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. 

Foeda in Saint Domingue (Fida)

One of the Slave Coast "nations" we missed earlier was the Foeda, or Fida. The name, according to Oldendorp, alluded to Ouidah, a major slave trade port in today's Benin.

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. 

More on the Nago (Yoruba) and Haiti

Milo Rigaud's La tradition voudoo et le voudoo haitien includes this beautiful veve for Ogou Batala.

The Yoruba legacy in Haiti survives in some rather influential ways. For instance, Haitian Rara music appears to be at least partly influenced by the Yoruba. According to J.B. Romain's Africanismes haïtiens, the word rara is likely derived from Yoruba. Although it is culturally a fusion of different elements, the use of a name derived from the Yoruba language attests to the presence of Yoruba speakers among the enslaved. In addition, the "Nago" are remembered and some of their orishas are honored in Haitian Vodou tradition. In fact, some Haitians still used the name Nago as a family name well into the 19th century. This important legacy suggests the Nago were remembered in Haitian tradition for far more than facial scarification on their cheeks or a penchant for stealing, as Malenfant described them in the 18th century. 

Milo Marcelin's Mythologie Vodou includes many examples of songs alluding to the Nago spirits. 

In Milo Marcelin's Mythologie Vodou (Rite Arada), numerous allusions to the Nago and Nago-derived lwa can be found. The Nago orishas are often subsumed in the category of Ogou (Ogun to the Yoruba), in various manifestations or forms. Thus, some, like Ogou Chango, are clearly a reference to Shango. Others, like Ogou Olicha, appears to be an allusion to a lwa whose name includes the word orisha. Considering the military leadership and skill needed for Haitian independence to materialize, one can imagine Ogou was a major lwa for many in Haiti.

Hector Hyppolite's Ogoun Chango.

Additional Ogous whose names refer to the Nago are Ogou Feraille, Batala (Obatala), Ogou Badagri, Olisha, and Ossange. Badagri, whose very name refers to the slave trade port of Badagry, is hardly a surprise as a Nago divinity. Batala is undoubtedly derived from Obatala of Yoruba tradition, while Ossange, a healer, is Osanyin. Unsurprisingly, the Nago appear to be associated with war, military prowess, and iron in Haitian tradition. Such a reputation can be seen in the role of Nago war leaders during the Haitian Revolution, such as Halaou and Gracia Lafortune. Yet Marcelin also reported that the Nago lwa Ogou Badagri was the father of the Haitian "mulatto." We are not sure if this association with "mulattoes" may be an allusion to mixed-race generals and military leaders during the Haitian Revolution. 

Estimating the "Nago" Captives Brought to Saint Domingue

One very rough method of estimating the possible Yoruba imports in Saint-Domingue is to combine estimates and data from Manning, Geggus, and other sources. Manning, whose study of the slave trade in Dahomey was a major source used by us for another group, has provided us some rough estimates for the ethnic origin of Slave Coast exports in the period from 1641-1870. Using his estimates for the period 1641-1800, we calculated that about 10.35% of the total exports were of Yoruba captives. If one applies this estimate of 10.35% to David Geggus's data on Bight of Benin imports in Saint-Domingue, one reaches the figure of around 16327 "Nago" captives. Intriguingly, Geggus's own dataset of 13,334 slaves from 1721-1797 included 1580 Nago captives. That makes them about 11.85% of the slave population in that particular dataset. But applying that percentage to the total estimated slave imports would wield an unreasonably high number,  about 71,077. 

When checking the Slave Voyages site on the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade, one finds different numbers. For the period from 1709-1792, the data gives us a total of 185,248 captives brought to Saint Domingue from the Bight of Benin. If one uses Manning's data for a general estimate of 10.35%, then perhaps 19173 Yoruba were brought to the colony of Saint Domingue in the 18th century. This is higher than our earlier estimate of 16327 but still plausible. It also seems likely that in the later decades of the 18th century, the Nago presence among the African-born population was proportionally greater or more conspicuous. Nonetheless, it is likely that the numbers of Nago captives brought to the colony were perhaps anywhere from 16327 to 19173. Using the latter high, one might suggest the "Nago" were nearly 3.2% of the total imported into the island on French ships. The number was likely higher since smuggled captives were not considered and the data isn't as reliable as it should be. 

