First Wave was a little disappointing. We missed the show the first time it aired but read and heard positive reviews. And at first, the show was promising. While admittedly somewhat silly since it attempted to pair prophecies of Nostradamus and an alien invasion with "cases of the week" modeled on that of The X-Files, Chris Brancato at least was capable of writing a decent episode of that latter show. Indeed, "Eve" in the first season of The X-Files does a decent job subverting audience expectations and creating a compelling narrative. To its credit, First Wave usually succeeded or at least "worked" in terms of its usual formula. The main problem with the first two seasons is that, unlike The X-Files, the show often relied on heavily on Eddie and Cade (with occasional appearances from Joshua, the Gua ally) to carry the show.
Unlike Scully and Mulder, whose differing perspectives on the paranormal and the addition of romantic tension could make its formulaic approach to storytelling work, sometimes First Wave became a chore to sit through. Sure, Cade often meets attractive women in various episodes and the show probably relied more heavily on that than X-Files, but it was difficult to stay as invested in the "experiment of the week" formula of this program. Sometimes the show's writers also crafted episodes that lacked clear or logical resolution. This becomes a bigger problem in the show's final season, with Jordan joining the main characters...
Finally, the show tries to expand its main characters beyond Cade and Eddie (and sometimes Joshua), but the actress playing Jordan is not the best performer. Then, inexplicably, the show's final season has Joshua, who had already risked his life multiple times to assist Cade, part ways with our heroes about the best way to halt the Gua invasion (the Second Wave). So, now that the third season has established a main Big Bad leader of the Gua, one who threatens Gua and humankind, Joshua becomes a questionable ally. The writers did not know quite what to do with him and the Raven Nation of Jordan are rather foolishly removed from the equation through a series of narrative moves by the writers to hasten the final confrontation. Mabus as the Big Bad never made much sense and the climax and resolution of the third season is, to put it frankly, a mess. It's quite a shame, since it would have been nice to see First Wave build upon some of the plot developments in the first and second season. For instance, Joshua's ally among the Gua who occupied a position of leadership is never brought back. A lot of loose ends are never addressed and questionable or unexplained things happen in the final half of the third season. So, alas, yet another okay science fiction show was canceled before its time.
Although we are not fans of jazz fusion, re-listening to Chick Corea naturally brought us to Return to Forever. This particular composition is quite epic, complex, and illustrates the occasional highs reached by Return to Forever and jazz fusion.
The collaboration of Julian Granberry and Gary Vescelius produced a short but very readable analysis of the languages of the precolonial Caribbean. Determined to see how linguistic evidence can be of assistance with tracking external and internal migration in the archipelago based on archaeological and ethnohistoric evidence, Languages of the Pre-Columbian Antilles proposes a few general theories. First, that the earliest Archaic population in the Antilles came from Central America, possibly speaking a Tolan language. A possible remnant of this ancient language presence might be attested in Hispaniola among the Ciguayo, whose word for gold, tuob, indicates a possible connection with that language family. Quisqueya, one of the indigenous names of the island of Haiti may also show a connection to Eastern Tol languages of Honduras. Of course, we lack enough words from the language spoken by the Ciguayo of Hispaniola to actually know for sure. But it's an interesting idea, considering the archaeological evidence of a movement of Central Americans from the area of Belize/Honduras into the West Indies in prehistoric times. Granberry and Vescelius also propose a movement of a population speaking a language related to Warao, a language isolate of Venezuela. This movement happened after the movement of Central Americas into the Antilles, and may have survived in the Macorix language, still spoken in parts of Hispaniola when the Spanish arrived (although not restricted to only Hispaniola).
The authors then propose the movement of Arawakan speakers after this period, who spoke a language from the Northwest branch of Maipuran languages, closer to Goajiro than, say, Lokono and the Northeast branch. Over time, the expansion of Arawakan speakers into the Greater Antilles and Lesser Antilles led to the replacement of the Warao-like language or a new, creolized form of the Arawakan tongue, which became the Taino language. Evidence for a pre-Taino Warao-related language is also lacking enough evidence to support, but words like duho or duhu in Taino appear to be derived from the Warao word for stools or sitting. Similarly, the word for gold, nozay, in the Lucayan Islands may be related to the Modern Warao term for gold. According to Granberry, this Warao-influenced Arawakan language was the "Ciboney" tongue used in Cuba, western Hispaniola, probably Jamaica and the Lucayan islands. The language we call Classic Taino, however, was the universal tongue and appears to have been in a process of expansion into Cuba right before the Spanish conquest. As for the Guanahatabey of Cuba, Granberry and Vescelius accept the theory of their Archaic origins, which implies they may have spoken one of the pre-Arawak languages of the Antilles.
Trying to connect language shifts with ceramic styles and lithics can be fraught with danger. Sometimes languages spread or change without necessarily correlating with ceramic styles or other aspects of material culture. In that regard, we are unsure how to interpret the theory of a Meillacoid ceramics style and Chican being signs of distinct languages. In addition, we wonder about the power of Xaragua in western Hispaniola, which was considered by Las Casas to have spoken the most refined form of the universal language of the island. If that language was Taino, and they spoke the most refined form of it while also being considered the most powerful cacicazgo of the island, does that not imply a strong or influential Classic Taino influence in the western parts of Hispaniola? Nevertheless, Granberry and Vescelius's study, despite its very limited data to support their ideas of Tolan and Warao-like languages in the ancient Great Antilles, raise a number of interesting insights. For instance, using toponyms to postulate where the first inhabitants of the Lucayans came from (Cuba and Hispaniola) is an interesting idea that can be supported with archaeological evidence. Furthermore, the adoption of the Warao duhu for what is one of the most important signs of chiefly power and ceremonial uses in Taino civilization is certainly interesting, even if no other Taino words related to chiefly power or spirituality have a link to Warao.
Likewise, the fact that Eyeri or Lesser Antilles Arawakan language was closer to Northeast Arawakan languages on the South American mainland, a pattern still evident in the Garifuna language which descends from, illustrates the huge linguistic diversity in the precolonial period. A few other instances of specific words that do not demonstrate clear Arawak affinities or archival sources might have further strengthened some of the ideas proposed by the authors. For example, Oviedo's reference to the use of the word "eracra" for bohio or house by the Indians of the island of Haiti should have been examined to see if it shows any similarities with Warao or Central American tongues. And the explanation of the prefix maku and the definition of Macorix or Macorix could have been expanded upon for understanding references to "Macurijes" in other parts of the Great Antilles, such as Cuba. If Macurijes in Cuba during the second half of the 16th century did not speak Taino, was it a Warao language? Or were they speaking what the authorss considered "Ciboney" instead? It is difficult to know, although the idea of Macorix implying a non-Arawakan language is an interesting one. It might be worthwhile to also look into languages in Florida the coast of Panama and Colombia for possible connections with other cultures the Greater Antilles peoples were in contact with.
