Intertwined Trajectories: Race, Peasantry, and the Political Imagination in Haitian and Dominican Histories

What follows is another attempt to use Chatgpt to draft a short essay based on typed notes I fed it. Take everything with a grain of salt, and note that I definitely did not properly have it cite sources or use quotations from my copious notes it was fed. 

The histories of Haiti and the Dominican Republic are often narrated as oppositional: one Black, one Hispanic; one revolutionary, one colonial and postcolonial; one peasant and decentralized, the other imagined as Hispanic and European. Yet a comprehensive reading of scholarship across Caribbean history, anthropology, political thought, and cultural studies reveals a far more interconnected reality. Rather than two neatly divided national trajectories, Haiti and the Dominican Republic emerge as deeply intertwined societies shaped by shared agrarian structures, cross-border cultural continuities, mutually constitutive racial ideologies, and overlapping intellectual traditions. Examining the works of historians, anthropologists, political theorists, and literary scholars—including Mayes, Bosch, Moya Pons, Candelario, Matibag, Price-Mars, Firmin, Derby, Howard, Nicholls, and many others—demonstrates that the apparent divergence of these societies is the product of political projects, intellectual constructions, and historical contingencies rather than of any innate civilizational differences. This paper argues that the contrasting national trajectories of Haiti and the Dominican Republic emerge from divergent agrarian formations, racial ideologies, and elite political strategies, yet their histories remain fundamentally intertwined through shared peasant economies, border cultures, and Pan-Antillean intellectual thought. The Caribbean, and Hispaniola in particular, cannot be understood through narratives of isolation but must instead be read as a space of relational histories, mutual influence, and entangled imaginaries.

The Dominican Republic’s nationalist mythology positions the nation as culturally Hispanic, racially non-Black, and civilizationally distinct from Haiti. Yet as April Mayes demonstrates, the discourse of latinidad that became dominant in Dominican national ideology was neither natural nor inevitable. It was a strategic invention of elites in the early twentieth century, especially during and after the U.S. Occupation of 1916–1924. In San Pedro de Macorís—a region marked by sugar production, Black migrant labor from the Anglophone Caribbean, and substantial Haitian presence—Dominican elites selected whiteness, Catholicism, and the Spanish language as the cultural foundations of their nationhood precisely because these traits marked them as closer to Europe and further from Blackness (Mayes, 1–2). This choice was not accidental. It responded to fears of racial contamination, anxieties over U.S. imperial racial hierarchies, and a desire to distinguish Dominicans from Haitians during a moment when the United States was imposing Jim Crow–inflected governance across the island. Mayes’s work highlights how Dominican elites “oscillated” between various racial narratives, sometimes embracing African or Afro-Antillean identity but ultimately codifying Hispanicity as racialized distance from Haiti (Mayes, 1–2).

This process of identity formation parallels Candelario’s argument that Dominican racial identity relies on the category of “indio” as a conceptual escape hatch from Blackness. Candelario demonstrates that museums, beauty culture, census categories, and travel narratives all participated in constructing an identity that repressed African ancestry and elevated an imagined Indigenous past (Candelario, 21–22) . The effect is not simply racial but geopolitical: Dominican identity positions the nation “between” Haiti and the United States, rejecting Africanity on one side and resisting U.S. Blackness on the other (Candelario, 12). David Howard further reinforces that Dominican racial ideology is rooted in subtle, pervasive forms of anti-Blackness and in the instrumentalization of Haiti as national scapegoat (Howard, 15–18). Together, these works reveal that Dominican racial ideology is a modern construction shaped by domestic class politics and international racial orders, rather than an essential cultural inheritance.

Meanwhile, Haitian intellectual traditions present a contrasting yet equally complex negotiation of race, nation, and modernity. Anténor Firmin, writing in the late nineteenth century, is exemplary. In De l’égalité des races humaines, Firmin offered an early antiracist critique grounded in scientific reasoning, opposing European racial hierarchies with a universalist, cosmopolitan vision of human potential (Firmin, 30–31). As J. Michael Dash notes, Firmin’s political imagination was not narrowly nationalist but Caribbean and global, imagining Haiti as part of a connected archipelago rather than an isolated Black republic (Dash, 30–31). Jean Price-Mars, writing in the early twentieth century, similarly critiqued the Haitian elite’s embrace of French cultural superiority and argued for the legitimacy of Afro-Haitian cultural forms through the concept of collective bovarysme (Price-Mars, 30). Price-Mars and Firmin thus represent a long-standing Haitian tradition of intellectual resistance to racial essentialism and colonial ideology.

Yet Haitian political thought was not monolithic. Figures such as Louis-Joseph Janvier and Dantès Bellegarde exemplify a more assimilationist current. Janvier sought to establish Haiti as culturally European, downplayed Vodou, and argued that Haitian civilization was fully compatible with French modernity (Janvier, 49). Bellegarde, similarly, opposed Negritude and socialism, viewing Haiti’s path forward through Westernization, constitutional liberalism, and education reform (Bellegarde-Smith, 31–33). These divergent ideological strands reveal that Haiti’s postrevolutionary intellectual landscape was animated by a deep tension between Afro-Caribbean cultural affirmation and Western cosmopolitan universalism. Haitian thinkers continually debated whether Haiti’s exceptional origins should be grounded in African heritage, Enlightenment universalism, or a hybrid synthesis.

Despite their apparent differences, Dominican and Haitian trajectories were deeply connected through shared agrarian and peasant formations, which played a central role in shaping political cultures on both sides of the island. As your notes synthesize, the Haitian and Dominican peasantries exhibit remarkable parallels in their economic functions, gender structures, labor arrangements, and vulnerabilities to global market fluctuations (notes 6–8). Both societies were founded upon smallholder agricultural production, each tied to a principal export crop: coffee in Haiti and tobacco in the Dominican Republic. In both cases, peasant producers maintained relative autonomy from large landowners, controlled important aspects of their labor process, engaged in communal work systems (counbit, convite), and navigated unequal commercial markets through intermediaries. Women participated heavily in processing and marketing, and both peasantries experienced limited infrastructural support and susceptibility to global commodity prices.

However, the differences are equally significant. Haitian peasantry emerged from the crucible of plantation collapse and revolutionary land redistribution, making landholding a symbol of emancipation and autonomy. Dominican peasantry, by contrast, developed earlier under Spanish colonial neglect and the prevalence of extensive cattle ranching (Bosch, 4–6). These origins shaped political consciousness. Haitian peasants historically resisted state attempts to impose compulsory labor or plantation revival—whether under Toussaint Louverture, Dessalines, Christophe, or Boyer—while Dominican peasants were integrated into a ranching frontier where elite control was more decentralized. Moya Pons highlights how Haitian policies under Boyer—such as land redistribution, the confiscation of church property, and attempts to regulate labor through the Code Rural—ironically strengthened Dominican smallholders, who resisted plantation discipline just as Haitian peasants did (Moya Pons, 187–195). As a result, both sides of the island entered the nineteenth century not as plantation societies but as peasant nations, a fact that destabilizes simplistic contrasts between Haiti as “peasant” and the DR as “European.”

This shared agrarian world also shaped the dynamics of Haitian unification of Hispaniola (1822–1844). Historiographically, Dominican nationalist traditions interpret the period as one of Haitian “occupation” characterized by racial antagonism and economic decline. But the readings surveyed here complicate that narrative. Juan Bosch argues that Haitian unification was driven partly by internal Haitian land pressures and the need to distribute property to soldiers of Christophe and Boyer (Bosch, 144–148). Boyer’s state, facing internal contradictions and resistance to plantation revival in Haiti, saw the eastern territory as an opportunity to stabilize its political coalition. From this perspective, unification was not an act of racial domination but a political response to structural pressures.

