Vodou Hermeneutics and Vodou's Transatlantic History

Although it took a while, we have finally finished A Transatlantic History of Haitian Vodou: Rasin Figuier, Rasin Bwa Kayiman, and the Rada and Gede Rites by Benjamin Hebblethwaite. An ambitious work, Hebblethwaite explores the African background of the Rada and Gede rites in Haitian Vodou. Using what he terms Vodou hermeneutics, Hebblethwaite draws from ethnomusicology, linguistics, history, and other fields to explore Vodun in Benin as a source (and foil) for Vodou in Saint Domingue (and Haiti). Although previous generations of Haitian ethnologists or foreign academics have explored the African background of Vodou, observable to some extent already in Duverneau Trouillot's ethnographic sketch, Hebblethwaite seeks to explore more seriously African history and religious cultures. This means that the book is structurally divided into two halves, focusing on Vodun in Benin and Vodou songs in Haiti read through the author's "Vodou hermeneutics.'

The first two chapters focus on the historical context of Vodun in Benin, particularly Allada, Hueda and Dahomey. This historical context is key for understanding what the author sees as royalist Vodun tied to the slave trading states of Dahomey, Allada and Vodou versus the communal or local Vodun cults or traditions of victims of the slave raids. Unsurprisingly, in Haiti, where many victims of these slave raids were eventually trafficked through the French slave traders on the Slave Coast, the more familial or communal aspects of Vodun were more relevant for the development of Vodou. That said, elements of Haitian Vodou retain, perhaps, memories of Agaja of Dahomey. But this intervention here is key for understanding why some African "traditional" religions in Saint Domingue were associated with rebellion, as dissident Vodun priests or groups were sometimes targeted by Dahomey for enslavement and export. Indeed, Hebblethwaite compares the royalist Vodun slave trading states like Dahomey to the royalist Catholic French slave traders and enslavers, with our ancestors as the victims of both. Of course, one could also explore why, if what became Vodou in Haiti was not marked by royalist sentiments, why is it that many of the hieratic titles used in Vodouist groups, rara bands or other manifestations of Haitian popular culture featured kings, queens, generals, and the like?

Overall, these two chapters on the politics and practice of Vodun in the Slave Coast are the richest chapters of the text. While one has some quibbles over the author's interpretation of Dahomey's origins and its relations with Allada, Hueda and other polities, he demonstrates how Vodun was inextricably tied to power and community (Law and other historians specializing in this region seem more skeptical or ambivalent on the traditions of Dahomey tying their royal dynasty to Allada, as well as other traditions of origin). This included slave raids, conquests, the incorporation of foreign Vodun into the expansionist Dahomey state, and the proliferation of Vodun cults through migration and refuge. In Saint Domingue, the victims of these processes who were sold to the French inherited these practices. As for why the Rada and Gede rites became so prominent in Sèvis Ginen, the structure of Vodun and its ability to incorporate new or "foreign" ideas and concepts provided a foundation for Vodou. This surely cannot be merely a result of the timing of the arrival of huge numbers of "Arada" captives in Saint Domingue (though it probably played a role). After all, if the timing of arrival was such a significant factor, why is it that the Senegambian and Upper Guinean African "nations" have less influence in the formation of Vodou? 

This is also relevant to the Central African influence, which the author admits has a huge legacy in Haitian Vodou. And while their numbers may have increased exponentially later in the 1700s, the impact of Kongo Catholicism and other religious traditions from West Central Africa must be considered as foundational to the development of Haitian religion. Indeed, even Allada, whose own history of relations with Portugal and Catholicism are worth exploring, may provide signs of Catholic influence in the formation of Vodou in the African past. We can only hope Hebblethwaite or other writers explore these dimensions of Haitian Vodou's transatlantic past.