Cahokia: Ancient America’s Great City on the Mississippi by Timothy R. Pauketat serves as an adequate introduction to the precolonial metropolis known today as Cahokia. A site we hope to one day visit, Pauketat's book analyzes the history and, to a certain extent, the history of the archaeologists who have worked at the site. With its impressive mounds, or pyramids, (including one of the largest in the Americas) and evidence of complex rituals, social stratification or ranks, long-distance trade and contacts and its legacy in the Mississippian cultures, Cahokia was an impressive civilization. Lamentably, as one might expect, the site has not been respected by 19th and 20th century Euroamericans, whose plows, construction, highways, and subdivisions have destroyed parts of Cahokia and related sites at St. Louis and East St. Louis.
Nonetheless, the impressive remains that have been salvaged and continue to be an area of study for archaeologists have shown the rise of a city or urban complex at Cahokia beginning around the year 1050. Pauketat proposes a connection with the supernova visible in the sky in the year 1054, an astronomical observation that must have been noticed by indigenous peoples like those who built Cahokia. After all, their Woodhenge was also associated with astronomical alignments and significance related to the cosmos. The supernova and the chronology we have for Cahokia's rise and fall, built on what used to be a smaller village site, suggest its influence spread far and wide in the Plains, Midwest, and South. While not unique for the construction of mounds, the scale of Cahokia's mounds, the large numbers of sacrificial victims found at the site, and vastness with villages peopled by inhabitants from distant areas suggest at least some degree of political centralization. The labor costs for the mounds, plaza, and the food and supplies to feed the area at its zenith, which was at least 10,000 in the urban area, must have also been an additional area the city's elites expressed their power. Religion, the human sacrifices at the mounds, and perhaps Cahokian traders, colonists, and chunkey games seem to have played a prominent role here, too, helping to establish Cahokia's influence across a huge swath of the North American continent and influencing subsequent indigenous cultures.
Ultimately, there is a lot we don't know about the site. The various oral traditions, legends, linguistic data, and finds from other sites in North America are all utilized in this source to construct a possible/plausible history of Cahokia. Was it a powerful kingdom perhaps influenced by Mesoamerica? No irrefutable evidence has been found yet, but common references and symbolism in Native American cultures either descended from Cahokia or influenced by it with Mesoamerican traditions are suggestive. If Cahokia was the center from which Mesoamerican influences may have spread further in North America, then perhaps people from Cahokia really did travel to Mexico in the 11th century (or Mesoamericans traveled north?). Further evidence is required to verify, but this idea of Mesoamerican influences brought to mind the past scholarship on the Taino and possible contacts with Mesoamerica in the precolonial period. The indigenous peoples of the Greater Antilles, for instance, had some overlap with Mesoamerican art and religious practices according to Puerto Rican scholars and theorists such as Eugenio Fernandez Mendez. Perhaps there was some sort of "moment" around the 11th century or so that witnessed direct or indirect relations between Mesoamerica and the Caribbean as well as Mesoamerican and what is now the United States?
It's always a delight to find serious or semi-serious people creating online videos or posting articles about the ancient kingdom of Ghana. Of course, it would be even better if an academic like Bathily or perhaps Soninke-speaking historians were posting this type of content in French or English. If they, like Bathily, could draw on their knowledge of the Soninke language and Soninke oral traditions and ethnographies, I believe we could get a bit closer to what Ghana actually was like.
Hadrien Collet's Le sultanat du Mali - Histoire régressive d'un empire médiéval XXIe-XIVe siècle is a challenging read. Very academic and interested in avoiding literalist readings of oral traditions or Arabic sources, the focus of this regressive history is an emphasis on the historiography of Mali. This historiography reveals discursive practices of various generations of historians who wrote about the past of Mali, from Mamluk-era scholars like al-Umari to the post-medieval historians and chroniclers of the Timbuktu tarikh tradition or colonial and post colonial academics and scholars. By highlighting the historiographical turn, Collet's study endeavors to understand the ideological, literary, and other contexts of the key texts utilized as sources to construct a narrative of the "imperial" era in the Western Sudan. Likewise, a rereading of Arabic sources and a desire to place them in their context reveals how al-Umari, Ibn Battuta, and others from the Muslim world conceived of Mali in terms of Islamic geography, science, literature, and geopolitics. By attempting to understand the larger context for our external sources on Mali, instead of relying on extracts that divorce these sources from their larger context, one can gain new insights into the origin and meaning of the relevant writings. Collet's text particularly does this with regard to al-Umari's encyclopedic chapter on Mali and the Rihla of Ibn Battta. Surprisingly, Ibn Khaldun, who provides some of the richest information on Mali in the external sources, does not receive a chapter.
The choice of beginning with the colonial-era scholarship of the likes of a Delafosse and orientalists like Cooley to the nationalist scholarship of Mamby Sidibe or the post colonial age of scholarship from the likes of D.T. Niane and Cheikh Anta Diop, makes it easier to see for the reader how the narrative of the "Mali Empire" developed and became an established historical "fact" in academic, Afrocentric and online discourse. However, a deeper analysis of the ways in which this narrative was established by scholars and academics in the 19th and 20th centuries reveals a number of problems and concerns. Since we have not examined some of the scholarship analyzed here, particularly the works of Monteil or the Malian and Guinean publications of the post colonial era, we nonetheless find a problem with the colonialist, nationalist, Afrocentric, and interpretative lens used by these scholars. The colonial-era ones, for instance, like Delafosse, did not always cite their oral sources clearly and later scholars adopted a sometimes uncritical use of oral traditions, treating the griots as "neutral" reservoirs of "raw facts" or data that can be used to supplement the meager external Arabic sources for the medieval sultanate of Mali. In reality, however, these oral traditions as preserved by griots are not frozen in time but adaptable to new conditions and meanings to retain their relevance. In other words, scholars may have rushed to historicize figures like Sundiata while also promoting the narrative of a precociously modern "constitution" for the state established by this figure.
In short, scholars must use oral traditions as carefully as written sources, and in so doing will similarly recognize the agency and creativity of griots as historians. This type of analysis will potentially elucidate or bring us closer to answering the questions of past generations of specialists and scholars. For instance, using oral traditions and archaeological data critically to rethink the location of the capital of the Mali sultanate. Instead of looking to Niani, the discredited imperial capital promoted by colonial scholars and Niane, the capital of the sultanate may have been further north and not in the Manden heartland as we know it today. Likewise, the collection of oral traditions in different parts of Manden and trying to analyze how they reflect post-"imperial" Mali conditions after the loss of their northern territories (Djenne, Walata, Timbuktu, etc.) highlights the "living" nature or conditions of oral traditions.
The next section analyzes post-medieval West African historians in an intriguing manner. Building on the model of historian Paulo Fernando de Moreas Farias and Mauro Nobili, the famous tarikhs of Timbuktu are seen in a new light. In addition, 19th century Islamic scholars such as Muhammad Bello of Sokoto and the chronicles and writings of Muslim scholars from Walata and the Hamdullahi caliphate. By treating the authors of texts as historian colleagues, one can begin to see how their construction of Mali and the pilgrimage of Mansa Musa functioned to express an Islamic West African conception of the region's past. Takrur, for example, is redefined by these authors in ways that clearly deviate from the historical kingdom of Takrur or the use of the term by Mamluk scholars in the East. Mansa Musa and his wondrous pilgrimage, the sponsorship of mosques, and the honor he accorded to the ulama represent a model of leadership. Like the future Askia Muhammad's function in the chronicles, Mansa Musa therefore served as an exemplary Islamic ruler who also helped establish Takrur as a Muslim geographic space. Although our 17th century chroniclers al-Sa'adi and Ibn Muhtar appear to have largely relied on oral traditions for Mali and a few external Arabic sources, their anecdotes, stories, and traditions on the Middle Niger's past under Malian suzerainty indicate the enduring memory and legacy of the kingdom. Even when in conflict with Songhay, the Islamic sultanate Collet suggests may be conceived as "modern" or "early modern" rather than medieval, Mali and the memory of Mansa Musa suggest it retained its power and legacy as an Islamic state.
