“Yes, Queen, But Make It Ancestral”: On Laylah Amatullah Barrayn’s Unapologetic Lens

Somewhere between Vogue’s tired attempts at “ethnic chic” and the endless carousel of influencers doing “diaspora cosplay” for clout, there’s actual substance—enter Laylah Amatullah Barrayn. A woman with a camera and, dare I say, purpose. And not the TEDx-Tulum kind, either. This is real-deal documentation with heart, heat, and the kind of eye that sees what museums only figure out 20 years too late.

The image in question? A study in power disguised as portraiture. A woman—regal without being performative, layered in wax prints that could make a color theorist weep—stands against a rough brick wall, her gaze cast slightly off-camera like she knows something we don’t. (Spoiler: she does.) This is no accident. Barrayn doesn’t just “take” photos. She offers them, like heirlooms, like testimony. She has this knack for making her lens a stage and the subject the director. No colonial gaze, no trauma porn, no filter-happy exotification. Just presence. Radiant, complicated, and very much alive.

Born in Brooklyn but spiritually fluent in Senegalese sand and Harlem stoop wisdom, Barrayn is part of a generation of photographers refusing to beg for the mainstream’s approval. She’s a co-creator of

 MFON: Women Photographers of the African Diaspora, a publication that doubles as a reckoning and a renaissance. Her work has spanned continents, mosques, matriarchs, and marketplaces—and yet never loses that intimacy that makes you feel like you’ve interrupted something sacred (but were graciously allowed to stay).

Now let’s talk history. This kind of portraiture owes something to the legacy of West African studio photography—Malick Sidibé and Seydou Keïta—but with a radical Black woman’s twist. Where Sidibé gave us youth in motion and pride in polyester, Barrayn gives us the unbothered beauty of Black women who own their image. She captures not just attire, but ritual. Not just posture, but inheritance. The beads? Ancestral. The smile? Earned. The backdrop? Who cares—it’s not the point. The subject is the story.

And what does it mean? Well, maybe everything. Maybe nothing. Maybe it’s a reminder that African identity isn’t a monolith—it’s a patchwork quilt with gold thread, spiritual receipts, and a few choice side-eyes. Maybe it’s Barrayn daring you to decolonize your eyeballs.

So here’s the question:

What would it look like if the next time you picked up a camera, you weren’t trying to capture—but to witness?

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