The last two sections of the book shift to analysis of songs. The Rasin Figuier recordings are fascinating examples of not only retentions of Vodun spirits, Fon or Aja words, but reworkings of Aja-Fon concept and theology. The fourth chapter's analysis of songs from the Gede Rite, however, are less successful. Despite offering a persuasive case for a Gedevi or Gedevi-Yoruba origin for the rite, the historical Gedevi are less visible in the book's historical chapters. Although undoubtedly due to their conquest, absorption and sale to Europeans, the lack of clarity regarding these peoples hinders a deeper historical context for them. The Gede spirits are numerous in Haiti, and while they too reflect African origins, they appear very much Creolized with Miragoane being the source of some (according to Vodou myth). Despite their prominence and their irreverent allusions to sexuality, death, or taboo-busting possessions, the Gedevi connection appears elusive. It also didn't help that many of the Gede songs analyzed here, while lamenting or criticizing social inequality, remind one of the role of "signifying" and tricksters in African American culture. In short, it's less revolutionary or egalitarian than some would like to think...

In spite of the issues with the final two chapters, it is wise to see Hebblethwaite's Vodou Hermeneutics as an analytical tool for a work in progress. With so many rites and traditions of Haitian Vodou to explore, as well as the larger histories of West and Central Africa to help contextualize it, one can only hope the Nago, Kongo, and other rites receive their due for a more comprehensive study of Vodou. One should also extend the field of analysis to more sections of Haiti to see which areas have preserved or maintained some traditions rather than others, and what the impact of urbanization and migration was on those regions. As always, the analysis must include linguistics, African and Haitian history, religious studies, and other fields for an interdisciplinary approach.

Favorite Pictures from Le vodou fon dans le Royaume d'Allada

  

Although the quality of the images and the binding of the book made it difficult to use or interpret all the photos in Le vodou fon dans le Royaume d'Allada (Bas-Dahomey): ses images et ses symboles, we had some favorites from the bunch. A very short book comprised of photographs by Montilus and short captions describing them, all centered on Fon Vodou in Allada, there are some striking images. Some depict animal sacrifice, temples, various types of priests or priestesses, hunsi and sacred drums, or people tied to the Allada court. Unsurprisingly, the priests affiliated with royal cults seem to have the finest and most elaborate styles of dress.

The "traditional king" of Allada even appears in one photo. Presumably this is a Adjahuto, descendants of a figure appointed by the king of Dahomey after the Dahomian conquest of Allada in the 1720s.

One photo that was partly cut off by the binding showed a vast crowed gathered for a prayer by a temple associated with the kings of Allada. 

Some of the photos of Vodou temples were grainy, but this one is quite clear. It appears to lack any figurative paintings but the different patterns on the exterior wall presumably have some meaning not explained by Montilus.

The dokpe of Allada are sort of our like cumbite but in the Fon context also involved in burials or funeral services.

A bokono is also included. In the Fon context, they are specialists in Fa or Ifa divination. We still consider it intriguing that this sense of the word has been lost in Haiti and boko became a term for sorcerers.

Unfortunately, Montilus did not provide much detail on the Allada king's traditional court and their role in the ancestral cults. 

Kingdom of Allada Timeline

The following are some general dates for the history of Allada, ending with its conquest by Dahomey in the 1720s. The dates are all drawn from Robin Law's The Kingdom of Allada and The Slave Coast of West Africa, 1550-1750: The Impact of the Atlantic Slave Trade on an African Society. Researching the history of Allada is quite difficult, although we have scarcely scratched the surface. Jacques Lombard and Robin Law are good to start with, but from consulting their sources and references to oral traditions, much of Allada's early history is difficult to reconstruct.

c. 1485: map of Pedro Reinel shows Allada

1540/1 (or 1551/52): Allada ambassador to Portugal, Dom Adȃo. Allada king interested in trade and Christianity

1539: Portuguese report on Benin mentions kingdom of Allada's ambassadors mistreated by the oba

1553: Portuguese attempt to trade at Popo

mid-1560s: appearance of "Arara" captives among African slaves in Peru

1570: Allada marked on Portuguese maps

1591: James Welsh destroyed a Portuguese ship anchored at Allada

1602: Account of Pieter de Marees published

1607: Portuguese source estimated value of trade at Allada as 800,000 reis

c.1610: Kokpon king of Allada (Lombard's reckoning)

1620: Report mentions Allada, as well as Benin, Ijebu, and Calabar as "friends" of Portugal. One or two ships were sent annually from Sao Tome to trade at Allada for slaves, yams, palm oil, ivory and cotton cloth.