The final chapters analyzing the major external Arabic sources (al-Umari, Ibn Battuta) and the Mamluk-era writings on the pilgrimage of Mansa Musa, present, perhaps, the denouement of the historiographical and hermeneutical turn embodied in this work. These sources, written in the time of the Mali sultanate's zenith or soon after, reflect the power and reputation attained by the West African state after Mansa Musa's pilgrimage impressed Mamluk Cairo in 1325. Collet's reading of al-Umari and Ibn Battuta exemplifies this well, as both authors receive detailed treatment in terms of their backgrounds, their writings beyond the well-known extracts on Mali, and the literary and intellectual concerns and styles of their respective genres. Seeing Ibn Battuta and Ibn Guzzay's co-produced narrative as literary does not mean the voyage to the Sudan never happened (although it is possible Ibn Battuta never went beyond Walata). Indeed, following literary conventions and seeing the topology of the genre of travel writings that situated the Sudan (Black Africa) and the Far East as distinct zones bordering the unknown lands. The notion of "marvels" used here, particularly in the chapter on Ibn Battuta, was fascinating and points to, in our opinion, the overall veracity of Ibn Battuta's account of Mali. While undoubtedly drawing on a larger corpus of literature on the "Land of the Blacks" in Arabic literature, the local customs and "exoticisms" described in the text are sometimes unique and, if not directly witnessed by Ibn Battuta himself, were based on first-hand accounts. Like al-Umari, who also occasionally drew from the larger context of Arabic literary conventions and geography on sub-Saharan Africa, Ibn Battuta's story of cannibals to the south of Mali and other "marvels" demonstrates the literary nature of the source. That insight, however, does not mean the journey to Mali never occurred. It actually offers a new perspective that can raise new questions and conclusions about the nature of Mali during the 14th century.
Sadly, Ibn Khaldun's detailed analysis of Mali does not have a separate chapter in Collet's detailed book. It is a shame, since Ibn Khaldun's use of a "Takruri" informant from Ghana indicates the presence of an account drawing on a different regime of truth. Indeed, the Takruri faqih in Cairo may represent a late 14th century West African perspective on Mali, drawing on "fresh" traditions and possibly written sources for his reconstruction of the chronology of mansas. Uthman, this Ghana faqih interpreted via Ibn Khaldun, represents, besides Mansa Musa himself in the reports on the pilgrimage, the closest thing to a contemporary "internal" voice on the sultanate. It would have been interesting to read Collet's breakdown of Ibn Khaldun and his larger sociopolitical theory of history in this context, as well as an early local/West African history of Mali. Otherwise, al-Umari largely relied on al-Dukkali, who is said to have lived in Mali's capital for several years, or the filtered accounts of what Mansa Musa was reported to have said to Mamluk officials during his Egyptian sojourn. Even if Ibn Khaldun's account is not particularly reliable, the use of Takruri informants who were contemporaries of 14th century Mali merits further investigation.
We really enjoyed watching Arnold Antonin's documentaries on Jacques Stephen Alexis and Papa Dessalines. While viewing them on Youtube was not always comfortable and both documentaries hopped around chronologically in sometimes confusing ways, Antonin's films are a treasure. As one of the few Haitians out there producing educational video content based on research and interviews with specialists (unlike most of the trash produced and disseminated online and via social media), Antonin's films illustrate examples of more serious filmmakers and students of Haitian history and culture. That said, it was also interesting to see the two films in one weekend since Alexis claimed descent from the father of our nation.
In terms of the Alexis documentary, Jacques Stephen Alexis, mort sans sépulture, Antonin includes the testimony of a number of Alexis's relatives. Indeed, even his sister, Alta, appears in the documentary (albeit not long enough to take advantage of what insights she may have had about the Alexis family's origins or childhood of her brother). Alexis's daughter Florence and her son, Alexis's wife Andrée Roumer, and a number of writers, intellectuals, and political comrades like Depestre, Bloncourt, and Rassoul Labuchin appear. Labuchin shares some of his memories of traveling to China with Alexis, including the good impression Alexis left on Mao. Depestre and Bloncourt recall their involvement with the student protests that led to the fall of Lescot and Depestre's later conflicts with Alexis. Others who were involved with Alexis's political activities in the 1950s and 1960s express agreement with Alexis's belief in the need for an alliance with the progressive wing of the national bourgeoisie to overturn "feudal" relations in Haiti. Unfortunately, we are still confused about the death of Alexis, but at least the perspective of different individuals is included. Scholars who specialize in literature and Haitian writers like Depestre, Yanick Lahens, and Dany Laferriere also appear, giving their own opinions on the quality of Alexis's literary work. All seem to concur that L'espace d'un cillement is his least dated work, while also expressing an appreciation for his contributions to the Haitian short story.
The documentary on Dessalines, entitled Jean-Jacques Dessalines, le vainqueur de Napoléon Bonaparte, was a little harder to make sense of. The filmmaker chose to narrate the story of his life in an unorthodox manner, instead of a more linear or chronological order. It was sometimes awkward and difficult to follow, although the documentary did a great job capturing the use and appropriation of Dessalines as a symbol by different ideologies of Haitians. While nearly everyone who appeared in the documentary praised Dessalines for his military leadership and for the establishment of Haiti as an independent state, they also offered nuanced interpretations of his leadership and flaws. Some, including Leslie Péan see the roots of Haiti's political problems in the refusal of Dessalines to accept a constitution modeled on that of the US. Instead, the desire to create an imperial constitution with himself at the head of government, established a bad precedent in Haiti. Others criticized Dessalines for lacking the tact and skills of a politician. An additional perspective blamed the assassination of Dessalines on the US (which is not elucidated) while the massacre of the remaining French population was attributed to the desire of "mulattoes" to remove the French who could have claimed properties or plantations. What we found particularly interesting was the idea that Dessalines was not assassinated out of the fear he would institute some progressive or equitable land reform. It ultimately came down to the belief of Dessalines in the role of the state. The state should possess a dominant role in land ownership by leasing estates, and the state should exercise a major role in trade and commerce. While the model of Dessalines probably would have led to wealthier Haiti, the assassination obviously foreclosed any possibility of that happening. Perhaps the kingdom of Christophe is the closest approximation to what Haiti under the Empire of Dessalines would have looked like (although the documentary suggests Dessalines had a different vision for Haiti than Christophe and Toussaint Louverture).
