For many people, Agadez is known as a place of passage – a waypoint for hundreds of thousands of African travellers on a hopeful journey across the Mediterranean. For others it’s more than that.
Words: Hannane Ferdjani
Photos: Shola Lawal
Dates with destiny: A farmer climbs a palm tree to harvest dates at the oasis of Azel – an almost surreal stretch of green in the otherwise arid landscape leading us to Agadez, just 12km away. The date palm has long been the lifeline of Niger’s oases – a source of food, shade, and income.
Agadez in Niger sits at the crossroads of the Sahel and the Sahara, the gateway to a desert where dunes fold into one another under an unforgiving sun and where the air cools just enough at dusk to offer some respite. For many people, Agadez is known as a place of passage – a waypoint for hundreds of thousands of African travellers on a hopeful journey across the Mediterranean. But for me, it has always been more than that.
My late grandfather often spoke of Agadez, of his childhood in the heart of the Aïr Mountains, of a vibrant city that once welcomed nomads, artisans, and dreamers. When I arrived for the first time, decades later, Agadez felt both familiar and distant — a place transformed by time and hardship. The photos that follow were taken on the sidelines of filming our documentary Changing Faces. They capture fragments of life in a city often reduced to headlines: its stillness and resilience, its contradictions and continuities.
True grit: The view from the minaret of Agadez’s old mosque reveals a skyline that speaks of endurance – rows of earthen houses and shops aligned with striking precision, shaped by centuries of Sahelian architecture. The historic city, dating back to the Sultanate of Aïr in the 15th and 16th centuries, remains defined by its ochre tones – a palette that mirrors the desert stretching beyond its walls.
Big fan: Three Bianou performers stand in formation, synchronising the sharp tilt of their heads so that their crests open and close in rhythm – in a centuries-old dance of strength and pride. Each year, Agadez marks the Bianou festival with parades of warriors, riders, and musicians, celebrating heritage and faith.
What goes around: Traffic circles the Rond-Point de la République at dusk – yellow three-wheel taxis rushing to wrap up the day. In Niger, as in much of West Africa, roundabouts are never just traffic hubs – they’re statements of power and identity, a way for those in charge to project order.
Green and growing: A farmer moves between tall moringa stems in one of Agadez’s crop gardens, harvesting onions, garlic, lettuce, and herbs. Despite advancing desertification, these green patches continue to feed the city – a testament to resilience and adaptation in one of Niger’s driest regions.
On the land, not of it: Two shepherds guide their camels through Agadez’s old town, against a backdrop of plastic-strewn pathways. Scenes like this have become almost ordinary – trees whose branches are draped in black plastic bags, blending into the landscape as if they belonged there.
Chip off the old block: An artisan sharpens a wood block at the crafts centre, where members of the local union work side by side in open workshops. Craftsmanship runs deep in Agadez – especially among Tuareg artisans, renowned for their mastery of leather and silver.
Like it is: A couple rides past Auberge Tellit, a guesthouse that has become a landmark in Agadez’s old town. Founded in the 1970s by an Italian man who married a Tuareg woman, it’s now run by their son – who also manages Le Pilier, a restaurant in Niamey with a warmth that makes everyone feel at home.
Put the world to rights: At dusk, Addou – a former migrant transporter turned smuggler, then transporter again after Niger’s junta overturned the law criminalising the practice – sits with friends, smoking a cigarette and sipping ataï, the strong and sweet green tea beloved across the Sahel.
Hustle home: Agadez feels both quiet and loud at once. At the bus station – much like in many West African towns – the bustle is constant: food vendors, transporters, and stalls selling everyday essentials.
Sources:THE CONTINENT