1622: Dutch ship came to Allada, but didn't stay to trade.

1627: Alonso de Sandoval's work mentioning Allada traditions published

1639: Dutch West India Company establish a factory in Allada

1646/47: Dutch bring an Allada native to the Gold Coast to train as an interpreter. The man dies.

1647: Dutch WIC in negotiations with Allada king over his debts to the company

1653/54: English ship purchased 170 slaves at Allada

1657: Bans, or Vans, arrived in Cartagena as ambassador of the king of Allada, 

1658: Publication in Madrid of a catechism in the language of Allada

1659: One source claims Allada was subject to or a vassal of Benin

1659/60: WIC establish a lodge in Allada once again

1660/61: Capuchin mission to Allada

1663: English company, Company of the Royal Adventurers of England Trading into Africa, established a factory in Allada

1664: An English letter addressed to the king of Allada, but never arrives

1668: Publication of Dapper's account

1670: Allada sends Mateo Lopes to France as its ambassador

1671: French factory transferred from Offra to Whydah; Allada and Benin reportedly at war

1672: Publication of Joseph de Naxara work alluding to Allada

1679: Trade in Allada disrupted by war (possibly Offra rebellion)

1680: Contact between Allada and Gold Coast disrupted by "Lampi Black" bandits, led by Aban

1682: Report mentions imports of cloth in Ape from Benin (or Lagos area)

1688: One account claims Allada's rule extended further west, once encompassing Great and Little Popo and Whydah

1690s: Dutch account on Benin kingdom refers to use of Allada women to brew maize beer there

1692: Destruction of Offrah by Allada (through the use of foreign mercenaries)

1694: "King Tom" of Allada was exiled and living in Whydah, banished for alleged crimes

1698: Oyo war with Allada after subjects of the latter appealed to Oyo (due to misgovernment by viceroys of Allada)

1703: Dutch WIC moved factory to Whydah

1704: Publication of Bosman's work

1705: Allada trade embargo on Whydah 

1709: Allada blocked trade to Whydah

1714: Allada king tried to redirect slave trade through Jakin instead of Whydah

1715: Apa's ruler said to be too far to be compelled to obey Allada

1716: Report suggests Dahomey was former vassal of Allada

1717: Death of Allada king reported

1718: King of Allada forced an English captain to buy 20 slaves of his

1722: Hussar in alliance with Agaja of Dahomey; king of Allada, claiming the English were indebted to him, made Bulfinch Lambe a prisoner

1724: Dahomey's conquest of Allada; King Sozo said to have raised 50,000 troops to face Dahomey

1726: Hussah of Allada said in one source to have solicited the Oyo invasion of Dahomey in his bid to regain Allada

1730: Agaja of Dahomey settled in Allada, but at new site near Togudo

1743: Tegbesu moved Dahomey capital back to Abomey from Allada

Dieux en diaspora, Les Loa Haïtiens et les Vaudou du Royaume d'Allada (Bénin)