Overall, these were two excellent documentary films. One on the founder of the nation and the other about one of his descendants who was a major figure in 20th century Haitian literature and politics, illustrates the living legacy of Dessalines. The Dessalines documentary could have been better and some of the claims made require additional explanation or sourcing, but it was a fine attempt to get some idea of who was Dessalines. Some of the revelations and stories included were also surprises. For instance, the depiction of Dessalines on the gourde was based on a Japanese artist's random depiction of a black person because the Haitian government never sent a faithful painting or portrait of Dessalines to base it on. It's tragic to think we have no idea what Dessalines actually looked like though there were accurate portraits lost in fires. Our father remains, therefore, to some extent unknowable but his progeny and ideas of building a stronger nation retain their relevance. Indeed, even Alexis, who believed that a nationalist branch of the bourgeoisie could unite with the forces of the working classes to build a better Haiti, was in some ways following the unitary message of Dessalines who, in his 1805 constitution, proclaimed all Haitians noirs in an attempt to unify the divided Haitian population.
It's always a pleasurable surprise to see serious or semi-serious online commentary, analysis and reviews of Haitian historical figures like Soulouque. While Guy Ferolus could have incorporated more recent sources, this is a decent overview of of Haiti's most unique 19th century rulers. We can recall more recent scholarship also highlighting Soulouque's support for the arts.
Madina Ly Tall's Contribution à l'histoire de l'Empire du Mali, (XIIIe-XVIe siècles): limites, principales provinces, institutions politiques is by now a dated yet provocative interpretation of the Mali Empire. Pushing back against earlier authors like Delafosse who believed Mali disintegrated into irrelevance by the early decades of the 15th century, Ly Tall uses Portuguese sources and oral traditions to demonstrate the power and economic importance of Mali in 15th and 16th century gold trade, especially through its control of the Gambia for access to coastal trade. The Malian historian also utilized the usual Arabic sources (medieval external Arabic ones like that of al-Umari or Ibn Khaldun and the later chronicles like the Tarikh al-Fattash) and oral traditions recorded in earlier sources or from her own fieldwork. Thus, through an impressive use of nearly all types of sources (including the limited archaeological work in Mali and the site of Niani), the author presents a plausible Mali Empire through its provincial organization and administrative structure.
More than half of the text consists of short chapters on the various provinces of Mali that can be identified with a combination of textual and oral sources. These major provinces are then elucidated in terms of their possible importance in the Mali Empire and how they were lost to the center. Here is where the author is willing to push back against previous scholarship with regards to the eastern extent of Mali. During its apogee in the 14th century, Ly Tall believes the emperor did indeed include Tadmekka and Takedda, despite other historians disputing the problematic Arabic sources on the matter. Of course, due to the paucity of sources, it is possible that these eastern possessions were lost after a short period of time. Ly Tall also makes a problematic case for Kukia possibly remaining under Mali control well into the 15th century. This is based, in part, on the problematic references to a "Quioquia" in Portuguese sources. This, however, seems unlikely to have been the Kukiya associated with the Songhay and Gao. We find it unlikely that the Sonni or Si dynasty would have not controlled Kukiya by the 1430s if not far earlier. After all, Ly Tall herself implies that Mali lost control of much of its northern and eastern domains around the time it lost control of Timbuktu in the 1430s. Consequently, it seems unlikely to have held Kukiya, too. Of course, Ly Tall tdoes raise interesting pints due to the possible depopulation of Gao in c.1375 and its decline in the late 1300s and early 1400s but we believe it unlikely that Malian influence would have still been strong in that area.
Outside of a few quibbles with questionable claims or debatable conclusions about Mali's imperial reach to the east and over Gao-Kukiya, the author endeavors to use oral traditions in conjunction with Ibn Khaldun, al-Umari, and Ibn Battuta to sketch the outline of imperial Mali's administration. According to her research, the empire appears to have not depended on enslaved officials, although she identifies a griot who was willing to explain the rise of one former slave official who usurped power (perhaps the Sakoura of Ibn Khaldun's account). The issue of succession, which we saw led to frequent conflicts, appears to have followed two patterns. After Sundiata, it was mainly collateral, moving from eldest brother to younger siblings. After Mansa Musa, however, the succession seems to have emphasized father-son inheritance. Perhaps this was due to the greater Islamization of the Mandingue aristocracy or the specific desires of rulers to ensure their sons would reign. Sadly, the lack of sources for later Mali history in the 15th and 16th century does not allow us to clearly identify which pattern of succession predominated. Perhaps, after losing its northern territories, the Mandingue returned to an emphasis on collateral succession, a principle deeply grounded in Mandingue polities and clan structure. In addition, the administrative structure was one that, of course, featured a prominent role for griots, repositories of tradition and history who were closely linked to the mansas. The Mali Empire's administrative structure also included a role for local dynasties in annexed or conquered territories, though sometimes replacing them with representatives of the central government.
Overall, Ly Tall's study is a careful one that attempts to integrate all the known sources. While she appears to have lacked the ability to read Portuguese, the French and English translations provide enough data to demonstrate that Mali's influence continued in Gambia. Her argument that control of this stretch of the coast played a major role in the survival of a Mali empire until the end of the 16th century is an interesting one that could be strengthened with further data or figures on the scale of the gold trade with the Portuguese. Nonetheless, the fertility of the land along the Gambia River and the trade with Europeans on the coast likely did contribute to Mali's survival after the loss of its northern territories. That said, Malian control of some of the gold sources which provided gold to Djenne and Timbuktu must have been an important source of revenue for the mansas. Even if Songhay and, then the Pashalik in Timbuktu controlled the north, Mali remained relevant in the gold trade to the north. Indeed, as late as 1599, the mansa of Mali attempted to seize Djenne, proof that the state was still a power in the region and willing to try to retake former provinces.
Although we lack the language expertise and familiarity with Chinese and Southeast Asian sources for early Southeast Asian history, we find Liam Kelley's work fascinating for its questioning of the Srivijaya narrative. In particular, his article, "Rescuing History from Srivijaya: The Fall of Angkor in the Ming Shilu (Part 1) raises a number of interesting questions about the decline of the Angkor Cambodian state. Instead of following the traditional narrative that connected the Sanfoqi of Chinese sources to Srivijaya, Kelley instead demonstrates how it was likely referring to Cambodia and its Angkor kingdom. We eagerly await Part 2 of his article to see how Siamese and Cambodian chronicles that cover the 14th and 15th centuries support Kelley's identification of Sanfoqi with Angkor and the periods of Siamese and Javanese influence in the region.
Seishi Yokomizo's work is always worth reading. This time, our hero, Kosuke Kindaichi, must solve the murder of three beautiful sisters on an island populated by descendants of pirates and escaped convicts. The girls, the granddaughters of a fishing chief who once dominated the entirety of Gokumon island, who is frequently compared to Hideyoshi, are in danger after the preferred heir to the family business dies after returning from service in World War II. The other male heir, however, is said to be alive and his return from Burma is expected. Nonetheless, after his late friend warned him of the danger his sisters will be in, Kindaichi visits the island and tries to prevent and solve the murders. It is a fun novel with impossible crimes, suspense, and plot twists. This one in particular really shocks the reader once our detective protagonist unveils the truth.
