This was another takeaway that stayed with me from the Repairing International Development conference.

A panellist shared a thought that challenged me (paraphrased):

Too often, we implement what we are told without first understanding the context, knowledge, and systems that already exist within communities. If we only measure economic growth, we miss what sustainable development truly looks like.

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That led me to think about identity and narrative.

If we don’t know who we are—or recognise the value of what we already have—how can we communicate our story with confidence?

How can we build systems that reflect our realities?

Many of the institutions that continue to shape international development today were established at the 1944 Bretton Woods Conference to help rebuild the global economy after World War II. At that time, most African countries were still under colonial rule and were not represented in shaping those institutions or their original framework.

That history matters.

Because repairing international development is not only about changing policies or funding models.

It is also about changing the narrative.

Africa’s voice should not simply be included in conversations about development—it should help shape them.

Our communities hold knowledge.

Our cultures hold solutions.

Our lived experiences hold expertise.

The future of development in Africa cannot continue to be defined primarily by narratives written from the outside. It must increasingly be shaped by Africans telling our own stories, defining our own priorities, and contributing our own ideas to global development.

As Yurshell Rodriguez said during the conference:

“Narrative has the power to shift the future.”

I believe repairing international development requires repairing the stories we tell about Africa—and creating the space for Africans to tell those stories on our own terms.

And yet, one of the reasons it felt so honest was because I wasn’t simply the subject of the documentary—I was part of shaping it from beginning to end.

That experience transformed how I think about storytelling.

One of the principles I rely on during story gathering is shared authorship.

For many people, participation begins and ends with an interview. We ask questions, record their answers, thank them for their time, and then disappear into the editing room to decide what the story will become.

We often call that participation.

I don’t.

Over the years, I’ve come to realise that representation is not the same as participation.

Someone can appear in a story without having any real influence over how that story is told. They may share deeply personal experiences, answer our questions, pose for photographs, and trust us with their vulnerability, yet have no say in the final narrative that reaches the world.

My experience was different.

When I worked on my autobiographical documentary revisiting my story more than 20 years after it was first told, I was fortunate to work with a team that understood the importance of shared authorship.

They didn’t simply interview me and build a story around my experiences. They worked with me throughout the process. I had opportunities to reflect, ask questions, challenge assumptions, and contribute to how my story would be represented.

Because I was involved from the beginning, the final documentary felt authentic and relatable. Not because every detail was perfect, but because I remained part of the storytelling journey rather than being treated solely as its subject.

That experience taught me something I now carry into every project I work on:

People deserve more than representation.

They deserve opportunities to shape the stories that will represent them.

It means listening to how people want their experiences understood.

It means avoiding narratives that reinforce stereotypes simply because they are familiar or emotionally compelling.

It means creating opportunities for review and feedback.

And it means recognising that the people who have lived the story bring knowledge that no producer, filmmaker, journalist, or communications team can replicate.

So I try to ask questions like:

• How would you like your experience to be understood?

• Does this feel like an honest representation of your story?

• Is there anything important we’ve missed?

• What would you want audiences to know about you beyond this moment?

These questions often change the way we listen. They change the way we interview. They influence the stories we tell and the stories we choose not to tell.

Of course, every project comes with different timelines, budgets, and constraints. Full collaboration is not always possible. But I have found that even small opportunities for participation can shift the relationship between storyteller and participant.

The person in front of us is no longer simply a source of information.

They become a collaborator.

Ultimately, the goal is not simply to tell stories about people.

It is to create stories with them.

Because the people who entrust us with their experiences should not lose their voice once the camera starts rolling.

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A better way to re-tell stories that already exist is to seek collaboration with the person in the story, or at least one key person connected to it, before sharing or resharing it.

Recently, someone created a post revisiting an issue that has already been widely covered through videos, articles, and documentaries.

From a place of passion and a desire to raise awareness, she shared the story with her audience. However, what was missing was consideration for how re-sharing it might affect those directly connected to it — especially if it could be triggering or emotionally distressing.

The situation shifted for me when I was tagged in the post just before it went live.

At that moment, I was not in the emotional space to revisit that story. Opening the post, I was immediately confronted with my name and my image, tied to something I was not prepared to re-engage with.

I understand that when you are deeply focused on raising awareness, it is easy to forget to pause and ask a few critical questions:

• Has this person had enough time and space to heal before seeing this again?

• What state of mind might they be in right now? How could this re-sharing impact their current life?

• How could this re-sharing impact their current life?

• What is the intended outcome after publishing this?

Many people don’t ask these questions because the assumption is often: the story is already public.

But what we often forget is this — older stories do not actively reappear in people’s lives unless they go looking for them. A new post, however, can surface instantly through algorithms and tagging, bringing those stories back into someone’s present reality without warning.

I politely asked to be untagged.

What happened next surprised me.

Instead of letting the matter end there, she took the time to find my email and reached out directly.

By the time I read her message, I had processed the situation and intentionally taken time to regulate and reflect. Her email felt sincere, so I agreed to a Zoom conversation.

On the call, my intention was to understand her thinking and what led to the post. After hearing her perspective, I also saw an opportunity to share a different approach — one that could still achieve impact, but with greater care and responsibility.

I shared a few practical principles she could consider going forward:

• If the person in the story is still accessible, consider collaborating with them directly rather than re-sharing without context

• Always check whether they are willing and able to revisit their story in a new space

• Remember that just because a story is already online does not mean it should be continuously re-told

• People evolve — they are no longer the same version of themselves that the original story captured

• Ethical storytelling requires ongoing consent, not just initial publication consent

What I’ve learned from this experience is simple but important: there is still significant work to be done in how we approach re-sharing sensitive stories.