Guérin Montilus's Dieux en diaspora. Les Loa Haïtiens et les Vaudou du Royaume d'Allada (Bénin) is a short but richly detailed study comparing the Rada Rite in Haitian Vodou with Vodun in Allada. Based on fieldwork in both Haiti and Allada, Montilus is able to trace the origin of various lwa in Haiti and offer a model for why the mythology around many deviated so greatly from source materials in Allada. However, an African sedimentation of the mythology around many lwa persists, as do some of the concepts and larger framework in which these entities operate. But the destructive impact of the slave trade and enslavement in Saint Domingue, as well as contact with Christianity and various other African peoples undoubtedly led to many transformations and shifts in the conception of the Rada Rite. Montilus hints at this when examining the Simbi spirits, for instance, or theorizing how Congo or Petro rites incorporate more Central African ideas of magic. Montilus's main weakness is perhaps not examining the ways in which Vodun in Benin is a living tradition, hence another cause for its differences from Haitian practice. After all, if Haitians were able to develop a radically new mythology in some cases involving Erzilie, Ogou, Agwe, or other lwa, why wouldn't people in Benin have also adapted the spirits to meet their changing world? One can imagine Dahomey's conquest of Allada in 1724, their conquest of Ouidah, the French colonial conquest, and Christianity also had some impact here (perhaps even before colonialism through contacts with the Portuguese?). The diversity of legends and stories about Legba, Chango, and other vodun in Benin is perhaps a remnant of this great diversity in practice and mythology in today's Benin that has deep historical roots. Anyway, we hope to now read a recently published history of Vodou (again, focusing on the connections to the Slave Coast) that investigates more deeply the political factors shaping religion and spirituality in this part of West Africa. 

Ayiti Toma

While perusing various readings pertinent to another project, we came across references to the land of Allada as Aizönu Tome or Aida Tome. Apparently, the tome part means something like "country of" or perhaps "land of." This, of course, reminded us of the phrase Ayiti Toma in Haitian Creole. I guess it's somewhat obvious and unsurprising, but this seems to be an example of the influence of Fongbe or related languages in Benin shaping Haitian Creole. But what explains the shift in Haitian Creole pronunciation of tome to toma? Another theory, included in J.B. Romain's Africanismes haitiens quotes an implausible notion that Ayiti Toma is derived from the Toma peoples of Guinea. This seems rather unlikely since it is unclear how many Toma ended up in Saint Domingue. Moreover, one would have to ask why a name for their particular ethnic group is attached to Ayiti. A link to the Fon language makes more sense given the evidence of that language on Haitian Creole and multiple aspects of Haitian culture. 

The Arada and the Bight of Benin...

The runaway Hippolyte appears to have been of Fon or Savalou extraction. As the region of "Savarou" was conquered by the Fon of Dahomey, perhaps Hippolyte's family came to the region during or after said conquest. 

Here we have a maroon of the Fond, or Fond, nation. His name, Ouata, is presumably a personal name used in Dahomey at this time (18th century). 

Another Fon, named Chofy, could be an instance of another Fon personal name from Dahomey.

A Barbare, or Bariba, named Huffo (Husso) could be an example of a Bariba personal name.

An Arada runaway named Boffou, or Bossou, a name that survives in Benin and in Haitian tradition. 

The case of the maroon Cesar, a Fon, is intriguing for its references to "Arada marks" on his face. If so, this is another example of how ambiguous or problematic the French colonial/slavery archive can be for determining origins. What does it mean for a Fon to have "Arada" marks?

Marguerite's case is mainly interesting for the reference to the Arada marks. She also was said to have spoken many languages, including French.

Another Arada Marguerite was said to have been raised in France.

The Arada, Agua, may have an African name.

Some "Arada" captives also spoke Portuguese. The unnamed maroon in the case above, spoke a little Portuguese. 

One "Arada" named Marie-Anne, was known as Guiaclain among the blacks. Was this her African name in Benin or Togo?

One runaway "Arada" was even named Dahomet, or Dahomey. Was he actually from the kingdom of Dahomey?

Sometimes the "Arada" could be mistaken for another "nation." Like the Taquoua, a group we believed to have been the Nupe. 

We also wonder about Couchy, an "Arada" fugitive. Couchy could be from the Ga language, where a king named Ayi Kushi is remembered.

The above case of Dahomet is interesting since he appears to have been of the Soso, or Susu, nation. If accurate, then the name Dahomet might have been applied to African captives in Saint Domingue who had no connection to Dahomey or the Bight of Benin. 

A Dahomet, or Dahomey, runaway was named Dossou. Dossou, a name remembered in Haitian tradition, is used for a child born after twins. 

Another runaway of the Dahomey nation was named Marionne. 

An African Khipu??