However, one must note some minor quibbles. At times, the plot advances without any smooth transition. And things are mentioned out of nowhere in terms of Kindaichi's personal life (no spoilers). It would also have been interesting to see more use of the branch Gito family in the plot and more explanation on how one of the murders (the last one) was committed when, presumably, the killer was never alone for long. The islanders themselves, however, emerge as a strong community of quirky, rural people. Somewhat isolated, even they will be, presumably, swept up by the changes of postwar Japan. As Sanae herself indicates, the type of authority her grandfather once exerted may not survive in this future, so the reader is seeing a town in which one person, whose pursuit of wealth trickled down to benefit all, actually failed the island. Without revealing too much of the plot, the novel offers a subtle critique of a certain type of personality and social relations of wealth and power in this remote island community.
We found this talk by Giovanni Ruffini on Rome in the Ethiopian and Nubian Imagination to be fascinating and a worthwhile listen. Anything accessible yet serious about medieval Nubia is worthy of attention and should be disseminated to all interested parties.
Léon-François Hoffmann's chapter in Haitian Fiction Revisited, "The Indian Element in the Haitian Collective Consciousness" is an interesting essay on an important topic that is often overlooked or neglected. While the theme of the Indian in Spanish Caribbean literature and history has received a far more thorough treatment and analysis, the role of the indigenous past and its legacy in Haitian identity and literature is not often discussed. This, of course, is partly a reflection of the greater presence and legacy of the indigenous Caribbean in places like Cuba, Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic. Nonetheless, as the first independent state in the Caribbean and one that revived the indigenous name for the island while also pioneering historical research into this indigenous past by 19th century Caribbean authors (Nau, for instance), Haiti deserves a second look.
Hoffmann's chapter endeavors to do this, mainly through an analysis of the function and character of the Indian theme in Haitian poetry, drama, fiction and, to a lesser extent, ethnology and history. Hoffmann's occasionally ironic commentary on some of the more extreme claims by Haitian authors of a Taino influence in Vodou or Haitian culture more broadly reflect his likely reasonable skepticism, particularly in the penchant of some Haitian authors to make these claims without presenting a shred of evidence. Nonetheless, he was not so dismissive in its entirety, merely pointing out some of the problematic assertions of Alexis, Maya Deren, and the fanciful or imaginative nature of claims of a Taino influence. One wishes he offered a more thorough analysis of Hermann Corvington's "historical vulgarizations" on the island's indigenous caciques, especially since those texts are so difficult to find today. However, he also found traces of the island's indigenous people in Haitian poetry that alluded to the use of zemis in Vodou, although this in itself does not mean Vodou practices were influenced by living "Tainos." Still, the intriguing literary references show that the Haitian, including those from non-elite backgrounds, likely possessed some degree of interest in the island's precolonial inhabitants.
One wishes the author had also addressed the claim by some Haitian authors to Indian ancestry a little more deeply. Madiou, Comhaire-Sylvain, and others, for example, seem worthy of mention and some attempt at historical analysis to understand how and why identification as "Indian" appealed to some Haitians. The political implications of specific uses of the "Indian" theme in Haitian literature and politics may also be worthy of deeper study. Especially, in 1983, the Duvalier regime's attempt to create an Indian-themed national holiday and to commemorate that legacy with a statue to the Unknown Indian in the capital. Yet, a few years later, when the Duvalier regime fell, the statue honoring the Indian was also toppled alongside that of Columbus. Was the Duvalier dictatorship's attempt to capitalize on the island's Indian past and legacy a move to gain legitimacy and establish its legitimacy, which was under challenge and then rejected by the masses of Port-au-Prince? And were moments of parallelism and identification with Indians, particularly their tragic history, linked to the US Occupation of Haiti and other moments when a Haitian government was perceived as too eager to serve imperialist interests? There is a lot to consider here, and perhaps, one day, the "Indian" them will be revisited in a similar broad context.
Ryder's Benin and the Europeans, 1485-1897 has been presented as one of the better texts to read for an understanding of the Kingdom of Benin based on written sources.Sadly, despite the long history of contact and trade with Europe (Portugal, England, Netherlands, France, Capuchin missions), Benin was never a major exporter of slaves and commerce with Europe appears to have been more peripheral to the kingdom's economy. Instead, unspecified links with the interior, including distant Nupe and Hausa centers to the north, were likely far more important. To make things even more complicated, Benin lost control of the lower river to the Warri kingdom's Itsekiri, relying on Ughoton as their major port of trade. However, large European ships could not sail that far, further complicating trade. Benin, consequently, had to rely on the Itsekiri and Ijo peoples to some extent for trade with Europeans. And due to the royal monopoly on ivory and attempts by the oba to control trade tightly, conflicts with the Dutch and other Europeans were frequent.
Nonetheless, Ryder's study analyzes the surviving corpus of European sources to narrate the history of Benin's relations with the European powers active on the West African coast. Unfortunately, he was not successful at connecting the events and features in the European sources too strongly with the narratives and traditions of Benin based on oral sources and art history. Some critics of Ryder's study suggest he was too tentative here and, like them, we feel at times that we have very little idea what was going on in Benin internally. Some of the conflicts over trade, trade stoppages, and attempts by the oba to lower prices or attain access to firearms certainly can be linked to some degree with events in Benin known from tradition. The civil wars, for instance, or the period of 17th century weak rulers, can be glimpsed or inferred from the reports, journals and letters of Europeans stationed on the coast. Still, one feels like this book must be read in conjunction with Bradbury, Egharevba, and Connah's archaeological research to make sense of what was happening.
Intriguingly, Ryder's book alludes to some possible deeper ties Benin enjoyed with the Nupe, Idah, and perhaps Hausa networks of trade and circulation of goods. During the mid-17th century, when cloth exports of Benin became a major item of trade for resale on the West African coast, Ryder suggests that much of this product had to be acquired by Benin traders from interior parts of West Africa. Some may have been supplied from as far away as Nupeland, pointing to a trade link that connected Nupe production centers with the coast and European trade. Later, in c.1787, Ryder briefly discusses Landolphe's encounter with Muslims in Benin, said to have come from Oyo. While his description of them suggests a more northerly origin in the Hausa states or the Sahel, this brief description of them points to long-distance trade between Benin and northern Nigeria (and beyond). One wonders to what extent Benin's cloth, salt, ivory, and slave trading linked to as far away as Oyo and the northern of the Niger River. Indeed, Benin's interior trade must have been of enough importance for the kingdom's interests due to their often limited exchange with Europe. Of course, the European sources scarcely tough upon this theme, and perhaps one can understand the reluctance of Ryder to infer too much from these aforementioned sources.
Last, but certainly not least, the extensive documentation on Benin does point to the troubling issue of assumptions of immutable traditions. On a number of instances, Ryder cites sources which point to different traditions, greetings, and changing customs like human sacrifice. Allegedly not reported in the early Portuguese sources, human sacrifice rituals grew and decreased depending on circumstances. Due to the lower power of some obas in terms of political centralization and military authority, Ryder believes they endeavored to increase their status through the belief in their supernatural powers. Perhaps this was why some obas organized rituals featuring more sacrifices than others? Regardless, the documentation is enough to point out how tradition can change rather quickly, making it more problematic to assume too much continuity for any society based on traditional beliefs and practices.