Mackenzie’s travel narrative from the 1820s confirms the regional variability of Dominican responses to Haitian governance. In Santiago, some Black residents referred to Haitians as “aquellos negros,” reflecting local hierarchies and attachments to white elites, but not necessarily a racial animosity rooted in Haitian policy (Mackenzie, 215). In other regions, Haitians were welcomed as liberators from slavery, and former slaves remained loyal to former masters as a result of paternalistic relations rather than anti-Haitian sentiment (Mackenzie, 214). Mackenzie also details Haitian efforts to maintain hospitals, administrative order, and printing presses—contradicting depictions of Haitian rule as barbaric—while acknowledging abuses and resentment caused by military conscription and linguistic imposition (Mackenzie, 267–291). Logan’s geopolitical analysis reinforces that Haitian leaders faced European threats that shaped their policies toward the DR (Logan, 34–36). Together, these accounts reveal that unification cannot be reduced to nationalistic caricature but must be understood within a broader Caribbean and imperial context.

Cross-border connections also shaped cultural and social worlds. As Matibag demonstrates, the Haitian-Dominican border was historically a zone of fusion, not separation (Matibag, 21–28). The frontier facilitated trade, intermarriage, shared religious practices, cattle grazing, and bilingual or bicultural life. People baptized children across the border, attended markets on both sides, and viewed Port-au-Prince as an aspirational economic center (Matibag, 147–149). These everyday practices contradict the nationalist image of an impermeable ethnic division and instead reveal a historically entangled Hispaniola.

This border culture persisted well into the twentieth century, even as political elites intensified discourses of racial difference. Lauren Derby’s study of the Trujillo regime shows how the Dominican dictator appropriated Afro-Caribbean symbols, aesthetics, and performative styles even as his regime perpetrated the 1937 massacre of thousands of Haitians (Derby, 189–199). The figure of the tíguere—a streetwise, hypermasculine archetype with Afro-Caribbean roots—became part of Trujillo’s political persona, demonstrating how Dominican identity draws from the very cultural traditions it publicly disavows (Derby, 266). Thus, Dominican nationalism’s disavowal of Haitian influence coexists with deep cultural borrowing, revealing once again the relational nature of identity formation on the island.

Pan-Antillean political thought provides another avenue through which the entanglement of Haitian and Dominican histories becomes visible. Ramón Emeterio Betances, a leading figure in Puerto Rican and Caribbean anti-colonialism, repeatedly invoked the Haitian Revolution as proof of racial equality and Caribbean unity (Betances, 23–26). His admiration for Toussaint Louverture and Pétion was part of a broader vision of Antillean federation. Dominican leaders such as Gregorio Luperón, himself of Haitian descent, also supported projects of Caribbean unity grounded in shared anti-imperial struggle (Reyes-Santos, 45). Eugenio María de Hostos likewise imagined the Antilles as a cultural entity defined not by colonial national boundaries but by shared histories, racial mixtures, and intellectual traditions (Reyes-Santos, 65) . Firmin, as noted earlier, extended this vision to include cosmopolitan globalism. Together, these thinkers articulated a counter-narrative to nationalist division—one in which Haiti and the Dominican Republic appear not as eternal adversaries but as potential partners in anti-colonial federation.

Cultural history further reveals the entangled nature of Hispaniola. Paul Austerlitz’s study of merengue demonstrates that Dominican national music emerged from Afro-Caribbean rhythmic traditions shaped by rural Cibaeño life, U.S. Occupation, and Trujilloist cultural engineering (Austerlitz, 37–38). Merengue’s evolution—from rural accordion music to national orchestral symbol—exemplifies how cultural expressions can simultaneously encode African heritage, regional pride, and authoritarian spectacle. The genre’s connections to Haitian musical forms, revealed through shared rhythms and mutual influence, further undermine nationalist narratives of cultural purity.

All of these strands—racial ideology, peasant structure, unification history, border culture, Pan-Antillean thought, and cultural expression—point to a single conclusion: the histories of Haiti and the Dominican Republic are not opposites but mirrors, refracting each other through the lenses of colonialism, capitalism, race, and political imagination. Their differences emerge not from civilizational incompatibility but from political choices, ideological constructions, and unequal positioning within global systems of power. Dominican elites constructed Latinidad in opposition to Haiti; Haitian elites debated Westernization versus African affirmation; both societies navigated the pressures of empire, foreign capital, and internal class conflict. Their peasants shared labor patterns, market vulnerabilities, and communal traditions. Their borderlands reveal daily interdependence, even in periods of political hostility. Their intellectuals envisioned federation even as national boundaries hardened.

To speak of Haiti and the Dominican Republic solely in terms of difference obscures the profound relational processes that produced their divergent nationalisms. A relational approach—one that foregrounds entanglement rather than isolation—better captures the complexity of Caribbean modernity. Hispaniola’s two nations, born of shared geography and intertwined histories, offer an exemplary case of how race, agriculture, culture, and political thought shape national identity not through isolation but through mutual construction.

The sense that Haiti and the Dominican Republic occupy opposing civilizational positions is thus not a historical truth but a political invention. When one examines the deeper structures of peasant lifeworlds, cross-border economies, adversarial yet intertwined intellectual traditions, and the cultural expressions that flow across the island, an alternative picture emerges: Hispaniola as a single historical space fractured by power, but united by experience. Understanding that complexity challenges nationalist mythologies and opens space for imagining futures grounded not in division, but in the long, rich tradition of Pan-Antillean solidarity.

---

Works Cited (Option A Formatting)

(Listed exactly as they appear in your notes)

• Mayes, April. The Mulatto Republic.
• Candelario, Ginetta. Black Behind the Ears: Dominican Racial Identity from Museums to Beauty Shops.
• Howard, David. Coloring the Nation: Race and Ethnicity in the Dominican Republic.
• Bosch, Juan. The Social Composition of the Dominican Republic.
• Moya Pons, Frank. “The Land Question in Haiti and Santo Domingo: The Sociopolitical Context of the Transition from Slavery to Free Labor, 1801–1843.”
• Matibag, Eugenio. Haitian-Dominican Counterpoint.
• Derby, Lauren. The Dictator’s Seduction.
• Betances, Ramón Emeterio. Las Antillas Para Los Antillanos.
• Reyes-Santos, Alaí. Our Caribbean Kin: Race and Nation in the Neoliberal Antilles.
• Bellegarde-Smith, Patrick. In the Shadow of Powers: Dantès Bellegarde in Haitian Social Thought.
• Austerlitz, Paul. Merengue.
• Logan, Rayford W. “Haiti and the Dominican Republic.”
• Nicholls, David. Haiti in Caribbean Context.
• Dash, J. Michael. Haiti and the Letters from Saint Thomas (as cited in notes).

Faras Gallery

We came across a fascinating video showing some of the beautiful works of art recovered from Faras (in Nubia) on Youtube. In the Women of 1000 AD project, the list of sources for Queen Martha included a link to a related video.

Early Gao or Kawkaw (AI-Written)

What follows below is an attempt to use AI to write a short essay on a topic based on our notes. The notes in question were written based on several academic publications we read a few years ago. Sadly, the free version of ChatGPT was unable to reproduce proper citations before we used up the free access to the best version. Nonetheless, we thought it would be worthwhile to show what it is capable of doing with information we fed to it. After some time, we will ask it to revise this again using whatever additional sources it can access. A link to our notes that are the basis of this can be found here. Naturally, take everything below with a grain of salt as it is entirely written by AI...

The early history of the Songhay and the rise of Gao (known to medieval Arabic writers as Kawkaw) illustrate the development of one of West Africa’s earliest powerful political centers. Located along the Niger River at the point where Saharan caravan routes met fertile riverine settlements, Gao emerged as a dominant regional hub before and during the early second millennium CE. Arabic geographers, although writing from afar and often relying on merchant testimony, consistently presented Gao as a sovereign kingdom that exercised influence over multiple subject peoples. Archaeological evidence, particularly from Gao-Saney, reinforces this image by revealing craft specialization, foreign imports, and signs of urban stratification. Yet the limited availability of contemporary written sources means historians must critically combine archaeology, oral tradition, and later West African chronicles to reconstruct this period. Through this synthesis, a picture emerges of a culturally dynamic society grounded in indigenous traditions but strengthened by the adoption of Islam and long-distance trade.