Thoughts on the Nago in Saint Domingue

 

We have been revisiting the few sources on the Nago, or "Yoruba" captives in Saint Domingue. Runaway ads or notices in the colonial newspaper have severe limitations as sources, but they nonetheless provide some details about Africans of Yoruba extraction in the colony. For instance, Adidon, mentioned in the runaway ad above, appears to have a Yoruba name. Adidon could be the Yoruba term for sweatmeats and confectionery. 

Another interesting example from the corpus of runaway slave ads in Saint-Domingue is the case of the Bambara above who spoke Nago. Considering the distance between Yorubaland and the "Bambara" lands of Upper Guinea, one assumes this unnamed "Bambara" captive learned the "Nago" tongue in Saint Domingue. 

Also intriguing is the case of a Nago runaway in 1783 named Sola, also called Ambroise. Sola is likely the Yoruba name Ṣọlá. Although it has long been known that the Nago were from Yoruba-speaking backgrounds, it is still fascinating to see examples of names from that language among Africans in Saint Domingue.

We similarly found the case of a Nago runaway from 1777, Aboky, intriguing. The name Aboky could actually be related to the Hausa word, aboki, meaning friend. If so, one wonders if Aboky actually was Hausa or from the lands north of the Yoruba-speaking peoples. It also appears that most Hausa captives trafficked to Saint Domingue in the 18th century arrived via Slave Coast ports and likely passed through Oyo and other Yoruba-speaking communities before reaching the coast. Perhaps not unrelated, modern Nigerians in the south sometimes use the word aboki in a derogatory fashion when referring to northerners.

Yet another ambiguous case of a "Nago" is the Nago-Taqua, Hector. Taqua appears to have been one of the terms used for Nupe peoples in Saint-Domingue. Was Hector of mixed ethnicity, both Nupe and Yoruba? Or was he a Nupe person who had spent time in Yorubaland before being sold on the coast to Europeans?

Yet another runaway ad alluding to a Nago with what sounds like an African name is the case of Labidan. No obvious Yoruba name comes to mind with Labidan. In fact, there was a kingdom called Labidan on the Gold Coast, an area French slave traders sometimes extended to the Slave Coast.

Our final case of one of the interesting African maroons who was said to speak Nago despite hailing from another "nation" is Medor. Supposedly Ibo, he appears to have been owned by a Rossignol of the Gonaives area. Did he learn Nago in Saint Domingue?

Last, but certainly not least, visiting ANOM's digitized parish registries for Saint-Domingue reminded us of Julien Raimond. His African grandmother, who died in 1761, was of the Nago nation. It is somewhat unclear if her name was actually Marie or Catherine (or perhaps Marie Catherine?), but she married Raimond's grandfather, Francois Begasse, in 1706. To what extent, if any, she shaped the upbringing of her grandchildren is unknown, but her status and the growing wealth of her family in Bainet and Aquin may have made her one of the wealthiest African-born women in this part of Saint Domingue.

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.

Shared African Matches

Since we have been perusing African matches on Ancestry again, we couldn't help but notice that I only share a handful of the same with my Haitian parent, the source of most of my sub-Saharan African ancestry. While we generally shared matches with the same regions of West Africa, we rarely shared the same individuals. Often, however, they were Yorubas who received Haiti as a Journey. Their last names and the predictable mixture of "Nigeria" and "Benin & Togo" in their admixture results are usually a dead give away of this. However, looking at our shared matches might give us more probably identical by descent matches, or perhaps more specific ones. 