Although we are not huge fans of Horace Parlan, randomly listening to this tune was a pleasant surprise. The inimitable Billy Higgins is cookin' on drums and Johnny Coles and Booker Ervin are playing strongly, reminiscent to a certain extent of the modal sound perfected by the likes of Miles and Coltrane. As always, Higgins is the foundation that keeps it all together in his own enthralling way.
This is only good because of Oumou Sangare. Get rid of the rap lyrics and add some more variation to the music, then Oumou Sangare could have really done something.
Although mainly based on one source produced as part of a royal proclamation after the defeat of the Songhay, Mauro Nobili and Saïd Bousbina demonstrate the reduction of Songhay into the trope of the enslaveable black. This attitude, by the way, reminds us of al-Fishtali's similarly condescending references to the envoy of Borno who was received in Morocco during the the reign of Idris b. Ali. Race, and the blackness of the Songhay trumped their Islamic and ethnic identities.
Just read Anthony Kaldellis's Streams of Gold, Rivers of Blood. It's about the rise and fall of the renewed Byzantine Empire under the Macedonian dynasty expansionist phase and the rapid near collapse in the late 11th century. He really pushes back against the idea that Constantine Monomachos was an incompetent ruler. He also reemphasizes the weakness of the "feudalization" theory for understanding how the Empire declined. We also lack evidence of any extensive "fiscalization" of thematic lands that would have made the empire more dependent on professional soldiers instead of thematic ones, although the professional soldiers would have been more mobile and effective than the thematic soldiery. He also argues that the First Crusade, until the Latins took Antioch, was largely following the imperial agenda of Alexios Komnenos who supplied them and gave them direction after forcing/encouraging them to promise to return old Byzantine territories to the Empire.
While we are not entirely sure about that part of the book, the main argument he's making is that what caused the rapid decline of the empire (which had expanded in the east through the reconquest of parts of southeastern Anatolia, Antioch, northern Mesopotamia, Crete, Armenia, parts of the Caucasus, and Bulgaria and parts of the Balkans in the 900s and early 1000s), was the return to multipolarity at a bad time (war on three fronts with Seljuk Turks, Pechenegs, and Normans). The Empire had been so centralized by Basil II during his long reign and then returned to business as usual as the Macedonian dynasty entered several problematic successions as Basil II never had children and his brother only had 2 daughters. One daughter married different men and arrangements were made to preserve the line but Byzantium returned to business as usual (i.e., lack of established principle of succession and return to competition whenever the imperial center was or looked weak) led to succession conflicts and contested imperial rule.
Kaldellis is a funny academic. In the Introduction, he claims to harbor no affection for the Byzantine imperial project, but he repeatedly laments the treacherous Normans and others who seized and attacked Byzantium. We are a little disappointed he largely omitted the Norman-Byzantine wars of the 1080s to skip ahead to the First Crusade, but I guess his account really pushes back against Michael Psellos's Chronographia and Skylitzes to some extent. The Byzantine state was devaluing currency in the 1000s and appears to have become excessive with the giving of titles and gifts at each new succession to buy loyalty (which became necessary with emperors who had less legitimacy felt insecure), which sort ofsupports what Psellos wrote in the 11th century about how the emperors after Basil II began wasting a lot of funds of the imperial treasury. But since we lack enough hard data or facts about the nature of the economy, Kaldellis instead doesn't see any defunding of the military until after Constantine Monomachos, who is presented as one of the last decent emperors before Manzikert.
The situation in the 1070s-1080s was a disaster (one of the Normans hired by the Byzantines also made things worse by plundering and demanding protection money and then rebelling against the Byzantines while the Seljuks were raiding and seizing more lands). But when the Komnenos take back large sections of Asia Minor, was there a large enough Christian population resettling in those areas? I assume the Armenians in Cilicia and whatnot remained to a large extent and the area that later became Trebizond south of the Black Sea held out against the Ottomans until the 1400s but in terms of demographics, it does appear that so much of Asia Minor was permanently lost. Perhaps, with better luck, the Byzantines may have been able to hold Asia Minor if they did not have to address threats and attacks from other fronts.
While reperusing early 19th century records of Bainet that have been digitized, we were reminded of a child, Louise Francoise, born in 1825 to Gustave Alexandre and Genevieve Plaisir. The godparents of the child were from two well-rooted families in the valley of Bainet, Dure and Boursiquot. The godfather, a Joseph Dure, was probably the same Joseph born in 1805 in the valley to a Louis Dure and Marie Charlotte Boursiquot. The child's godmother, Marie Louise Boursiquot was probably related to Joseph Duret.
We are convinced that the Alexandre of the valley section may have been related to or connected in some other fashion to the Duret, Cange, and Boursiquot and Begin. Sadly, we still lack any other record of Gustave Alexandre and his possible relations to Desire Alexandre (the godfather to a child of Jean Charles Cange also born in the 1820s) or whether or not these 3 Alexandre were related to the Jean Baptiste Alexandre who was married to a Marie Therese Cange, also in the valley. However, the Alexandre in the valley may have been close to a Lacour, too, since Rose Adelaide Lacour served as the godmother to a child of Louise Alexandre in 1806 and the child of Jean Baptiste Alexandre and Marie Therese Cange in 1820. When one traces the origins of the Lacour back a few generations, one finds they too were deeply rooted in the valley.
Although still not as detailed as we would like, we would like to explore more fully the civil registry of Jacmel and other parts of Haiti before independence, digitized through ANOM's website. These records, which now record more of the formerly enslaved population, sometimes contain rich information pertinent to historical and genealogical research. For instance, many of the people who appear in the marriages recorded in these years, from say, 1795-1803, were Africans who were married. These Africans give a nation of origin or country of origin, too, sometimes using the same colonial categories of African nations or other places we have never heard of. For example, where was Manboula? Or Zumbo? These African place names and ethnonyms might more accurately reflect how these people saw themselves, since they were no longer slaves but free people. In addition, sometimes records of their marriages record the ages and names of children they had who were born illegitimate. These were undoubtedly, in some cases, children born to the parents when both were enslaved. Someone with a lot of time and eager to peruse these records might be able to find some of their ancestors listed in these notices.
The person above is an example from Jacmel, recorded in 1801. The man, Jean Baptiste Maturin, was a Hausa around 40 years old who married a Creole woman. This record seems to be in accordance with the known demographics of the Hausa population in Saint Domingue. Said to be overwhelmingly male, these Hausa captives who did marry or have children did so with Creoles and other African nations in the colony. Sadly, the record doesn't go into more detail about what particular part of the "Aoussa" country Jean Baptiste Maturin hailed from. But other Africans who appear in these records from those revolutionary years may give more data and information.
Another fun aspect of Ancestry DNA's services is the ability to check which parent contributed to the ethnicities estimate in one's DNA origins. For my Haitian parent, it is interesting to see that the entirety of their 11% European ancestry is derived from their mother. This matches my genealogical research into the origins of this grandparent, who appears to have affranchi ancestors during the colonial period. As we speculated previously, the non-French ancestry may all be France but due to the measurement of French DNA in Ancestry's algorithm, the French ancestry was split into Scotland, France, Portugal and Wales. Anyway, the results confirm my theory about our Haitian parent's mother.