Well before the rise of Gao as a trans-Saharan commercial center, the Niger Bend supported communities that relied on the river’s abundant resources. The Sorko, known as expert fishers and boatbuilders, and the Gow, skilled hunters of hippopotamus and other dangerous river animals, formed some of the earliest identifiable groups associated with Songhay. Their craft specialization facilitated trade along the river and created patterns of settlement that anchored early political formation. Matrilineal descent was a defining feature of these river societies. Authority passed not solely from father to son but through the mother’s lineage, which ensured that elite women played essential roles in validating leadership transitions. Religious life centered on spirits connected to water, the riverbed, and animal life. Kingship was sacred, and rulers derived legitimacy from their roles as intermediaries with supernatural forces. Such cultural foundations did not disappear with the arrival of Islam; instead, these Sudanic social structures shaped the ways Islam was received and practiced.

Songhay historical memory, preserved in later chronicles, places the earliest ruling seat at Kukiya, downriver from Gao. The Zuwa (or Za) dynasty, said to descend from a foreign ancestor or hero figure, represents the first political lineage acknowledged by tradition. Oral narratives speak of battles between these early kings and powerful river spirits, sometimes depicted as fish demons, symbolizing struggles over control of ritual authority and sacred space within the community. Archaeological discoveries in the Bentyia–Kukiya region, including early Muslim burials, suggest that the site was not isolated nor purely mythical. Instead, Kukiya appears to have been a substantial multiethnic settlement that was already interacting with Islamic traders by at least the 11th to 12th centuries. Over time, as trade networks intensified and Gao’s geographic advantages became more important, political power shifted northward, indicating a gradual process of state consolidation rather than abrupt replacement.

By the 8th–9th centuries CE, Gao emerged clearly in Arabic writings as a capital city and political force. The geographer al-Yaqubi noted that the king of Kawkaw ruled a number of subject peoples, including desert-dwelling Sanhaja nomads. This claim aligns with archaeological findings showing that Gao was integrated into long-distance economic systems. Gao’s prosperity stemmed strongly from trans-Saharan trade. Caravans from Tadmekka, Kawar, and the Fezzan arrived with salt — a critical commodity that held both economic and political value. In return, Songhay merchants and rulers exported copper, ivory, animal products, and enslaved captives. These exchanges linked Gao to the wider Islamic world stretching from North Africa to the Mediterranean and the Middle East. Excavations at Gao-Saney have revealed copper-working furnaces, imported pottery and glass beads, and architectural features suggesting elite compounds. Such evidence confirms that Gao was not merely a waystation but a thriving production and consumption center. The kingdom’s ability to control trade routes and levy taxes or tribute helped consolidate political authority and population growth.

Islam did not arrive in Gao through conquest but through commerce and diplomacy. By the 10th–11th centuries, rulers known by the title Qanda (or Kanda) had converted to Islam, according to al-Bakri. Their subjects, however, largely maintained traditional beliefs and cult practices. Gao thus existed at this time as a dual-religious polity, with two towns: one Islamic and one that upheld indigenous spirituality. This structure demonstrates a transitional phase when kings embraced Islam’s advantages for diplomacy and legitimacy while still depending on traditional bases of ritual power among their people. Notably, Islamization appears to have been elite-driven. Conversion supported alliances with North African Muslims and facilitated smooth trade relations. But kings continued to rely on matrilineal structures to ensure dynastic stability, which reflects the persistence of indigenous frameworks for rule.

A political transformation became visible in the late 11th and early 12th centuries. The names of rulers that appear in Arabic texts vanish, and new rulers known as the Zaghe/Za emerge prominently in the archaeological record. Royal tombstones found at Gao-Saney are inscribed with Arabic prayers and titles such as malik (king) and malika (queen). Some of these funerary stelae were carved from marble imported from Almeria in Islamic Spain, revealing direct commercial and cultural connections with the wider Muslim world. This new leadership reinforced Islam at the highest levels of authority while retaining Songhay’s matrilineal basis of succession. The prominent burial of queens indicates that elite women were not diminished by Islam but remained central to the legitimacy of rulers. These developments mark Gao’s first clearly documented period of Islamic monarchy, accompanied by a flourishing of intellectual and cultural engagement beyond the Sahara.

Gao’s influence extended beyond commerce. Medieval accounts record that its rulers engaged in conflicts with the Ghana Empire to the west and Kanem to the east. These wars were not merely territorial but economic, driven by competition for control of trade corridors, especially those linking goldfields, salt mines, and northern markets. Warfare and diplomacy were tools to secure and manage tribute from both riverine and desert communities. Gao’s growing military power suggests a centralized administrative apparatus capable of organizing cavalry and riverine forces. That capacity would later form the basis of Songhay’s imperial strength under Sunni Ali.

Islam in Gao did not override existing beliefs. Instead, the two systems merged into a culturally hybrid form of statecraft. Rulers valued Islamic law, Arabic literacy, and international alliances, while also maintaining sacred ceremonial roles rooted in Sudanic cosmology. Spirit possession, public ritual, and matrilineal inheritance endured. This dual legitimacy — Islamic and indigenous — made Gao’s political structure both flexible and resilient. Rather than abolishing entrenched social customs, Islam was used to reinforce monarchy and expand bureaucratic functions, especially in commerce, taxation, and diplomatic communication.

Reconstructing early Songhay history requires attention to the nature of the available sources. Arabic geographers provide some of the earliest written references to Gao, but their works contain gaps and uncertainties because they relied heavily on second-hand information. Archaeology offers concrete material evidence of urban development and Islamic influence but remains limited to sites that have been excavated, especially around Gao-Saney. Oral traditions preserve indigenous perspectives and cultural meanings but contain mythic elements and were shaped by later political contexts. The Tarikh al-Sudan and Tarikh al-Fattash, written centuries later, reflect Songhay’s imperial ideology rather than early history. Despite these limitations, the convergence of evidence strongly indicates that Gao was a powerful and Islamizing state by the 11th century, rooted in earlier indigenous cultural institutions. Continual comparison of sources allows historians to create a clearer, though still evolving, understanding of this crucial period.

By the beginning of the 12th century, Gao had emerged as a thriving urban center with solid economic, military, and religious foundations. Its rulers commanded long-distance trade networks, projected force against rival states, and served as guardians of both Islamic and indigenous authority. These achievements ensured that Gao remained influential even when incorporated into the Mali Empire in the 13th and 14th centuries. When the Sunni dynasty restored independence in the 15th century and expanded to create the Songhay Empire, they built upon centuries of state formation and a tradition of political innovation rooted in the early history of Gao. The foundations of one of West Africa’s greatest empires began not with sudden transformation, but through gradual evolution driven by commerce, culture, and hybrid spirituality.

El Día Que Me Quieras

Somehow we forgot about this gem by Gato Barbieri. A deconstruction of a famous tango song, it is more lyrical and eloquent than Gato's freer interpretation of Piazzolla's "Prepárense" from The Third World. Both are excellent, yet very different in their interpretation. It is a pity Gato Barbieri shifted away from this approach to free jazz and the Latin American songbook after the first half of the 1970s...