First, we both shared 10 cM and 11 cM across 1 segment with someone from Ghana. Based on their last name, a Ga origin is probable. However, that Ghanaian match was only 28% Ivory Coast & Ghana in his admixture results, a pattern Tracing African Roots has demonstrated to be more common for Ewe. Thus, we highly suspect this person has Ewe origins. The Ewe of Ghana overlap with those of Togo and, thus, Benin. Of course, we could also share DNA with this person through their Ivory Coast/Ghana estimate. For example, our parent has another Ga-Dangme match on 23andme. All of his grandparents are identified as Accra natives and his surname suggests Ga-Dangme origins. Our parent even has another Ga match on Ancestry, with 8 cM shared DNA. This Ga's results included a 34% Benin & Togo estimate.

The next shared match was a big surprise. It was an African DNA match that I missed previously. And it is to a woman from Cameroon (estimated 95% Cameroon results). Her last name is also common in Congo, but her low Western Bantu score leads me to think she hails from a Cameroon ethnic group, likely the Bamileke. According to a Cameroonian friend, our match's surname is specific to western Cameroon. Since areas of Cameroon sent captives to the Biafran coast, perhaps some Haitians do harbor distant Bamileke or Cameroonian origins. Intriguingly, the Cameroonian match is supposedly from our parent's maternal side.

Perhaps even more baffling is our shared match with a person with roots in Sierra Leone and Nigeria. Judging by their admixture results and surnames, we assume one parent is of Temne extraction while the other may be Edo or Urhobo. I assume our shared ancestry in Nigeria is more likely than Sierra Leone Temne peoples to explain the match, but more information is needed to reach any conclusion. Indeed, this person may have some Fulani ancestry, too, if their trace North Africa estimate and Senegal estimate are any indication.

Finally, the Igbo connection. This one always struck us as clear based on the documented presence of a large Igbo population among the captives in colonial Haiti's South. Similarly, the only close African DNA matches for both myself and our Haitian parent was with an Igbo from Nigeria. Furthermore, our parent's 23andme results also identified the Igbo and Southeastern Nigeria as a close match. Igbo ancestry (as well as other Nigerian lineages) are undoubtedly part of our origins.

The Hausa in the Saint Domingue Press

 

Although it mainly provides limited information, consulting Saint Domingue's newspaper, Affiches américaines, available at the Digital Library of the Caribbean, is a wondrous resource. One can see advertisements for the sale of imported slaves, runaway slave notices, and, occasionally, individuals selling slaves. Sometimes the level of detail on the captive African population can be very meaningful or relevant for gaining more insight on their origins, experiences, and exploitation. Perusing it for references to the Hausa in Saint Domingue was actually quite illustrative of certain trends and theories about the Central Sudan's involvement in the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade before the 19th century.

For example, one can find references to Hausa runaways that may bear African names. This above example, Boupa (Bouba?) is ambiguous, but could point to possible backgrounds for captives from northern areas who reached the Slave Coast. 

Some of the advertisements for newly arrived ships carrying captives are similarly worthwhile. The example from above, from 1787, reveals that the cargo included Hausa as well as Arada captives. Intriguingly, Hausa captives had been imported since at least the 1760s, but it seems like the diverse "nations" from the Bight of Benin only began to be distinguished more regularly by the last 20-30 years of colonial rule. One wonders if the French slave traders, who probably had little ability to demand only specific "nations" when waiting to fill their cargos for the Atlantic voyage, were responding to growing demand and stereotypes of Saint Domingue slaveholders.

Occasionally, the "Nago" and other nations besides Aradas and Hausas appeared as part of the cargo for arriving slave ships, like the example from 1786 demonstrates. One suspects that the Hausa captives were perhaps mainly taken from ports like Porto Novo, Badagry, and Onis. Indeed, historians such as Adamu pointed out Lagos, Porto-Novo, Badagry and Whydah as the most important ports for exports of slaves from deep in the interior.

In addition, perusing the newspaper reveals some of the exceedingly rare female Hausa in the colony. Since it seems likely that female slaves exported from the Central Sudan were favored for trans-Saharan trade rather than the Atlantic one, the Hausa in the colony experienced one of the highest gender imbalances of the enslaved population. Yet some, like a woman, Suzanne, estimated to be around 50 years old, were brought to Saint-Domingue and ran away in 1790. It's possible her advanced age made her less valuable in the northern trade. Yet in the very same year, a young Hausa woman was a runaway, estimated at 24 years of age.