The father, however, may have been entirely or almost entirely sub-Saharan African in origin. What is interesting about him is the entirety of our parent's "Nigerian" ancestry allegedly came from him. If so, we assume this grandfather had substantial "Nigerian" origin. That, however, is a problematic concept and, based on the records we have for French slaving, we assume his "Nigerian" ancestry was likely some mix of Ibo, Yoruba, Nupe, Hausa and possibly others. Our grandmother, on the other hand, was the one who possessed far more ancestry from Cameroon, Congo, and Western Bantu Peoples. She was also the one who bequeathed Senegalese ancestry to our parent.
The African ancestry of these two was, therefore, rather distinct though they occasionally overlapped. According to Ancestry's Chromosome Painter, our grandfather's "Nigeria" segments were often rather long, perhaps hinting at recent ancestry. If Ibos were among the large number of enslaved Africans in Bainet during the late 1700s, perhaps he had, at least in part, Ibo origins. Our parent also matched with Yoruba and Igbo Nigerians through her test results. She also matched with Mandinka people from Sierra Leone and Mali and two individuals from the DRC. Therefore, we consider it likely that she is of Yoruba, Ibo, Bambara, Mandingue, "Congo" and possibly Wolof, Akan, and "Arada" origins.
We have been perusing the Corpus of Early Arabic Sources for West Africa History and the reports and studies by archaeologists and wonder if the Garamantian state, in some form, persisted well into the Islamic era. We know from John of Biclar's chronicle that the Garamantes sent an envoy to the Byzantines in 568, which is after the Vandal Wars and after Justinian, according to Procopius, had built churches and promoted Christianity at Ghadames and among the Berbers in Tropolitania. Even though there is no evidence of conversion to Christianity in the 6th century Fazzan, we know the Byzantines at least reached some of their neighbors. This seems to imply some
Then we have a period where we know little about the Fazzan until the 660s, when Uqba b. Nafi arrived and imposed tribute on the Fazzan and Kawar. Just using Arabic sources from the medieval period, one finds references to Qaramantiyyun, Qazan, and Fazzani people as "Sudan" ("blacks") who were described as non-Muslims. Reading al-Tabari on the Zanj Revolt in 9th century Iraq, one finds references to people from the Fazzan among the Zanj (black) slaves. Sahnun, in the 800s, also quoted the opinion of Malik ibn Anas on the Fazzanis, implying that they were still non-Muslim blacks in the late 700 (see the fascinating article by Brunschevig on this). Then, al-Ya'qubi referred to the Fazzan region as ruled by a powerful chief who was always at war with the Mazata Berbers in Wadan.
The Mazata were Ibadites, and probably among the slave-traders described by the same author as operating in Zawila and Kawar. My guess is that Waddan and Germa were the centers of two different polities that dominated the region, and in Waddan and Zawila, the Ibadites and their trading network were powerful enough to be the victim of a raid from the Abbasids in c.762-763. Yet, over a century later, another part of the Fazzan region is described as independent. The polity controlling the section of the Fazzan in opposition to the Mazata at Waddan were likely the Garamantes, whose wars with the Ibadi Mazata would have led to some of them becoming captives sold into slavery abroad.
I think further evidence of this Garamantian state surviving longer can be seen in the remnant populations living at Germa and Tassawa described by al-Idrisi. Al-Idrisi seems to have been confused about the political layout of the land in the pre-Islamic era, but he described the people at these two towns using an irrigation system (perhaps the foggara in a far less intensive manner). My bet is that this remnant of the Garamantes engaged in trans-Saharan salt trade, since al-Muqaddasi described the Qaramatiyyun transact with salt. Maybe the Garamantes focused on the salt trade in the southern Fazzan and perhaps Kawar while the Mazata and other Berbers engaged in the slave trade with their Ibadi partners and Kanem?
Anyway, al-Muqqadasi was the last source I know of to refer to a population called Garamantes (or something approximate). The Garamantes, at least in some form, survived as a distinct people until the end of the 10th or early 11th century, and were likely a heterogeneous Berber population. Islamization of Garama and its surroundings appears to have been complete by this time, too, with archaeologists like Mattingly reporting findings of a central mosque in the ancient Garamante capital.
We never thought we would develop an interest in hymns from various Orthodox Church traditions. But here we are...obsessively listening to Greek Orthodox, Coptic, and Ethiopian Orthodox music. These Coptic hymns in particular are rather beautiful.
Our Haitian parent took a DNA test via Ancestry recently. A native of Bainet, we find their results to be what one might expect of an average Haitian person: mainly sub-Saharan African in origin (and a mix of various parts of West Africa and West Central Africa) and some European ancestry (mainly French). None of this is too surprising, and we always knew our mother's family had some European ancestry. However, we believe she was trying to find more precise data on her African ancestry. Unfortunately, the algorithm and samples used by Ancestry appear to be rather limited on details or precision when it comes to sub-Saharan Africa. Thus, we see results broken down by nation without any additional breakdown on specific ethnic groups within these occasionally vast or large nations & regions. For instance, what does it mean to be 25% Nigerian, like our parent? Nigeria is a large country with dozens of ethnic groups. We know some of the modern-day populations of Nigeria were enslaved in Saint Domingue, like the Yoruba, Nupe, Hausa and Ibo, but this genetic ancestry estimate only confirms that broadly. Nonetheless, as the amateur, self-proclaimed genealogist, I shall endeavor to connect her results with my previous feeble attempts at tracing our roots in the context of Bainet and Haitian history.
First, the easy part. The 11% European ancestry, only designated as 5% French. We believe there must be issues or occasional problems with the algorithm for detecting French ancestry. Or, alternatively, one of our very distant forebears may have been of Spanish or Iberian origin and took a French name upon arrival in Saint Domingue. As for Wales and Scotland, these are perhaps misread for French ancestry or, perhaps, a remnant of a Scottish family that lived in Bainet in the 1700s. We refer, of course, to the MacGill family of colonial Bainet. The first of that name in Bainet appears to have been a Michel MacGille, who died in 1750. ANOM, which has digitized the parish books of Baynet, has Michel MacGille listed as a native of Montserrat (?), indicating that he may have been from the British isles but resident in the Antilles before relocating to Bainet. Perhaps the Welsh and Scottish ancestry indicated in the Ancestry DNA estimate is also from this man, who could have raped an enslaved woman like so many planters and colons in the Antilles. Overall, the European ancestry is likely from France, and inherited from free people of color, including families we have ranted about previously at this blog.
The African origins, the fun part, is, sadly, the most difficult to make sense of. Overall, our parent is mainly West African rather than Central African. However, this West African ancestry is rather well-distributed across that vast region. Although Senegal is represented at 3% (perhaps a sign of distant Wolof ancestry, although "Senegalois" were not always defined as such in the records of Saint Domingue, Mali (18%) is rather high. While this is a problematic category and lacks ethnic breakdowns, we assume this "Mali" ancestry in Bainet is likely traceable to the Bambara and Mandingue populations. We know Bambara were a sizable minority of the enslaved population in 18th century Bainet. Mandingue and other related peoples were also present in Saint Domingue, some of whom were actually Muslims. The rather high Mali results obtained here may be a sign of an important concentration of Bambara and Mandingue peoples in Bainet or its environs in the 18th century.