Revisiting Gambaru

 

Migeod 1924

One of the most illustrious sites associated with the Sayfawa dynasty of Borno is Gambaru. Located only a few kilometers from the royal capital, Birni Gazargamo, Gambaru was said to have been a favorite retreat of the Sayfawa rulers. The site is also remembered traditionally as the construction of a magira named Aisa Kili N'girmaramma. According to H.R. Palmer, this queen-mother ordered the construction of Gambaru for Idris Alooma (r. 1564-1596). Others, referring to Idris Alooma's mother as Amsa, attribute the site to Amsa. Despite the contradictory traditions on the mother of this famous mai, Gambaru was apparently in use until c. 1808 or 1809, when the attacking forces of the jihad pillaged Gazargamo and other sites in the region. In an attempt to reconstruct the history of Gambaru, we shall share our own thoughts on the site based on studies by historians, archaeologists, and travelers. Understanding Gambaru's origins and its function as a palace site will elucidate how the Sayfawa maiwa utilized brick for elite architecture. It may also reveal a Bornoan example of how a small royal center could coexist with a much larger birni 5 kilometers away that was the real economic and political core of the state. 

Migeod (1924)

Naturally, one must begin with the origins. Since Gambaru was referenced multiple times by Ahmad b. Furtu, including an allusion to a mosque there, the site was already established by the reign of Idris Alooma (Lange 131). Traditions collected by Landeroin extend the origins of Gambaru as a Sayfawa center further back in time, to the 15th century. Per tradition, the area of Gambaru was where a Sao hunter, Gouma Kandira (also called Dala Gomami) lived. When the Sayfawa arrived in the region, he granted them permission to settle nearby. Over time, the Sayfawa (or their followers from Kanem) used their abundant merchandise to acquire additional lands from the local Sao. Over time, Gouma Kandira was tricked into buying too many goods on credit that he could not repay. This led to Gouma leaving the region and the Sayfawa making Gambaru their capital. However, they found the region was too densely wooded, too close to the river (causing frequent flooding) and the site was not favorable for horses (Landeroin 356). Interesting, this Sao chief, Gouma Kandira, may be identified with the Sao hunter who settled in Machena, Bolo Kandira (also known as Guma Kerbina). Although C.J. Lethem recorded a version of events which attributed Gouma Kerbina's departure from Borno to his father, the traditions of Gouma Kandira/Bolo Kandira (or Dala Gomami) were known as far west as Machina. By their own traditions, the ruling dynasty of Machina were said to be descendants of this man. 

Graham Connah (1981)

A different version of this tradition was reported by Palmer. In Sudanese Memoirs, Palmer wrote of the "So" Dala N'Gumami, clearly the same Sao leader Dala Gomami. However, instead of Gambaru, Palmer wrote that Dala lived at the town of Gaji Dibun. The followers of the Sayfawa were already using land nearby for pastureland, amazing the gigantic Sao leader due to their small size and horses (Palmer 66). This Sao hunter subsequently led the Sayfawa to the area of Gazargamo. The familiar tale of the trick of the henna was then used to defeat the Sao and kill nearly all, except for Dala N'Gumami. This Sao leader was said to have been a friend of the Sayfawa (67-68). Despite the absence of Gambaru in Palmer's version of this event, it should be remembered that Gambaru was located quite near to the site of Gazargamo. The lack of the toponym in Palmer's version may have been due to different informants attributing the Sao hunter's town to the general vicinity of Gazargamo and Gambaru, along the Komadugu Yobe. Undoubtedly, further evidence is necessary, but a Sau-Gafata connection for these communities may be assumed since they were still living near Gazargamo in places like Damasak at the time of Idris Alooma's reign.

Thurstan Shaw (1978)

Since oral traditions associate Gambaru with the Sao leader who led or welcomed the Sayfawa to the area of Gazargamo, the area was inhabited by Sao peoples long before Gambaru became a royal retreat for the rulers of Borno. Traditions are still imprecise for the exact process in which Gambaru became Sayfawa royal center. For example, Lange heard traditions in the region that reported the site was constructed by Aisa for Ali Gaji or Dunama Dibalemi. Furthermore, one of these kings did not like Gambaru because it lacked adequate space for horse racing (Lange 133). This is clearly an instance of modern tradition recalling the names of two of the most prominent Sayfawa monarchs and anachronistically turning Aisa into the mother or magira of them. Migeod, writing in the 1920s, also recorded that the mai rejected Gambaru as a capital, thereby leading to it becoming the magira's town (226). Palmer, in Bornu Sahara and Sudan, wrote of Aisa Kili N'Girmaramma having great difficulty in protecting the life of Idris Alooma from his cousin, Dunama Fannami and Abdallah. As regent for her son, after Abdallah's death, she was said to have built the palace and mosque at Gambaru to so Idris would not be corrupted by the manners of Gazargamo (Palmer 232). 

Seidensticker's Plan

Muhammad Nur Alkali similarly attributed the construction of Gambaru to the queen Amsa, mother of Idris Alooma, based on a praise song for her (Alkali 145). Likewise, Bivar and Shinnie, in "Old Kanuri Capitals," also reported the tradition of Amsa (or Aisa) as the builder of Gambaru (Bivar & Shinnie 3). Even a problematic praise song in J.R. Patterson's Kanuri Songs, for a magira named Aisa, referred to her as owner of Gambaru. Overall, most traditions concur on the identity (Amsa or Aisa) of the magira who built Gazargamo, although some attribute the son for whom it was built to Ali Gaji. The sense of the mai rejecting Gambaru as a capital may be an interpolation of the other traditions in which the Sayfawa rejected Gambaru (or its environs) earlier in the 15th century. Lamentably, the method in which the magira sponsored the brick buildings or walls of Gambaru is ambiguous. Traditions of craftsmen imported from Tripoli to complete the project may be unreliable. After all, the Sayfawa had sponsored brick buildings since the 12th century in Kanem. It is possible that workers were local artisans using skills that the Sayfawa had long sponsored for elite structures. Possible evidence of this can be found in the existence of a mai jalabvube in Gazargamo, the head of brickmakers (Seidensticker 245). In terms of the construction of the brick walls, Migeod did note that the bricks showed evidence that not all the bricklayers were equally skilled (Migeod 227). Nonetheless, a magira like Aisa Kili N'girmaramma possessed ample resources and had the structures built. Gambaru is the only known site with fired-brick ruins believed to have been built by a woman.

Palmer (1936)

Due to the consensus on the builder of Gambaru, what can we infer on the site's history from the 16th century to the early 19th century? Lange noted the reference to horses in oral traditions on the site, which brought to mind J.R. Patterson's district report on Borsari from the colonial period. If the mulima, a slave official in charge of the royal horse stables, was based at Gambaru, oral tradition may be alluding to this official. According to Patterson, the mulima collected the taxes from the villages or towns of Sage, Gilbossu, and Jaba. The mulima was based at Gambaru in the past. If Nachtigal was correct to identify the post of mulima as one held by slaves, this official was also at Gambaru and received the right to collect taxes or tribute from villages in the area. Of course, in the days before the abandonment of Gazargamo, the metropolitan district was densely populated and full of villages and towns. This means that in the past, the mulima may have held tax rights over a large population. Provisioning members of the royal family staying at Gambaru may have also entailed some fiefs or administrative rights over villages in the region. Sadly, it is unclear if the fiefs held by the magira were also included among those tied to Gambaru.

Palmer, Sudanese Memoirs

Indeed, a possible hint of Gambaru's past connections to the larger region can be seen in Denham's brief description of the site. Denham, presumably drawing on oral tradition, was told the nearby river was once very actively used by boats moving from Gambaru to Kabshary. The surrounding area was also once extensively cultivated (Denham, Clapperton, Oudney 156). This account, though brief, was based on traditions only a little over a decade after the site was abandoned, so it has a degree of reliability. The active river traffic, well-cultivated surroundings, and proximity to Gazargamo meant an economically dynamic regional economy. In fact, farms along the Komadugu Yobe were sometimes irrigated, according to Patterson. This facilitated the growth of cotton and food crops. Lastly, given that horses were of major importance for the military capacity of the state, one can be also be sure that the Sayfawa rulers who occasionally stayed at Gambaru kept a close eye on the mulima. In truth, the name of Aisa Kili N'girmaramma may also be a reference to horses or horse racing (Lange 133). This is highly suggestive of a link between horses, the magira, and Gambaru. Being in an economically prosperous regional economy that was densely settled meant Gambaru could draw on these ample resources.