One can even find sales for individual Hausa in the colony. For instance, a young Hausa with experience at a coffee plantation, was posted for sale by a colon in Grands-Bois in 1790. This young Hausa's background on a coffee estate seems to have been a common experience, as Hausa, largely imported in the North, St. Marc, and the West would have largely labored on sugar and coffee plantations.

And for Haiti, the links to the Central Sudan did not end with independence. Besides being visited by Nicholas Said of Borno later in the 19th century, some of the Africans liberated from slave ships and brought to Haiti included Hausa. La Gazette Royale of Henri Christophe's state, for instance, alluded to some of the Hausa brought to Haiti from a Portuguese ship. Indeed, the publication even alludes to a troop of Hausa or Nupe who performed a dance in 1811. One Hausa child from the intercepted ship performed an impressive dance by himself. 

Estimating the Nupe, Hausa, Bariba in Saint Domingue

Another activity we have engaged in is an attempt at tracking runaway slaves and maroons identified in the colonial newspaper, Affiches américaines, already collected in the excellent Le marronage dans le monde atlantique project. We focused on the Nupe, Hausa and Bariba populations as groups who, living to the north of the Oyo state, were probably the bulk of the captives from the "Central Sudan" who were sold into slavery in Saint-Domingue. Unfortunately, we could not include the Fulani or Poulard in our calculations, since it is impossible to determine how many of the Fulani in Saint-Domingue reached the Caribbean from the Bight of Benin. However, it is likely that at least some of the Fulani or "Poulards" in Saint Domingue arrived from the north of Oyo, too. 

In addition, we also included the "Malais" or "Malez" and "Bernon" captives who appear in the runaway notices. The latter group, hailing from Borno, to the northeast of Oyo, were "infinitely rare" in the colony of Saint Domingue. Nonetheless, a few did reach the hell of colonial Haiti, likely via the Bight of Benin. The former group, however, present more difficulties. According to early 18th century sources such as the journal of the Chevalier des Marchais, "Malais" traders had already been traveling to Ouidah by 1704. His sometimes vague understanding of their origins suggests they were Muslim traders from a distant land northeast of Allada, possibly Hausaland or Borno. Since they allegedly followed certain Islamic dietary restrictions, used the Arabic language, wore robes of blue or white, and favored long beards, we are guessing the "Malais" traders hailed from Hausaland or a nearby region. The captives they sold on the Slave Coast, however, were probably from neighboring groups and other nearby regions, which means the "Malais" captives in Saint Domingue were likely some northern group. Alternatively, the "Malais" could also have been Muslim Yoruba, but that seems less likely for the 18th century. 

Overall, we found about 134 unambiguous cases of slaves from areas north of Oyo who engaged in marronage in Saint-Domingue during the years 1766-1790. While the total population of Bariba, Hausa, Nupe, Borno, and "Malais" captives imported in the colony is unknown, we believe Geggus's data on slave ethnicities in the period 1727-1797 may be illustrative of general patterns. In his survey, which is not meant to be a complete total for the various nations, he calculated 532 Nupe, Bariba and Hausa in Saint-Domingue. This number, 532, is out of a total sample of 13,334 slaves, suggesting Nupe, Hausa and Bariba represented nearly 4% of the enslaved population. Naturally, we need further data, particularly in light of evidence for the early appearance of Bariba and Nupe captives in Saint Domingue in the 1710s and 1730s, and, perhaps, Hausa before the 1760s. But, if we use 4% as a very rough estimate for the number of captives from the lands north of Oyo, perhaps 4% of total slave population on the eve of the Haitian Revolution were from the "Central Sudan" and nearby regions north of Oyo. This would give astronomically high figures, but suggest around 20,000 captives were possibly from that aforementioned region, over half Hausa. 