How to interpret the Ghana & Ivory Coast, Nigeria, and Benin & Togo results is also difficult. We know from French records that Cotocoli, Mina, Hausa, Borno, Nupe, Ibo, Fon, Arada, Thiamba, Ouidah, Dahomey, and Nago were exported to Saint Domingue. Again, the lack of precise breakdowns of the African DNA results means we cannot go much further than this. We can hypothesize a general descent from all or some of these aforementioned groups in Bainet. Likewise, the 14% Cameroon, Congo and Western Bantu Peoples is probably indicating some degree of "Congo" ancestry, and we know the "Congos" were numerous in Saint-Domingue. Nigeria, an enormous nation of rich ethnic diversity, included Yoruba, Hausa, Ibo, Fulani, Borno (Kanuri?), Nupe and others sold into slavery. That rich ethnic diversity in Bainet may have included a demographically important Ibo component, as Ibos were present in Bainet. Indeed, Geggus's research on the French slave trade found a significant number of captives brought to the South of the colony were from the Bight of Biafra, which would have included Ibos.
Intriguingly, our parent is overwhelmingly of West African origin rather than Central African, which we interpret as possibly being evidence of a deeper ancestry among Creole slaves. Our thinking here is that the already demographically significant Creole slave population had less Central African ancestry by the late 1700s, and this group appears to have been the majority on some plantations in Bainet. Indeed, looking at some data on the Saugrain plantation in 1720, one finds that Creole slaves were already the largest group. The other Africans were mainly West Africans, with areas of the Slave Coast and Gold Coast represented among the bossales and a mix of other Africans from Senegal and Central Africa. By the late 18th century, Creoles appear to have outnumbered the other slaves owned by at least one Perronneau in the 1790s and on two indigoteries studied by Siguret. The enslaved workforce of Bainet appears to have been largely Creole, with significant Ibo and Congo presence.
Of course, the above is just speculation based on limited data. Sex ratios, plantation inventories, and more precise data on the growth of the slave population in Bainet is required. However, we find our results to be generally in concordance with that of a summary of 45 Haitian Ancestry DNA results analyzed here. The main difference is that our parent had far less Central African ancestry and more Mali. We would love to see more data from Bainet and people with Bainet origins to see if this pattern is generally true in our region. As for the "hacked" results, they reveal trace amounts of Khoisan, Aka, Mbuti and Indigenous Americas ancestry. Presumably, because the results are less than 0.5%, Ancestry did not include them into their Ethnicity breakdown. We assume Indigenous Americas is probably Taino of some sort or another.
Although linguistics is an area of study we hardly understand, perusing the works of Claude Rilly on Meroitic and Nubian Languages, as well as the chapter by Murray Last in Becoming Hausa that includes the notion of a Coptic influence on Hausa suggestive of an early Copt presence or traders in that region, sparked our own amateurish attempts to find links between distant African languages. Using English or French bilingual dictionaries for Hausa, Coptic, Old Nubian, Kanuri, and the Zaghawa languages, we pretended we could discover possible links that connect the Middle Nile with the Central Sudanic regions of Hausaland and Kanem-Borno. Of course, since we don't really know what we're doing, most of this is difficult to say and rather difficult to prove without a much deeper understanding of Egyptian, Kanuri, Hausa, Meroitic and Zaghawa languages.
First, the fascinating notion of Rilly that the Meroitic qore title for the king, being adopted by several other societies in Sudan. Well, this very title, sometimes presented as qere in other studies of the Meroitic language, bears a close resemblance to the archaic Zaghawa or Beria word for king, kire (or kireh) While we need further research on the Zaghawa and related Saharan languages of the the Nilo-Saharan family, the Zaghawa associated with the early state of Kanem called their kings KAKRH in the unvocalized Arabic rendering of al-Ya'qu'bi in the late 9th century. While several centuries separate early Kanem from the Napatan-Meroitic civilization, perhaps the Zaghawa, who were mobile and probably interacted in some fashion or another with the Nubian civilizations, borrowed the term from the Meroitic language because of the prestige and influence of Meroe on other Sudanic peoples. In addition, the etymology of the Meroitic word for king, according to Rilly's research, is traced to what he considers the Meroitic term for head. Well, the Zaghawa kire has no link to their word for head, although kire can be used for an older sibling. Ultimately, in our opinion, a possible Meroitic origin for the titles of early Kanem kings is suggestive, perhaps linking, in some fashion, the Meroitic civilization with the rise of other kingdoms in western Sudan and Chad. If early Kanem and its Zaghawa rulers adopted the Meroitic title, what else was possibly influenced by ancient Nubia in Kanem-Borno?
Besides the possible Meroitic origin of the early titles of Kanem rulers, Hausa and Coptic is another interesting relationship. While we failed to find, in our amateurish attempt, significant connections between Coptic and Hausa, it is a little easier to understand how Hausa (and Chadic) are classified as Afro-Asiatic languages. For instance, the Hausa word for palace, fada, is similar to the Egyptian pharaoh. We believe this connection is due to both words being rooted in the following two words: "big house." The Hausa term for sin, zunubi, almost looks like the Coptic term for sin, too (ⲛⲟⲃⲉ). Indeed, the Hausa term for king, or sarki, which almost resembles the Egyptian špsj and srḫ or serekh. Other speculative and or possible links between Hausa and Egyptian or Coptic can be seen in their respective words for moon, weave, some numbers, and, perhaps, the Hausa and Egyptian words for towns (birni and dmj. It is likely that most of these similarities stretch back deeper in time to the Afroasiatic roots of Hausa and Ancient Egyptian, instead of influences from the Coptic on Hausa in medieval times. Who knows, perhaps the famous bori cult of the Hausa has a common origin with the term ba in Egyptian.
It is also likely that the Kanuri influences on Hausa, which could be the origin of the term birni, included other words of Nilo-Saharan languages as well as Berber via the Sahara. Intriguingly, the Kanuri equivalent to write, borrowed by Hausa, may be of Berber origin instead of Egyptian or Nubian, yet not from the Tuareg Berbers. What this means is unclear, but we think it very likely that the Zaghawa were possibly influenced by or interacted with speakers of the ancient Meroitic language. Murray's theory of a Coptic influence on Hausa or a traceable Coptic linguistic presence in Hausaland seems unlikely, though. Indeed, most of the similarities were probably due to both languages sharing a common root as Afroasiatic tongues. Nonetheless, we are fascinated by a possible Meroitic linguistic influence in western Sudan and Chad, although far more work needs to be done on the various languages spoken in the region.
Since we have read a few of his essays on the Dominica Caribs elsewhere, we thought Douglas Taylor's The Caribs of Dominica. Though very short, it seems to be based on fieldwork in the Carib Reserve in the 1930s. It certainly reflects that older era in which Western scholars openly expressed racist and condescending views of their ethnographic subjects. Nonetheless, the material focus of this brief study highlighted how the Caribs of Dominica, even after generations of Christianization and intermarriage with the black population, retained some distinct practices of canoe-making, fishing, basketry, and traditions that give some insights into the nature of precolonial indigenous social practices. For our purposes, however, it would likely be more fruitful to revisit and read Rochefort, Labat, and Breton, especially the bilingual dictionary from the 17th century that would shed even more light on the nature of an indigenous Caribbean people.
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