Reading about the khipu system of recording information in the Andean world reminded us of what was a similar way of using cords and knots to record numerical information in parts of precolonial West Africa. Unfortunately, finding details on the system used in what is now Benin, but previously the kingdom of Allada and parts of the Slave Coast in the 17th century, is difficult. The tradition appears to have largely disappeared, although the ambiguous references to it in precolonial European sources might also have picked up on the Yoruba aroko system of symbolic communication. However, the Yoruba system, which has survived in parts of rural Yorubaland, does not use, at least from the little we could uncover, or rely, on knots and cords to send messages. Instead, the system of knotted cords used in Allada was more akin to the khipu used in the Andes, particularly for accounts, keeping track of dates or time, and meetings. 

There are primarily 3 sources which mention the "khipu" of the kingdom of Allada. Two date from the 17th century (Barbot and the Sieur d'Elbée), while the 18th century journal of the Chevalier des Marchais appears to be largely derived from these 17th century sources). Indeed, the published journal of the Chevalier des Marchais even asserts that the fidalgos of Allada, who sometimes spoke Portuguese, also learned how to read and write in that tongue. While some may have been literate in Portuguese or European languages, the more detailed account from 1670 by Elbée suggests that the vast majority of people in Allada were illiterate, but cords with knots were used for recording (numerical?) information. That alphabetic literacy in precolonial Allada was likely minimal can be affirmed by other sources, too. For instance, the accounts of Allada from the Capuchin missionaries sent there in the mid-1600s mention the Allada king's opposition to the foundation of a Catholic-run school there. Indeed, the Allada king seemed to have little or no interest in spreading literacy to the ordinary people. If Elbée is to be relied upon, it seems very unclear or uncertain that most of the fidalgos of Allada were literate in Portuguese, either. 

So, what can one say about the "khipu" of Allada? Very little, sadly, without any ethnographic evidence on its use in more recent times or artifacts to examine. Since, as previously mentioned, the account from the Chevalier des Marchais is too brief, one must focus on Elbée and Barbot. The former specifies that the knots on cords had different meanings, such as the date for meetings and the price for merchandise. In fact, it is explicitly compared to the way knots on cords were used by various Amerindian peoples of the Americas. Barbot, on the other hand, places more emphasis on Allada "khipu" as comparable to pocket-books used by Europeans. Like Elbée, the Allada "khipu" are compared to those used by Amerindian people and he claimed they were used to observe time, places, numbers, and meetings. From the little one can gleam from these sources, the "khipu" of Allada were mainly numerical, with nothing akin to the narrative khipu used by the Incas or khipu for historiographical purposes. This is intriguing, since Allada and later Dahomey were powerful kingdoms which one might expect would need to develop further genres of "khipu" semiosis for recording detailed information.

For an example of how non-Andean South American groups used knots to record information, one can find references to groups from Venezuela and the Lesser Antilles. The Jesuit, Gumila, for instance, wrote about the use of cords with knots to send messages by indigenous groups living in the Orinoco Basin. Other Spanish and Dutch sources attest to the use of cords with knots to send messages between indigenous villages or communities for meetings. According to Rochefort, the Kalinago ("Island Caribs") used knots on cords to record the number of days leading up to a scheduled meeting. Outside of the Andes, none of these fleeting references to the use of knotted cords suggests more semiotic heterogeneity. Was the "khipu" of Allada similar to these? And why weren't "khipu" developed in Allada and the Slave Coast to record information for additional genres or types? 

One wonders if part of the reason may have been due to the use of Ifa divination (which required memorization of 256 binary signs), sculptures, and textiles for other types of information. Likewise, one wonders if the widespread influence of the Yoruba language and other Yoruba influences may have led to the adoption of a semiotic system akin to aroko by subjects of Allada and Dahomey. Evidence for this must be sought, but it certainly seems plausible. Alternatively, the example of the nearby Gold Coast provides similar use of symbolic communication through objects such as cowries, grass, beads, clay, and other materials to communicate messages, per Reindorf. Perhaps the "khipu" of Allada remained only in use for numerical data and record-keeping, with other means of conveying and recording information through oral tradition, art, or objects used in other domains.