Sassoon's photo of Gambaru ruins 

Unfortunately, little remains of the site of Gambaru besides the brick walls. Luckily, Musa Hambolu, who partly excavated Gambaru in the 1990s, focused on a few areas that shed additional light. One of them, a Yobe-type archaeological mound was a 2x2 excavation north of the palace. Another spot excavated was 4x4 in the southeast quadrant of one of the round hut foundations within the palace (Hambolu 221). In terms of the actual palace, Hambolu described it as oblong-shaped and featuring 10 compartments or sections. Overall, it measured 24 meters long from the southwest to southeast, 12 meters from southeast to northeast, 27 meters from northeast to northwest and 10.5 meters from its northwest to southwest axis, a total of 243 square meters. In addition, 5 possible hut foundations were detected, 4 of which were located within one of the 10 compartments (Hambolu 223). While less impressive when compared to the palace complex at Gazargamo (100,000 square meters), Gambaru's buildings with circular brick foundations provide possible clues to the use of space between the walled areas, or compartments. Hambolu's excavation of a hut foundation in the southeast quadrant revealed a structure with a diameter 4.4 and 5 meters for its inner and outer dimensions. The wall was 60 centimeters thick but Hambolu did not excavate the entire structure (Hambolu 224). A possible purpose of the site where 4 of these structures were found could have been for the use of the harem or women of the mai. Perhaps one of the circular structures was similar to what can be seen at Machina today, apparently used for giving audiences in front of it. 

Another picture by Sassoon

Besides Hambolu, other descriptions of the site are based on the ruins of the walls still standing. The earliest, based on a description by a Borno native to a European who never saw Gambaru, dated to the 1810s. This brief account merely alluded to the remains of "castles" and houses erected by "Christians" in the past. The association of the site with Christians is certainly perplexing, but Gronenborn has suggested this may be due to a past presence of European slaves or captives in the region. In this light, it is intriguing to note that the original article, published in The Quarterly Review, referred to copper coins used by the Christians being dug up at Gambaro. The use of the word "Christian" in Borno to refer to "pagans" or kirdi should not be forgotten. The association with "Christians" may very well refer to a non-Muslim group in the area or perhaps forcibly resettled nearby. Alternatively, the presence of European slaves and renegades in precolonial Borno, allegedly highly esteemed by the Sayfawa, could also have been present at Gambaru in the 16th and 17th centuries. 

Sassoon picture of standing wall

After The Quarterly Review, travelers who visited the site described Gambaru. Denham was the next to write of his visit to Gambaru's ruins. Noting the mosque walls enclosing a space of 20 square yards, he also observed the house of the sultan with gates opening toward the river. The private mosque attached to the sultan's house was also still observable, as well as other buildings of brick. Barth, who came next several years later, was only able to distinguish 1 wall and a building he believed was part of a mosque (Lange 131). Unmentioned by Lange are the allusions to artificial basins or lakes near Gambaru. Denham, for instance, wrote that Gambaru was located northwest of Lake Muggaby (Denham, Clapperton, Oudney 155). Barth observed what he thought were artificial basins or lakes in the area near Gambaru, too (Barth 345). Consequently, the capital district may have used canals or irrigation ditches that fed artificial lakes or basins of water for agricultural or other purposes. Gambaru, located near a major river, may have benefited from this as water was rerouted to the agricultural settlements whose farmers paid taxes or tribute.

Photo of Gambaru in Bivar & Shinnie's "Old Kanuri Capitals"

Moving into the 20th century, more detailed descriptions of the site emerged. The valuable insights and observations by 20th century visitors and archaeologists are weakened by the plundering of the site for bricks. Nevertheless, some walls still stood to an impressive height in the 1920s. When Migeod visited, he described the palace as 250 yards by 150 yards, with walls of burnt brick. The brick walls were supposedly used to divide the space into multiple yards or sections used for walking, horses, or gardens (Migeod 226). The Gambaru walls impressively still stood up to 8 feet in some sections. However, he did not see evidence of a great palatial house structure, writing, "A great palace in the form of a house did not exist." But, he did view the foundation of a round structure or hut of a large diameter in the northwestern corner of the site (Migeod 227). Even by the 1960s, Bivar and Shinnie viewed walls that still stood up to 3 meters (Bivar & Shinnie 4). Some sections may have been partly restored during the colonial era, but probably not in any way that substantially altered the layout. Even by the 1980s, when Wilhelm Seidensticker produced the only plan of Gambaru, some of the brick walls survived. Seidensticker's plan and study indicates the site's palace was really 10 interior courtyard divided by brick walls. These walls, 1 meter wide with the width of 7-8 stretchers, were differently fired since they were much darker in color (Seidensticker 65). 

Another image of Gambaru's remaining walls in Bivar & Shinnie

As evidenced by the contradictory reports of Gambaru, much of the site's history and architecture remain enigmatic. Even the question of a palatial house or brick house is ambiguous. While Denham, who saw the site a little over a decade after its abandonment, believed there was a large sultan's house and private mosque, later visitors were less confident. Migeod, in the 20th century, believed the brick walls were mainly used to separate the 10 or so compartments or sections, which each had their particular uses or purposes. Gambaru's possible "Sao" origins and link to the Dala Gumami or Gouma Kandira of Borno oral tradition is additionally ambiguous. Thankfully, traditions concur on the magira who ordered the construction of Gambaru. Likely the mother of Idris Alooma, this makes Gambaru one of the few (if not the only) Sayfawa fired-brick site which can be linked to a woman ruler. The site's location and proximity to Birni Gazargamo, the Sayfawa capital established by Ali Gaji, made it a part of a populous and prosperous region that engaged in irrigated agriculture, trade on the Komadugu and overland, and possibly the use of canals or ditches to create artificial lakes or ponds. Gambaru's connection with the mulima and occasional use by the Sayfawa rulers likely made it a popular site for the mai to escape the crowds at Gazargamo. Access to the mulima may have also facilitated the organizing of the horses for military expeditions. In short, the site was well-positioned and functioned as another manifestation of Sayfawa elite architecture in the history of Kanem-Borno. As a smaller royal site near Gazargamo, one cannot help but wonder which, if any, fired-brick ruins in Kanem served a similar purpose. If the antiquity of the birni can be traced to medieval Kanem, then it is difficult to imagine that Tié was the royal capital of Njimi. Was it not, perhaps, akin to Gambaru as a royal center visited by the rulers but not the large town or city sometimes implied in medieval Arabic sources? 

Bibliography

Alkali, Mohammad Nur. 2013. Kanem-Borno under the Sayfawa: A Study of the Origin, Growth, and Collapse of a Dynasty (891-1846) . Nigeria: University of Maiduguri.

Barth, Heinrich. Travels and discoveries in North and Central Africa: Including accounts of Tripoli, the Sahara, the remarkable kingdom of Bornu, and the countries around Lake Chad. London: Ward, Lock, and Co., 1890.

Bivar, A. D. H., and P. L. Shinnie. “Old Kanuri Capitals.” The Journal of African History 3, no. 1 (1962): 1–10. http://www.jstor.org/stable/179796.

Connah, Graham. Three Thousand Years in Africa: Man and His Environment in the Lake Chad Region of Nigeria. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1981. 

Denham, Dixon, Hugh Clapperton, Walter Oudney, and Abraham V. Salamé. Narrative of Travels and Discoveries in Northern and Central Africa: In the Years 1822, 1823, and 1824. 2d ed. London: John Murray, 1826.

Gronenborg, Detlef. "Kanem-Borno: a Brief Summary of the History and Archaeology of an Empire in the Central Bilad-el-Sudan" in West Africa during the Atlantic Slave Trade, edited by Christopher R. Decorse. London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2018.

