Africa stands at the centre of the world’s energy transition. Beneath its soils lie the lithium, cobalt, graphite, manganese, nickel and rare earth minerals that will power electric vehicles, batteries and renewable energy systems across the globe. At the same time, the continent is being celebrated for expanding renewable energy generation and positioning itself as a leader in climate action.
Yet beneath this optimistic narrative lies a far more troubling reality.
Across Africa, communities are increasingly paying the price for a transition that promises to save the planet while sacrificing the very people who have contributed least to the climate crisis.
The global shift away from fossil fuels is rapidly becoming another chapter in Africa’s long history of resource extraction—one where the language has changed from colonialism and development to sustainability and net zero, but the lived experiences of many communities in numerous villages in Africa remain painfully familiar.
This uncomfortable truth emerged repeatedly during the Regional Ecofeminist Convening held in Harare, Zimbabwe, where activists, community leaders, researchers and legal experts from across the continent examined what they described as “energy transition extractivism.”
The phrase may sound new, but the experience is not.
In the Kivu region of the Democratic Republic of the Congo and Hanyanya in Bikita in Zimbabwe, communities living near critical mineral deposits continue to face displacement, environmental destruction, labour exploitation, and violence as demand for minerals used in batteries and renewable technologies accelerates. Similar concerns are emerging in Mozambique, Uganda, Madagascar and other mineral-rich countries.
What is marketed globally as clean energy often begins with dirty extraction.
The contradiction extends beyond mining.
Kenya is frequently showcased as one of Africa’s renewable energy success stories. More than 90 percent of its electricity comes from renewable sources, making it a model for the continent. But statistics alone tell only part of the story.
Behind many geothermal plants, wind farms and other large renewable energy projects are the Masai and Turkana pastoralists and indigenous communities who have lost grazing land, ancestral territories and cultural heritage. While multinational companies and investors celebrate megawatts generated, many host communities continue to struggle with expensive electricity, limited access to energy and inadequate compensation.
Renewable energy cannot simply replace fossil fuels if it reproduces the same patterns of exclusion, land dispossession and inequality.
The transition cannot be called “just” when those expected to bear its greatest costs have little influence over its design.
South Africa’s Just Energy Transition Partnership (JET-P), for example, illustrates another important lesson. Backed by an $8.5 billion international financing package, the initiative was expected to help the country move away from coal while protecting workers and affected communities.
However, it is clear there is an uncomfortable reality: many promises around reskilling, local economic transformation and fair compensation remain unmet because they were political commitments rather than legally enforceable obligations.
Communities were left with expectations but few guarantees.
This should serve as a warning to governments across Africa negotiating similar climate finance and transition partnerships.
Justice cannot be built on goodwill alone. It requires enforceable agreements, transparent governance and meaningful participation by those whose futures are at stake.
Perhaps the most striking conversations at the recent 2026 regional ecofeminist convening in Harare, Zimbabwe, centred not on mining or energy projects themselves but on power—who holds it and who is excluded from it.
Communities repeatedly described feeling locked out of decisions affecting their land. Environmental Impact Assessments are often conducted without genuine consultation. Access to critical information is restricted. Contracts are negotiated behind closed doors, excluding communities on whose land these critical minerals are buried. By the time communities become aware of projects, decisions have largely been made.
This imbalance extends into the legal system.
Too often, communities encounter lawyers only after conflict has erupted. Litigation becomes expensive, slow and uncertain, while governments and corporations possess vastly greater legal and financial resources.
The 2026 regional ecofeminist convening participants called for expanding what has become known as movement lawyering—an approach where lawyers work alongside communities instead of merely representing them in court. Such lawyers understand that land rights, indigenous identity and environmental justice are not simply legal questions but social, cultural and historical ones.
Equally important is investing in community paralegals, strengthening cross-border legal collaboration and recognising indigenous systems of knowledge and justice.
The future of Africa’s energy transition should not be determined solely in boardrooms, ministries or international climate negotiations.
It must also be shaped in villages, pastoral lands, mining communities and indigenous territories.
Women have a particularly important role to play.
Across the continent, women are often the first to experience the impacts of land dispossession, water pollution and environmental degradation. Yet they remain underrepresented in negotiations that determine the future of their communities.
An ecofeminist approach reminds us that environmental justice and gender justice are inseparable. Protecting ecosystems while ignoring the rights and voices of women cannot produce lasting sustainability.
If the world genuinely seeks a just transition, it must move beyond measuring success in megawatts installed, electric vehicles produced or tonnes of carbon emissions reduced.
Success should also be measured by whether communities remain on their land, whether indigenous peoples retain their rights, whether women participate equally in decision-making, and whether local economies become more resilient rather than more dependent.
Africa does not reject the energy transition.
It rejects a transition that repeats the mistakes of the past.
The continent should not once again become merely a supplier of raw materials while others capture the benefits of industrialisation and green growth.
A truly just transition is democratic, community-led, gender-responsive and grounded in human rights. Anything less risks replacing one form of extractivism with another—this time painted green.
The green economy must not become the latest justification for old injustices. Africa deserves an energy future that is not only renewable but also fair.
Melania Chiponda is a climate change activist and executive director, Shine Collab, a global feminist network advancing women-led energy access, climate justice, and community power across Africa and the Global South