The Slave Coast...

An additional pleasant surprise was to see the 9 ethnic groups comprising the reference populations for Benin/Togo in the Ancestry update. According to the site, they now have Aja, Ewe (Eʋe), Fon, Gen, Gun, Tori, Waci, Weme and Yoruba (Ìran Yorùbá) listed. Our estimated 15% supposedly comes via our Haitian ancestry, and the history of the slave trade in this part of West Africa suggests members of all the above groups were probably present in Saint-Domingue. Our estimated 15% ancestry from this area probably reflects groups that were called Arada, Fon, and Dahomey in the Caribbean. We assume we likely have Yoruba ancestry since our Haitian parent now has Yorubaland (and Nigerian Woodlands) as some of their regions in the update. But surely some "Arada" of unknown derivation were also among our ancestors. It is interesting to note, too, that many Arada (named after the kingdom of Allada) in Saint-Domingue were not necessarily natives of that kingdom. Indeed, many were probably captives of Allada's conflicts as well as people from deeper into the interior. One suspects Bariba, Nupe, Cotocoli, Gedevi, and other groups must have been filtered to the coast via Ouidah and other ports. The pronounced Creole plurality of the enslaved population in Bainet and Jacmel by the late 1700s likely included people descended from captives purchased along the Slave Coast...

Slave Coast of West Africa

Robin Law's The Slave Coast of West Africa 1550–1750: The Impact of the Atlantic Slave Trade on an African Society offers a fascinating analysis of the Slave Coast during the era of a growing slave trade with Europe. Differing from scholars like Polanyi or Akinjogbin, Law focuses on the impact of the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade as a stimulus to commercialization of the economy. The growth of European trade in the region appears to have fueled monetization and market forces through currencies (cowries), imported goods that reached local markets (not just elites or kings for redistribution), sources of iron and thread for smiths and weavers, foodstuffs trade (to provision slave ships), exports of textiles and akori beads for the Gold Coast, and the rise of mercenaries and soldiers for hire. While features of this commercial economy likely existed in the pre-Atlantic trade era, particularly the trade in salt from the coast or trade in textiles, beads, provisions, ivory, and slaves, the trade with Europeans fueled this process. 

In a sense, one could argue that the Atlantic trade did not hinder economic development of the Slave Coast. However, the unknown demographic impact and the necessity of violence to procure captives undoubtedly led to instability and conflict over access to European trade. This process, according to Law, favored the eventual emergence of a hinterland kingdom, Dahomey, as the dominant power due to its military ethos and ability to procure captives for the coastal ports. Dahomey, like Allada and Whydah, learned to combine a mixed position as middleman and supplier of captives yet ultimately failed to create a new kind of state or "revolution" in Slave Coast precolonial polities. Dahomey, despite some decline in the number of captives exported after the conquest of Whydah and Allada, eventually stabilized its exports and was certainly heavily influenced by the European trade. It was also, in turn, shaped by regional political dynamics, particularly the Oyo state to the northeast and the rise of its own merchant class over the course of the 18th century.

Indeed, besides being more autocratic and, eventually, integrating conquered peoples, Dahomey appears to have become rather similar to Allada and Whydah, the two earlier dominant states in the region. Allada, whose decline was already visible by the late 17th century, was once the paramount power in the region (despite also once being under the overlordship of Benin and Oyo). Like the future Dahomey, at least the Dahomey of Tegbesu, Allada and Whydah were ruled by kings who practiced some degree of ritual seclusion, patronized specific cults that were public festivals, engaged in trade with Europe, and competed with each other and subordinate coastal ports and regions for a share in the market of slaves. Women, unlike men, were favored for local slavery while occasional trade wars between Allada and Whydah destabilized both. The western Slave Coast was also impacted by Gold Coast refugees, mercenaries, and bandits who became an additional source of instability and conflict over control of the Slave Coast's lucrative trade. In fact, Dahomey inherited this as post-conquest Whydah rulers fled west for refuge and a branch of the Allada ruling family emerged in Porto Novo. The eastern portion of the Slave Coast increased in importance for the trade with Europe via towns like Badagry while Dahomey's rulers struggled to consolidate their hold over Allada and Whydah. Over time, the Dahomey kingdom seems to have created a provincial administration and endeavored to combine royal control and private share in the slave trade with a supplier and middleman role. 