Hambolu, Musa. "Recent Excavations Along the Yobe Valley." Berichte des Sonderforschungsbereichs 268 (1996): 215-229. 

Lange, Dierk.  A Sudanic Chronicle: The Borno Expeditions of Idrīs Alauma (1564-1576) According to the Account of Aḥmad B. Furṭū : Arabic Text, English Translation, Commentary and Geographical Gazetteer. Stuttgart: F. Steiner, 1987.

Migeod, Frederick William Hugh. Through Nigeria to Lake Chad. London: Heath Cranton Limited, 1924.

Nachtigal, Gustav, Allan G. B. Fisher, and Humphrey J (trans.). Fisher. Sahara and Sudan, Vol. 2. Berkeley and ; Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1971.

Palmer, H.R. The Bornu Sahara and Sudan. London: J. Murray, 1936.

__________. Sudanese Memoirs: Being Mainly Translations of a Number of Arabic Manuscripts Relating to the Central and Western Sudan. 1st ed., new impression. London: Cass, 1967.

Patterson, J.R. Kanuri Praise Songs. Lagos: Government Printer, 1926.

Seidensticker, Wilhelm. "A Note on the Site of Gambaru, Borno State," Zaria Archaeology Papers 5 (1983): 65-67.

__________. "Borno and the East: Notes and Hypotheses on the Technology of Burnt Bricks" in  Lionel Bender and Thilo C. Schadeberg (editors), Nilo-Saharan Proceedings: Proceedings of the First Nilo-Saharan Linguistics Conference, Leiden, the Netherlands, September 8-10 1980.

Shaw, Thurstan. Nigeria: It's Archaeology and Early History. London: Thames and Hudson, 1978.

Tilho, Jean (editor). Documents Scientifiques De La Mission Tilho. Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 1910.

Chima and the Peasantry in Precolonial Borno

 

A Kanuri village in Palmer's Bornu Sahara and Sudan.

Although we have still not been able to procure a copy of Hauwa Mahdi's MA Thesis, we believe her essay, "A Tentative Reconstruction of the Political Economy of Metropolitan Borno in the 18th and Early 19th Centuries" is a worthy endeavor. In this essay, Mahdi endeavored to develop a more robust explanation for the political economy of Borno during what we consider the Late Sayfawa Period. In so doing, Mahdi highlights the exploitative system of taxation and tribute imposed on farmers, or peasants. Unsurprisingly, she disagrees with the racist and condescending approach of Palmer, whose racialized lens turned the Sayfawa into enslavers on a massive scale. Yet she also took issue with Muhammad Nur Alkali's work for not properly addressing Palmer's comments on slavery and the slave trade within Borno. We shall begin with a brief overview of Mahdi's argument before addressing an early, colonial-era report on the chima system. 

For Mahdi, the basic unit of production was the peasant family. In a family plot, household labor was obviously key. On the general plot worked by the family, everyone contributed their labor. However, the wives of the male head of the household had their own smaller plots they were expected to work on. This meant that women were expected to provide labor on the general plot of their husband whilst also working on their own lands (Mahdi 4). Fortunately, a peasant farmer had the right to leave the land they worked to their children (5). But in terms of private ownership of the land, the peasant was not so secure in their rights. Moreover, they were also compelled to pay a number of taxes to the holder of the fief in which their lands fell. They could also be conscripted for military service or coerced into providing labor with other peasants on the lands held by the chima. This practice of forced labor on lands held by the elite was called surwa. Mahdi was told by oral informants that peasants had no real way to refuse this practice. After all, "Who are you to refuse?" In addition, the lands held by the elite were also worked by slaves (6).

The chima system of fief allocations usually favored elites based in Gazargamo (or, later, Kukawa). This group of absentee fief-holders appointed chima gana, or representatives to oversee the districts they held as fiefs. In terms of actual administration of these territories, the local representatives for the fief-holder were responsible for collecting taxes and the administrative, military, and legal apparatus overseeing the territory. The taxes were numerous: gidiram, biniram, zakat, sadaqa and various market, toll, and customs taxes. The first was a general tax on peasants, a ground tax, of up to 10% of their produce. The second, a cold season tax, and zakat, a corn tithe were also collected. The sadaqa was also a cold season tax. The market taxes and others would have had more of an impact in the towns or market centers that attracted traders and artisans (9-10). Besides these taxes, peasants could also be compelled to send gifts to the the higher classes. Needless to say, those responsible for administering the fiefs relied on the appropriation of the surplus of farmers. In other words, notables of Borno who allegedly provided protection of the state to peasant communities were also the very forces that consumed the surplus of the peasantry. As the dominant sector of society, this group could further their own interests and increase tribute or tax obligations or administer "justice" in ways that were opposed to the peasant producers.

Since Alkali did not properly respond to Palmer's mischaracterization of precolonial Borno's political economy and emphasized the Sayfawa's "protection" of the people without analysis of the exploitative nature of the fief system, Mahdi is very critical. Indeed, she accuses Alkali of substituting the Sayfawa for the "nation" of Borno and minimizing the coercive nature of the surwa system. After all, if the chima could appoint local agents who then imposed several taxes on peasants and forced them to labor on the lands of the elite, there was a system of class exploitation in place. Consequently, even if one agrees with Mahdi that private land tenure as such as perhaps on the cusp of developing in Borno, those who held land titles from the mai and received fiefs could extract labor from free peasants, impose taxes, and also exploit slave labor to increase their wealth. That the holders of the fief were expected to stay in Gazargamo perhaps made it even easier for their local agents to extract additional surplus through various "gifts" peasants were expected to give. Mahdi's attempt to link this exploitative system and peasant discontent with the uprisings at Misau and Marte, unfortunately, are underdeveloped though worthy of exploration (18).

What about J.R. Patterson's views of the chima system and the peasantry in Borno? Writing in c. 1918, Patterson traveled around the Borsari District to gather information for a report. This district, now in Yobe State, included Gambaru and other sites close to Gazargamo. The area was named after the town of Mbursari, once the headquarters of a kachella named Mbursa. This kachella once owned large fiefs in the area. The chimas, lamentably, lacked any surviving records from the period of Sayfawa rule. Informants told Patterson that the records were destroyed or stolen when Rabeh conquered Borno in the 1890s (Patterson 9). But for the period of the 19th century when the al-Kanemi dynasty ruled, oral tradition provided some clues. Thus, the chimas in this period were held by the royal family, chief slaves, and councilors of the Shehu. In other words, the political elit, who were lon-resident landlords based in Kukawa. Some were even able to become hereditary fief holders passing on their lands to an heir (10). These powerful people also chose the village chiefs, collected taxes, and appointed mallams for judicial affairs through their chima gana. Moreover, they also derived additional wealth through the kariari, or slave, settlements, whose residents paid a portion of their produce to their "owner" (13). 

In terms of actual village-level administration and taxation, the headmen were appointed by the chima gana. They were under constant pressure from them. These village headmen often bought their position by giving rich presents to the chima gana (14-15). Naturally, this meant that a village headmen (the bulama or marumawa) could just as easily lose their post if someone else gave richer gifts to the chima gana. The buying and selling of village leadership positions may have pressured the headmen to overtax or exploit their positions. Even the chima gana and their messengers demanded gifts on top of the biniram tax (42). The farm rent, or Keskaram tax, was another way for the chima gana and village headmen to demand additional payments of gifts or money from the talakawa. This even included the expectation for additional gifts at festivals or other times for the chimas to redistribute the "gifts" upwards to the Shehu (43). In short, the taxation or tribute system included several opportunities for unfair expectations of "gifts" or extra payment from the peasantry. Since the holder of the fief was based in Kukawa (or, earlier, in Gazargamo), they likely relied on their chima gana to maximize surplus appropriation in their various fiefs. The fact that village leadership could be bought by paying the chima gana could have put the bulama and maruma in a position where they too had to rely on coercive measures to extract additional taxes or "gifts" from the talakawa. 

