but she has not left the fields. She says she cannot afford to.
“I have children,” she tells me. “I have to survive.”
Jane has been mining since 2005. She has two daughters, both of whom she supports through gold mining. Every grain she finds is measured against school fees, food, and rent.
They sell their gold at about 500 Leones per karat, they explain. But sometimes, after hours of work, they cannot even make up to a full karat. And when they do, another challenge awaits understanding the percentages.
“We don’t really know the calculations,” Jane admits. “Sometimes they cheat us.”
Mercury is another silent threat. The women stand in water for long hours, exposed to chemicals used in processing gold. Their hands are rough, their eyes tired. They talk about body pains, about skin irritations, about constant fatigue. But there are no protective gloves, no health insurance, no safety net.
Still, they sing.
Their songs are not just melodies. They are therapy. They are protest. They are prayer.
In the middle of uncertainty, in a space where men dominate and danger lingers, Diana and Jane sing to remind themselves that they are still standing. That they are more than victims. That they are providers.
Across Africa, women have always carried families on their backs. In Jiama Nimikoro, they carry them through water and mud, through intimidation and risk. And when words fail, they let their pain rise through song.
It is in that singing soft but unbroken that you truly hear the story of African women.