Ultimately, despite acting as a stimulus to commercialization and economic exchange, the the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade's legacy in the Slave Coast appears to have created disastrous demographic impacts and a reliance on violence in one form or another. Dahomey's catastrophic depopulation of Whydah, for instance, plus the raiding of various inland communities, might have, at best, neutralized the economic stimulation from trade with Europe. Nonetheless, history of Allada, Whydah and Dahomey during these pivotal centuries illustrates how the trans-Atlantic economic networks were deeply linked to interior African polities, such as Oyo. Through these links to Oyo and the Malais or Muslim traders active on the Slave Coast by the early 1700s, one can connect trans-Saharan, trans-Atlantic, and intra-West African trade networks that illustrate the complexity of Slave Coast exchange. Through the trade of captives native to the Slave Coast, one can also detect their legacy in the Americas through religion, culture, and even, for a time, Allada textiles exported to Barbados. The cults of Dangbe, royal dynastyies or ancestors, Fa or Ifa divination, and the history of religious priesthoods opposed to Dahomey highlight how "traditional" religion in the area was always dynamic. It provides a window to the pre-Haitian, pre-Americas history of the spirits. 

The Kingdom of Allada

Robin Law's short history of the kingdom of Allada was a little disappointing. We were hoping for a study of the scope of his other monographs with rich analysis of the kingdom of Allada. Unfortunately, our existing sources are thinner than we realized, often mainly relevant to Allada's active involvement in slave trading and only hints at other aspects of the state's administrative, economic, political, social, or cultural dimensions. Furthermore, as Law convincingly demonstrates, the surviving oral traditions are often problematic and present a number of problems since they have lost the institutional framework of the old kingdom's court and the traditions of Allada and Dahomey have changed over time to express new or different genealogies, historical events, or composite characters. 

It is clear that Allada was probably the dominant kingdom of the Slave Coast (or at least a good chunk of it) but its own origins remain unclear (although it was in existence by the 16th century if not long before) and the exact nature of Allada's authority over its "fidalgos" and vassal provinces or territories is unknown. However, as Law suggests, there does seem to have been more than a little continuity in the court and structure of the state from Allada to Dahomey. That continuity plus the pieces of the puzzle Law endeavors to place in correct order with the aid of European contemporary sources and later traditions, provides the reader with some idea of the chronology of kings, the institutions of the kingdom, and the impact of slave trading on the kingdom's relations economy and foreign relations. Due to our unfamiliarity with the historiography of the Slave Coast, we were surprised how often Law disagreed or felt a need to add nuance to arguments by Akinjogbin, whose study of Dahomey seems to be quite seminal. We feel Law was probably correct about the qualifications he attached to Akinjogbin's interpretations of the impact of the slave trade as a factor in Allada's decline.

Unfortunately, this brief history is a bit too schematic and we wonder if more recent scholarship has uncovered new sources or attempted to integrate more fully studies on the 'Arada" or "Arara" in the Americas. There is a recently published study coauthored by Law on early Allada-Portugal relations, suggestive of important links between Christianity (or interest in it) as a way to strengthen Allada's economic ties to European traders. Perhaps the possible or alleged Christian presence in Allada could also be of interest, with at least one king being educated by the Portuguese in Sao Tome and Allada's ambassador to the court of Louis XIV being fluent in Portuguese and, at least nominally Christian. Who knows, maybe Latin Americanists and Caribbeanists examining so-called "Arada" or "Arara" captives in the Americas could potentially shed light on social, ethnic, religious, or political dynamics impacting Allada and its neighbors in the 1600s and 1700s. Law uses some of this material, particularly the work of Alonso de Sandoval but we are convinced more material might be available.