Good intentions are not enough. We need better practice.

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I would love to partner with NGOs, INGOs, charities, and organisations working in this space to help build and strengthen ethical storytelling practices — especially around how sensitive stories are shared, re-shared, and represented.

If this is work you care about, I’d be open to connecting and collaborating.

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Yet in the humanitarian and development sector, we often confuse the two.

Every organisation faces an important question:

How do we meet fundraising goals and communicate impact while ensuring the people at the centre of our stories are treated with dignity and respect?

Stories have power. They shape how people are understood, how communities are represented, and how decisions are made.

But with that power comes responsibility.

When we prioritise an audience’s emotional response over the long-term dignity, agency, and wellbeing of the person sharing their story, even good intentions can unintentionally cause harm.

This is why my work as a story facilitator is guided by five storytelling principles that place people, power, and dignity at the centre:

🧩 Principle 1: Compassion — Creating Space for People to Be Fully Human

🤝 Principle 2: Shared Power — Moving From Story Collection to Story Partnership

🌍 Principle 3: Context — Seeing the Whole Person Beyond the Project

✍🏾 Principle 4: Shared Authorship — Ensuring People Shape How Their Stories Are Told

⚖️ Principle 5: Accountability — Recognising Our Responsibility After the Story Is Shared

Over the next few weeks, I will explore each principle and why they matter when telling stories in development and humanitarian spaces.

Let’s begin with the foundation:

🧩 Principle 1: Compassion — Creating Space for People to Be Fully Human

A story is never just a collection of facts. It carries someone’s identity, memories, experiences, and emotions.

As a story facilitator, my role is to create a space where people can share their experiences in their own words, at their own pace, and in a way that reflects how they want to be understood.

In practice, this means:

Listening without judgment: Creating space for the storyteller to lead rather than forcing a predetermined narrative.

Allowing full expression: Moving beyond polished impact messages to honour the complexity of people’s experiences.

Recognising vulnerability: Understanding the courage it takes to share personal stories.

Respecting boundaries: Knowing that trust is built when people feel safe to say yes, no, or not yet.

Authentic stories emerge when people have agency over how their experiences are represented.

Because before we tell a story, we must remember: we are working with a person—not a project.

(Principle 2 coming next.)

Decades later, I was given the opportunity to rewrite that narrative.

I knew that if I was ever given the chance to tell my story differently, I wanted to be involved—not as someone being interviewed, but as an active participant in shaping how my story would be told.

I worked with a team that welcomed my thoughts, my ideas, and my perspective. They listened. They valued my lived experience. They understood that I was not just the subject of the story; I was a partner in creating it.

Through that collaboration, the story reached a global audience of over four million views and received recognition through an award.

But the point of this story is not the views or the award.

The point is the partnership.

At the time, I did not know anything about storytelling. I did not understand production processes, communications strategies, or narrative frameworks. What I knew was simple: I wanted to create a different narrative about myself. I wanted the opportunity to participate in shaping how my own story was understood.

That experience shaped how I think about co-design today.

Co-design should not begin when the camera turns on

Today, I speak about co-design and ethical storytelling within development work because I believe the way we tell stories is deeply connected to the way we share power.

Co-design should not begin when the camera turns on. It should not begin when we are collecting stories for an impact report, documenting a project, or preparing a communication campaign.

By that point, many decisions have already been made.

The questions we must ask are:

Who decided what story matters?

Whose perspective shaped the narrative?

Who has the power to define success?

Co-design must be intentional from the beginning.

It requires mutual involvement, meaningful engagement, and a commitment to building relationships where knowledge and power are shared.

Too often, when we talk about co-design in storytelling, we begin at the story collection stage. By then, the person whose story is being told has often already been excluded from many of the decisions that shape the final narrative.

This creates a power imbalance.

The story holder may feel pressure to participate because they fear that saying no could affect future support, opportunities, or relationships with an organization. We must acknowledge this reality and be mindful of the power dynamics that exist within development spaces.

Collecting a story is not the same as co-designing a story.

When does storytelling become consultation instead of co-design?

If a project idea has already been developed, the messaging has already been decided, and the story holder is only invited to provide feedback, we are no longer practicing co-design.

We are practicing consultation.

Consultation has value, but it is different.

Co-design means people are involved in shaping the process from the beginning. It means their knowledge, experience, and perspective influence the direction of the work—not just the final product.

Without this shared process, the story holder becomes someone who provides information rather than someone who helps create meaning.

From interpretation to extraction

There are different levels of engagement in storytelling.

Interpretation happens when someone takes another person’s lived experience and decides how to present their version of that experience.

Information may be gathered through interviews, but often the questions are already predetermined and focused primarily on project goals, research outcomes, or organizational priorities.

The story holder may share their experiences, but they are not involved in shaping how those experiences are understood or represented.

Then there is extraction.

Extraction happens when a story is taken without meaningful consideration of the story holder’s wishes, wellbeing, or agency.

Unfortunately, I experienced this recently.

Too often, the person telling the story is treated as a resource rather than a partner. Their experience becomes something to use rather than something to honor.

Sometimes, copyright and ownership are used as a way to justify control over a story.

But ethical storytelling requires us to ask deeper questions:

Who does a story belong to?

Who has the right to shape its meaning?

Who benefits from the way it is shared?

Stories are not just content. They are connected to people’s identities, histories, dignity, and futures.

Co-design asks us to approach storytelling differently.

It asks us to move from taking stories to building relationships.

From speaking about communities to creating space for communities to speak.

From representing people to partnering with them.

Because people are not simply the subjects of stories.

They are the authors of their own narratives.

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