Another possible approach, though still highly flawed, is to use rough estimates for total population of a "nation" by using the general rate of marronage. If, as Eddins indicates, 12,857 individual slave runaways appeared in the colonial newspaper, one could divide that by a rough estimate for the total slave population in 1789 or 1790. Alternatively, one could take that rough rate of marronage and apply it to the total period of colonial rule, dividing it by the estimated 800,000 captives brought to Saint-Domingue. Of course, one would have to take into consideration slave mortality rates and total imports for the period from 1766-1790, which we lack sufficient sources and data to do. Some slaves may have also appeared more frequently as maroons based on their occupation and other factors, too, which can skew results. Consequently, the estimates are likely too high or too low in some cases. Nonetheless, it is probably a more accurate estimate than our attempt to use the numbers from Geggus's survey covering the years 1727-1797. Using the marronage escape rate, calculated by dividing 12,857 by a rough estimate of a total of 500,000 slaves in 1790/91, then about 2.57% of all slaves could be runaways. If, say, the Hausa runaways, which we enumerated to be 83 (possibly 84) individuals from 1766-1790, is our base, then we can estimate a total Hausa population based on the rough estimate that 2.57% of Hausas imported were maroons. Of course, it could have been higher or lower depending on specific conditions that shape the chances of marronage, but if we assume that 83 Hausas were 2.57% of the total Hausa population imported into the colony, based on the rough figure of 500,000 slaves in 1790, then about 3230 Hausas were imported into the colony. If one uses the figure of 800,000 as a rough estimate for total slave imports in Saint Domingue, and assume the Hausa proportion of the maroons (12,857) was comparable or adequate for the entire colonial era, then we would use the maroon rate of 1.607% (calculated by dividing 12857 by 800,000). The Hausa proportion would then increase to 5165, of which it is very likely high mortality rates significantly reduced. Applying this to our total sample of "Central Sudan" captives, 134, would bring us to an estimate ranging from 5211 to 8338. Again, high mortality rates would have reduced the number of survivors. 

Overall, assuming these captives arrived on French slave ships, they would represent about 3.4% to 5.4% of African captives purchased from the Bight of Benin in Saint-Domingue (based on Geggus's figures in "The French Slave Trade: An Overview." Those figures are actually plausible. Moreover, these lower figures seem more likely based on the data. If, we were to assume 4% of the captives of Saint Domingue were Nupe, Hausa, and Bariba, based on Geggus's survey of slave nations and gender ratios from 1727-1797, then their totals could have ranged from perhaps as many as 19,949 to 31,918. That would significantly boost their proportion in the "Bight of Benin" captives in Saint-Domingue, from about 13% to nearly 21%, a figure that seems far too high.

Of course, high mortality rates and the lack of adequate early data makes all of this very speculative. Our method requires one to assume the proportion of, say, Hausa slaves, in the maroon population was proportional to the total slave population's share of Hausa. Yet slaveholders held certain stereotypes about which "nations" were best for specific occupations, and additional factors such as location, type of plantation and urban versus rural must have shaped actual rates of marronage (at least, those reported in the press). So, the aforementioned estimates are only useful as very broad ranges that might provide a general idea. But it is interesting to note, nonetheless, that the "Hausa" significantly outnumbered other groups in Geggus's survey data from the areas north of Oyo. The Taqua or Tapa (Nupe) came second at 161, while there were only 84 Bariba. The Hausa appear more frequently as runaways, too, representing nearly 62% of the reported maroons from this region. It is possible that their higher rate of marronage was both due to a more distorted sex ratio as well as their higher numbers. If this is the case, then the Hausa may not have significantly outnumbered the Nupe and Bariba as our data seems to suggest. 

Slaves of Robert Fleuret in 1720

Whilst perusing, once again, notarized documents digitized at Family Search's website, we encountered another list of slaves of what was probably an indigoterie in Bainet. Listed as property of a Robert Fleuret, the son of a Robert Fleuret who died in 1714, the information helps us understand more about the origins of the enslaved population in Bainet. One is struck by the Creole majority, although 3 were young children and a few older Creoles were children of slaves of the habitation. Yet after the Creoles, the next largest group were "Aradas." 