But was the system of taxation always so oppressively exploitative? Surprisingly, Patterson's report suggests that the village headmen were indeed accountable to their village community. According to Patterson, "Obliged, as he was, to respond to the exorbitant and incessant demands of the Chima Gana and at the same time to keep on good terms with his 'talakawa' to whom he was often little better than a peg on which to hang their ills, a headman's term of office was usually only as long as his purse" (14). If this characterization is generalizable, then only in large villages where a headman was wealthy and more powerful than the chima gana were they able to occupy their office for a long period of time. In most cases, the village headmen were under pressure from both the peasantry and the chima gana, indicating that the talakawa could and did resist their exploitation. How exactly this took form is unclear, but they presumably expected the headmen to convey their discontent or grievances to the chima gana or even higher up the hierarchical administrative chain. One thinks of a word translated by Ali Eisami and Koelle, burguma, that is often associated with crying out for help to the king due to oppression. In this case, it may have also been addressed to charismatic mallams or reformers. As the Manga Revolt of the 1820s illustrates, mallams could become leaders in peasant movements against central authority. Of course, the political context of the Manga Revolt was complex as it involved a pro-Sayfawa movement against the leadership of al-Kanemi.

Unlike the chimas, other parts of Borno were mallam's towns, the so-called mallamti. They were founded by a mallam who received the land titles from the Shehu. They were not supposed to add subsidiary towns or farms to their land nor receive people. They also paid no taxes to the chimas near them. However, the leaders of mallam settlements or lands were expected to pray visit Kukawa to give a present to the Shehu and say the al fatia (13). Although they were not expected to take in newcomers and add more land to their domains, the mallamti settlements could grow to be prosperous communities over time. Undoubtedly, it was in the interests of the chimas to stop them from growing or threatening their control of the population living on their fiefs. To what extent this was possible to enforce in the centuries before the 1800s is unclear. One can easily imagine situations in which ineffective chima ganas could not prevent peasants from flocking to mallam settlements or villages, or perhaps escaping clandestinely to join these settlements away from oppressive chima taxation. Further study of mallamtis could illuminate this aspect of rural Borno's tensions between mallams and secular/state-affiliated land title holders eager to bleed the peasantry.

To return to Mahdi's analysis, there is an undeniable exploitative nature of the chima system. It relied on the appropriation of the surplus of farmers. These peasants could access land in a village, but by doing so were obligated to pay taxes or tribute in various guises to the recipient of the land title based in Gazargamo (or Kukawa, after the fall of the old capital). This meant that the peasant household production system was forced into an unequal relationship with the state's officials. These officials, supposedly providing protection to the farming communities in their fiefs, used a coterie of officials, local village headmen, and messengers to impose taxation. This taxation and tribute could also include coerced or forced labor on the private lands within the fief held by the chima. At various moments, the peasant could also be expected to provide "gifts" to these aforementioned officials. As for the local side of the equation, the rotating door of village headmen meant that the chima ganas and talakawa were likely engaged in constant struggle. The former sold the position of village headmen to whoever gave them the richest gifts. The latter continued to expect the headmen to represent the interests of the community and likely resisted him. Thus, the chima ganas and their messengers occasionally faced resistance from farmers who revolted or, as we suspect, fled to settlements of the mallams or sought redress from the mai. While the overall picture is more consistent with the analysis of Mahdi, documentation from the Sayfawa period is sorely lacking to confirm a number of details. Nonetheless, we believe it likely that the peasantry resisted their unfair oppression in a plethora of ways. To what extent peasant discontent really fueled the fall of the Sayfawa dynasty and the jihad remains to be seen. 

Revisiting Gumsu Amina

J.R. Patterson's Kanuri Songs

Although we have already attempted to write about a gumsu named Amina from 17th century Borno, we believe revisiting the topic was necessary. As a silence on the roles of women in Borno weakens our written sources, Kanuri oral tradition and song contains references to queens, queen-mothers, and other women who hold various high positions in society. Though these same oral traditions and praise songs often ignore women from the peasantry or enslaved women, they nonetheless require closer attention for any comprehension of women of the elite. As a senior wife to one of the most pivotal figures in the history of the Sayfawa, Ali b. Umar, Amina's contributions to this period in Borno's history is often overlooked. The following is a brief attempt at using various sources to corroborate details of her life. Admittedly, much of it is speculative given the paucity of sources. Revisiting this theme also reveals certain details about the relationship between the Sayfawa and the talba, a likely hereditary office of great importance for the royal council. The frequent intermarriage between the daughters of the likely hereditary post of talba and the Sayfawa rulers aids in understanding who was in the royal court and how this custom may have started as early as the 1200s if not earlier. 

Even if the name of the gumsu, Amina, frequently appears in other sources as the name of mothers of various Sayfawa rulers over the centuries, there does seem to have been a consistent pattern of daughters of the talba marrying the mai. Indeed, we have proposed that such a custom may have begun as early as the 13th century, when Dunama Dibalemi married the daughter of a talba named Yunus. Muhammad Nur Alkali has also suggested that the gumsu was usually a daughter of the Talba based on the girgams (Alkali 96-97). Unfortunately, we could not locate any documents from the 17th century that named Ali b. Umar's first wife as Amina, but the likelihood that she was indeed the daughter of the talba is very high. Caution is still necessary since there was a gumsu named Amina Talbaram who was said to have been the mother of Brem Gumsumi, or Ibrahim b. Idris (Alkali 255). Intriguingly, his mother was said to have been a gumsu of the "Maghrama tribe" in the Diwan. Lange has suggested this was the Magumi (Lange 81). However, this would mean that the gumsu of Idris Alooma was the daughter of the talba just like the gumsu of Ali b. Umar, his grandson.

Luckily, we do have some written sources that shed light on the family and court of Ali b. Umar (r. 1639-1677). For example, a mahram translated in H.R. Palmer's Bornu Sahara and Sudan names the talba in 1647 as Talit ibn Fasam. This information identifies the talba by his maternal ancestry and yet lacks a first name. The Yuroma listed in the mahram, Biu, bears a name that could be connected to the Bitku in the song (Palmer 32). Since the yuroma was usually a eunuch official who also held responsibility for the women taken along on military or other journeys of the mai, he would have been close to the gumsu (Nachtigal 256). Of course, it would be necessary to verify this Bitku=Biu theory by examining the Arabic original of the mahram. Only then would it be possible to confirm that the Bitku named in Palmer's translation is perhaps a mistaken rendering of Bitku (or vice versa). Nonetheless, we at least know the name of the talba in 1647, who was probably the mother of the gumsu of Ali b. Umar.

The above aids us in establishing the probable origins of Amina. Other sources on elite women in Borno hint at not only their political influence, but travels abroad, great wealth, and ties with Islam. For instance, a sister of Idris b. Ali (Idris Alooma) accompanied him on the Hajj in 1565 (Hadrien 193). In the late 18th century, Miss Tully met a black prince from Borno who traveled to Tunis and Tripoli. Among his party were 3 of his wives, including one who learned the Italian laguage (Miss Tully 206). Whilst passing through Cairo during one of his pilgrimages, Ali b. Umar was seen by Evliya Çelebi. Although we do not know if the gumsu accompanied him on his pilgrimages, he came with 1000 camels carrying his retinue. Women and kings from Borno were also described as wearing strings of beads around their heads (Hodgkin 184). The implication is that elite women were undoubtedly part of Ali b. Umar's entourage that traveled to Mecca. Consequently, the gumsu Amina may have also traveled to Cairo and Mecca during one of these pilgrimages. We were unable to confirm this, but Girard, describing Borno from Tripoli, was told the mai had many women in his harem (Dewière 616, f.321v). Thus, it is possible that Amina had traveled abroad, performed the pilgrimage, and was far more worldly than contemporary sources indicate.

