"They are ubiquitous in certain corners of Brooklyn. You can buy them for $25 on Tompkins Avenue — a tad pricey, perhaps, but worth every penny. They’re made of Ankara fabric, a bright batik wax material common all over West Africa. They come in a dazzling array of colors: Mine is orange and yellow, my sister’s white and blue. They are an incredibly versatile accessory, offering blissful respite on a crowded dance floor, or a makeshift form of shade at the beach. At a wedding, they are an excellent companion during the reception. Stuck in a broken elevator on a humid day with a pregnant co-worker? Humbly offer her your fan. Children are drawn to them by nature. They are tailor-made for impromptu photo shoots, easy conversation starters when small talk must be had, striking outfit enhancers. They’re shorthand for something too — representative of the kind of amalgamated pan-Africanism that appeals to some Black people in the diaspora who yearn for connections to a romanticized version of Africa that doesn’t actually exist. An owner of these fans might have a tub of raw shea butter in their bathroom cabinet or an Asante foot stool they bought from a resale shop in Queens. They might say 'grand rising' or claim to be 'plant-based.' I’m being cheeky here, but as a Nigerian American, I simultaneously relate to that yearning and feel embarrassed by it," Tomi Obaro writes. Read her complete ode to Ankara hand fans at the link in our bio. Photograph by @edeani.