The woman who appears to have been of "Ibo" origin, Catherine. The Minutes notariales on Family Search contain several notarized documents, such as this one from 1720.

Surely, many of these were not natives of the kingdom of Allada, but captives from other regions of modern-day Benin and Togo who were sold through Ouidah and Allada. The next largest group of Africans, Loango, which would probably have been simplified as "Congo" in later records of Saitn Domingue, we see 2. One of them, who was named Macaya (or Macaye?) was around 45 years old. One of the Arada, Margueritte, was said to be around 65 years old. The sole "Ibo" captive, assuming we read the document correctly, was around 45 years old. The data, overall, matches the data from slaves owned by the Saugrain in the 1720s. Of their African-born slaves, a plurality were from the "Slave Coast" region. 

In 1721, the minor Robert Fleuret's habitation is taken up by commandant Provost, and we see a different list of slaves working the estate. Now the bonded labor is enumerated as 4 Creoles, 7 Aradas, 2 Loango, 3 Ibo, and 1 Mine (Mina). In addition, there were 4 children, making for a total of 21 slaves. This habitation, which must have been managed by someone other than the minor Fleuret, increased its enslaved workforce but retained a plurality of Arada. The increasing Ibo presence is important, however.

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...

Dahomey and Its Neighbors

Akinjogbin's Dahomey and Its Neighbors, 1708-1818 is one of the classic studies of the kingdom of Dahomey during a pivotal century in its development. Although Akinjogbin's Ebi theory of Yoruba and Aja polities appears to be untenable, or at least lacking sufficient evidence to be demonstrated fully, the rise of Dahomey as a major power in the Slave Coast region is certainly a topic worthy of analysis. Akinjogbin, who misleadingly presents early Dahomey and Agaja as opponents of the slave trade, or at least its destructive impact on Aja polities like Allada and Whydah in the 17th century, posits that Dahomey achieved an administrative revolution by replacing the Ebi theory for a more centralized, absolute monarchy in which the monarchy endeavored to control the slave trade. Indeed, Dahomey no longer resembled the Yoruba and Aja states of old and was better able to survive the 19th century than Oyo because of it.

However, in terms of economics, Dahomey became wedded to the slave trade and compromised the state's health. Factors in Europe, for instance, or the shifting interests of Oyo in terms of providing the supply of captives for export at Whydah, posed a number of problems for 18th century Dahomey kings. Oyo, under Abiodun, emphasizing Porto Novo as its primary port on the Atlantic, for example, contributed to the economic woes and depression of Dahomey. Dahomey was also not always effective at promoting Whydah as the major port on the Slave Coast. Competition from Badagry, Porto Novo and other ports, combined with the inability of Dahomey to defend Whydah from the old Whydah forces threatened the security of the port and its ability to attract Europeans. Dahomey was also, at least during the reign of Agaja's son, not effective at slave raiding. In short, Dahomey had to rely on Oyo to supply captives for export through Whydah and it had to rely on the vicissitudes of European and Atlantic World commerce and slaving. Some rulers, however, were progressive and thought of other ideas and practices, or even reviving agriculture to promote Dahomey's economy and end the long-lasting depression that began in the 1760s. By then, it was too late as the dependence on the slave trade remained the only option for Dahomey to retain access to Europe.

Despite the economic failings of 18th century Dahomey, Akinjogbin presents Aganja, Tegbesu, Kpengla, Agonglo and Adandoza as visionary, progressive, rational and skilled leaders and administrators. Indeed, the survival of the Dahomey state during this century is impressive when one considers the weakness of the state militarily or its internal conflicts. In that sense, Oyo's overlordship may have paradoxically created the conditions for Dahomey to consolidate its administrative and economic basis after Agaja's rapid conquests of Allada and Whydah. Oyo and the Europeans on the coast could cause problems, but having Oyo provide some degree of security for its vassals and supplying slaves for export at Whydah, Dahomey's port, created favorable conditions for Dahomey to reestablish itself on a firm footing after 1740. To what extent Dahomey truly achieved a "revolution" can only be answered with deeper knowedge of Allada, Whydah, and Oyo as states.