Certainly as gumsu, Amina's powers were likely extensive in Borno's royal court. According to Alkali, the gumsu was primarily responsible for the administration of the royal palace and overseeing the princesses. As a titled member of the court, she also received fiefs (Usman 107). In addition, Alkali wrote of the gumsu recommending to the mai which slave girls should be given kambe, or free-born status (122). A sense of the power and wealth of can be found in the praise song translated by Patterson. According to this song, Amina held the following lands: Dugumaram, Bamma, Banna, Asaga and riverain towns. Banna may have been the village of Bana, a town once inhabited by the Sau Gafata that was described in Lange's A Sudanic Chronicle (112). Anyway, these riverain settlements and towns were administered by the yiroma Bitku (Patterson 19). It is very likely that these riverain areas held as fiefs by the gumsu were near the Komadugu. She also held the town of Dillawa, Gizawa, Maradi Town, Yam, Yemen, Gazargamo and Njimi (20). Some of this may be hyperbole, yet it suggests the queen held fiefs scattered throughout the state. This scattered distribution of fiefs appears to have been common for chima recipients. Perhaps it was designed to prevent one person from accumulating too much power or influence in a region? Either way, the praise song (probably with great exaggeration) also indicates Amina had access to soldiers or musketeers. The number given, 500, is actually how many gunmen Idris Alooma was said to have had at his disposal in the late 16th century. Likewise, the song stresses her ownership of a silver pestle, clearly an indication of luxury. Yet military power is suggested by the praise song's reference to the queen's ownership of a Yambal sword from the north.

Besides the song in Patterson's Kanuri Songs, Palmer's Bornu Sahara and Sudan is the most detailed source on this queen. According to a document translated and dated to 1658, the gumsu was the first lady of Ali b. Umar's household. She was also the one who told the mai about the Islamic holy man and scholar, Umr ibn Othman, whose prayers on behalf of various people in the capital were particularly effective. According to this account of the capital, the Gumsu had 60 courtiers, 40 slaves, and 20,000 slave soldiers (Palmer 34). While these numbers are perhaps best if not interpreted literally, it nonetheless supports the image of the queen in the praise song. Access to many dependents, wealth, and even military power are clear. The same source also mentioned Ali b. Umar wanting 1000 slaves and asking Umr ibn Othman to pray for him. Unsurprisingly, the king later received 10,000 slaves with the death of his mother (magira). Although there is probably no connection, the praise song referred to Ali b. Umar reconciling Amina with 1000 slaves after divorcing her (Patterson 20). Is it possible he was looking for 1000 captives to reconcile with Amina?

Further evidence of Amina's power and influence during this period may be glimpsed through the history of her husband's reign. Since it is unclear if she accompanied him on each hajj, she may have been important for assisting in the maintenance of the state during Ali b. Umar's many extended absences. For instance, when rebels in Borno took up arms during one of his pilgrimages and the Sultanate of Agadez launched an attack that reached the capital, loyalists to the mai held the city. It is possible Amina and her father, the talba, helped in resisting the rebels. After all, the talba was often given administration of the state when the mai left on long military campaigns (Studies in the History of Pre-Colonial Borno 119). If the talba and Amina were still in Gazargamo at this time, they presumably would have helped or led the loyalists against the rebels and the forces of Agadez. Likewise, when Kashim Biri attempted to usurp power when Ali b. Umar was on the pilgrimage (assuming this was not the same rebellion mentioned previously), it is possible that Amina and her father, the talba, led forces loyal to the mai against him. Indeed, Amina's father may have assisted when Ali b. Umar ascended to the throne in c. 1639. According to one source, the mai had 4 brothers put to death as soon as he became mai, certainly due to contested succession of Umar b. Idris and fears of another revolt. Amina's father, as part of the Mainin Kenandi, could have been part of the smooth succession and assisted the young mai. Amina, as the daughter of the talba, would have occupied a key position in ensuring this alliance.

In spite of the close relationship between the gumsu and the mai as both marriage partners and the function of the talba in the royal administration, the praise song cited earlier hints at tensions. According to the song, "The Babuma said to him (the Sultan): Do not do as your wife wishes." The song also warns the mai, "Leave behind the pleasures your wife wishes for." It is difficult to tell specifically what pleasures the narrator meant, but Amina allegedly prevented the sultan from riding out to war (Patterson 20). This is presumably an allusion to the queen endeavoring to stop Ali b. Umar from going to war or engaging in raids, but it is impossible to tell where. The song's reference to the Shari and El Ebeit rivers suggest it may have been a campaign against an area south of Lake Chad. Regardless of this disagreement, Ali b. Umar later reconciled her. We would suggest this was due to her own recognized power and the possible influence of her father at court. Maintaining an alliance with such a powerful woman with connections in the royal court made her a key ally. Indeed, it is possible her forces may have been counted among those who supported his government when he traveled abroad. 

Though our own thoughts on this powerful queen are necessarily speculative, we believe they are still plausible. In fact, they may account for descriptions of Amina in the praise song as "Ruler of Islam." Her position included a number of fiefs and administrators, providing ample resources for her while she oversaw the royal household and the princesses. Moreover, her father's position as talba meant the mai likely had to consider her position and connections at court. In the case of Ali b. Umar, this may have been even more important since he faced a period of contested succession and was frequently abroad for pilgrimages. Further confirmation of her parentage is required, perhaps through the Arabic original of the 1647 mahram and any alternative girgams. That said, the praise song, despite its occasional hyperbole, points to a woman of political and economic power and legitimacy. Indeed, her position was so admirable she was compared to the Sultan. Even after separating, Ali b. Umar was said to have reconciled her, perhaps in recognition of this. 

Bibliography

Alkali, Mohammad Nur. 2013. Kanem-Borno under the Sayfawa: A Study of the Origin, Growth, and Collapse of a Dynasty (891-1846) . Nigeria: University of Maiduguri.

Chirurgien esclave. "Passages sur le Borno de l’Histoire chronologique du chirurgien esclave, 1685" in Rémi Dewière, L’esclave, le savant et le sultan. Représentations du monde et diplomatie au sultanat du Borno (XVIe-XVIIe siècles), PhD diss., Université Paris 1 Panthéon-Sorbonne, 2015.

Hadrien, Collet. “Royal Pilgrims from Takrūr According to ʿAbd Al-Qādir al-Jazīrī (12^th–16^th Century).” Islamic Africa 10, no. 1–2 (2019): 181–203. https://www.jstor.org/stable/26670347.

Hodgkin, Thomas (editor). Nigerian Perspectives: An Historical Anthology. London: Oxford University Press, 1975.

Lange, Dierk.  A Sudanic Chronicle: The Borno Expeditions of Idrīs Alauma (1564-1576) According to the Account of Aḥmad B. Furṭū : Arabic Text, English Translation, Commentary and Geographical Gazetteer. Stuttgart: F. Steiner, 1987.

__________. Le Dīwān Des Sultans Du (Kānem-)Bornū: Chronologie Et Histoire D'un Royaume Africain (de La Fin Du Xe Siècle Jusqu'à 1808). Wiesbaden: F. Steiner, 1977.

Nachtigal, Gustav, Allan G. B. Fisher, and Humphrey J (trans.). Fisher. Sahara and Sudan, Vol. 2. Berkeley and ; Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1971.

Palmer, H.R. The Bornu Sahara and Sudan. London: J. Murray, 1936.

Patterson, J.R. Kanuri Praise Songs. Lagos: Government Printer, 1926.

Miss Tully. Narrative of a Ten Years' Residence at Tripoli in Africa. London: H. Colburn, 1817. 

Usman, Yusufu Bala, and Nur Alkali (editors). 1983. Studies in the History of Pre-Colonial Borno. Zaria: Northern Nigerian Pub. Co.